... the pieces together to assemble a resume, though I have not made any effort to look for employment in over twenty years. Meaning it's hard to recall my personal history: where I have been, and what I was doing the last time there was a need to search. It is, I suppose like a 'good-news, bad-news joke: looking and not looking are equally advantageous, so it is understandably difficult to discern whether this plan to create resume out of thin air is going to be beneficial. The idea of not needing to search (because I already have this employment where I have been for two decades!) is a comfort. And the idea of stepping out and making the effort to put myself in a position where I could stretch while benefiting others has appeal.
In reality, there has been a brief period in the past twenty-plus years when I was doing something radically different from my current situation. There was a position that caught my attention, back when you could actually read about employment opportunities in the 'help wanted' advertisements in the newspaper. (You do recall printed newspapers, right?) I read and responded when there was a job for someone who would serve as an intake counselor for people struggling with substance abuse. My thought was my years of being a volunteer as part of a support group for women made me more than qualified. Plus possibly being over-educated.
Well... that did not work out.
Perhaps I did have to submit a resume, fill out an application for employment. So long ago, I do not remember the details of securing the position. I recall that it took considerable persuasion to convince the person who I first talked with. Since I had absolutely no personal experience with substance abuse: no drug use whatsoever, they did not think I could do the job. I do know I enjoyed the work, and quit under duress. When the office manager was so controlling and territorial I knew I needed to let it go, leave or loose my sanity. It was so stressful working in that place with that individual, who apparently was ready for me to depart, she made my life so miserable I could not sleep at night: a sure sign you need to make a change!
And today, in this piddling little job where I have been for many years, I have a boss/manager I really like. He is the sort of guy who knows you know, and will leave you alone to do what needs to be done. No micro-managing. No looking over your shoulder, no need to put his nose in your business. You do your work, he knows it is getting done. My most favorite boss ever.
Monday, February 26, 2018
Saturday, February 24, 2018
book review: "The Keeper's Son"...
... written by Homer Hickam. He wrote that wonderful story, about growing up in the south with friends who were fascinated by the idea of sending men into space. The title of the book, printed years ago was "Rocket Boys", which was made into a movie "October Sky". According to the fly leaf Hickam has written a number of other books, and is now retired from a successful career at NASA of: rocket scientist!
This book is apparently one of a series. The lead character, Josh Thurlow, lives on a fictional barrier island, off the coast of North Carolina. Men in his family have been lighthouse keepers for generations, responsible for the cleaning, fueling and lighting of the house on the coast, built to warn boatmen of the danger of shoals should they venture too close to land. Josh is certain he does not want to carry on this tradition, and desires a different path for his life. He joins the military, serves in the Coast Guard in Alaska, and return to Killakeet Island during WW II. You may or may not know there are documented accounts of German subs (U-boats) patrolling the Atlantic coast, sinking many US vessels? This tale involves German military, and actual landing by the troops from a U-boat on to the island. (Possibly influenced by the amusing movie "The Russians are Coming, The Russians are Coming!"?)
I will now admit to a bad habit I seem to have spontaneously developed: I pick up a book and start in the middle. It seems that lately, some of them have been slow to capture my interest if I start on page 1. So I just open near to center to see how things are going along... and will go back to the beginning if they seem to be worth reading. I started the Keeper book in the right place, but then closed it, and lost the thread, when I had to jump up to help my brother. Picked it up on the way to bed and started in the middle and read on. Pretty good story, well written, and action packed.
Recommended if you want to start at either end, but it is much easier to follow the plot if you do start on page 1 and can get the players straight in your head. I will be interested in reading other books by Hickam, when I can get them from the library. It appears he has written some for young adults, as well as adventure and mystery themes. I did see the movie years ago, and thought it great, so will try to find more of his published work to peruse.
This book is apparently one of a series. The lead character, Josh Thurlow, lives on a fictional barrier island, off the coast of North Carolina. Men in his family have been lighthouse keepers for generations, responsible for the cleaning, fueling and lighting of the house on the coast, built to warn boatmen of the danger of shoals should they venture too close to land. Josh is certain he does not want to carry on this tradition, and desires a different path for his life. He joins the military, serves in the Coast Guard in Alaska, and return to Killakeet Island during WW II. You may or may not know there are documented accounts of German subs (U-boats) patrolling the Atlantic coast, sinking many US vessels? This tale involves German military, and actual landing by the troops from a U-boat on to the island. (Possibly influenced by the amusing movie "The Russians are Coming, The Russians are Coming!"?)
I will now admit to a bad habit I seem to have spontaneously developed: I pick up a book and start in the middle. It seems that lately, some of them have been slow to capture my interest if I start on page 1. So I just open near to center to see how things are going along... and will go back to the beginning if they seem to be worth reading. I started the Keeper book in the right place, but then closed it, and lost the thread, when I had to jump up to help my brother. Picked it up on the way to bed and started in the middle and read on. Pretty good story, well written, and action packed.
Recommended if you want to start at either end, but it is much easier to follow the plot if you do start on page 1 and can get the players straight in your head. I will be interested in reading other books by Hickam, when I can get them from the library. It appears he has written some for young adults, as well as adventure and mystery themes. I did see the movie years ago, and thought it great, so will try to find more of his published work to peruse.
Friday, February 23, 2018
black humor....
... something you might not appreciate. Maybe you have to be one of us to see the amusing side of this sort of thing? When I was in VA this week, spending time with my brother and his wife, he said lots of things that made me laugh, causing me to be thankful his wry, dry warped sense of humor is still intact. Even with the knowledge there is some malevolent encroaching thing growing in there, incrementally taking over his brain and personality, I am so grateful there is still much of him left for his family to spend time with. Though they all have their frustrating moments of profound irritation, there are equally capable of finding joy in the moment.
We steered him back into his recliner last night, after his younger son came to take the night shift. He got situated, then reported he had a problem with his right hand. His clever wife went to the laundry room, then stopped at the microwave to warm a sock to apply to the place he said was cramping. I thought her idea was genius! My only suggestion would have been 'here, eat this banana', as I know they are high in potassium and supposedly would alleviate muscle cramps.
That did not seem to provide relief, so his son went to get a little soft rubber ball like the ones used in rehab. to rebuild strength by repeatedly squeezing. He returned with a small red ball made of soft foam, and a pink piece of foam shaped like a fist sized brain. The young man placed the squeeze toy shaped like the brain in his dad's hand,where it neatly fit into his palm, to be repeatedly compressed and released for exercising his fingers. His dad asked him: 'what is this for?' The response he got from the young man, "You better hang on to that, you are going to need one!"
Every time you would suggest to it might be 'time' for a snack, or a meal, or 'time' to take meds., he would start quoting the poem from the Alice story by Lewis Carroll:
Just completely out of the blue: if that's not funny, I don't know what is. Especially for a man with evil growing inside his cranium that is affecting his memory!
We steered him back into his recliner last night, after his younger son came to take the night shift. He got situated, then reported he had a problem with his right hand. His clever wife went to the laundry room, then stopped at the microwave to warm a sock to apply to the place he said was cramping. I thought her idea was genius! My only suggestion would have been 'here, eat this banana', as I know they are high in potassium and supposedly would alleviate muscle cramps.
That did not seem to provide relief, so his son went to get a little soft rubber ball like the ones used in rehab. to rebuild strength by repeatedly squeezing. He returned with a small red ball made of soft foam, and a pink piece of foam shaped like a fist sized brain. The young man placed the squeeze toy shaped like the brain in his dad's hand,where it neatly fit into his palm, to be repeatedly compressed and released for exercising his fingers. His dad asked him: 'what is this for?' The response he got from the young man, "You better hang on to that, you are going to need one!"
Every time you would suggest to it might be 'time' for a snack, or a meal, or 'time' to take meds., he would start quoting the poem from the Alice story by Lewis Carroll:
“The time has come," the Walrus said, “To talk of many things: Of shoes--and ships--and sealing-wax-- Of cabbages--and kings-- And why the sea is boiling hot-- And whether pigs have wings.”(excerpt from: The Walrus and the Carpenter)
Just completely out of the blue: if that's not funny, I don't know what is. Especially for a man with evil growing inside his cranium that is affecting his memory!
amateur diagnosis...
... as a result of group effort by the people on the front lines at the home of the patient in Virginia. We were desperately trying to figure out what was going on with this guy, and concluded perhaps he had a UTI. Not uncommon at all, as I often hear of them occurring in people who do not drink enough to sufficiently hydrate, causing them to not (sorry if this is too personal) generate enough urine to keep all the parts running smoothly. I don't think that is why it happened this week, as we continually ply him with liquid: the two cups of coffee he likes in the mornings, and constantly refilling his mug with H2O.
Just a combination of factors lead us to conclude that might be the problem, and try to get a request for Rx resolution in the pipeline. Hopefully our supposing was right, as the situation improved within twelve hours of getting started on antibiotics. One of the sons came in late yesterday afternoon, to put in an overnight shift and give his mom a break.Reporting he slept better than he had in recently.
At this point I am sincerely hoping they had a conversation about the possibility and benefits of a short period of inpatient care. She is pretty much running on empty. I know my being there gave her the opportunity to spend a little time with her dad, who she has seen little of since the holidays when their lives changed so radically with medical scans and diagnosis. But there will have to be some plans made for regular relief for the caregiver or she is going to end up being a patient too.
When I considered (and had a conversation with my smart cousin in Decatur) the situation, I decided to suggest to the sons they should talk, be forceful with trying to persuade her she needs to take better care of herself in order to be there for him. One of the great benefits of assigning all your medical care (and benefits) to hospice is the option of getting the patient into their facility for round the clock attention by trained staffers. They will see what she has been struggling with, plus they can do a good assessment and work out what is best for him to manage the symptoms he is dealing with. Making him and his meds. easier to handle will have a huge impact on what she is living with day to day.
I know he does not want to leave home, does not want to get back into an air-conditioned gown (I'm sure you get to take your own pj's) or be away from her. And she does not want him to go any place. But I also know caregivers need care. In my opinion, Rule # 1 of being the On Duty Person is that you need to be willing to ask for and accept help.Their church family has been great about bringing in meals, making food prep a breeze for a man who seems bottomless as a result of being on appetite- inducing steroids. Relief comes in many forms, and being able to get away for a breather is essential to sanity.
Just a combination of factors lead us to conclude that might be the problem, and try to get a request for Rx resolution in the pipeline. Hopefully our supposing was right, as the situation improved within twelve hours of getting started on antibiotics. One of the sons came in late yesterday afternoon, to put in an overnight shift and give his mom a break.Reporting he slept better than he had in recently.
At this point I am sincerely hoping they had a conversation about the possibility and benefits of a short period of inpatient care. She is pretty much running on empty. I know my being there gave her the opportunity to spend a little time with her dad, who she has seen little of since the holidays when their lives changed so radically with medical scans and diagnosis. But there will have to be some plans made for regular relief for the caregiver or she is going to end up being a patient too.
When I considered (and had a conversation with my smart cousin in Decatur) the situation, I decided to suggest to the sons they should talk, be forceful with trying to persuade her she needs to take better care of herself in order to be there for him. One of the great benefits of assigning all your medical care (and benefits) to hospice is the option of getting the patient into their facility for round the clock attention by trained staffers. They will see what she has been struggling with, plus they can do a good assessment and work out what is best for him to manage the symptoms he is dealing with. Making him and his meds. easier to handle will have a huge impact on what she is living with day to day.
I know he does not want to leave home, does not want to get back into an air-conditioned gown (I'm sure you get to take your own pj's) or be away from her. And she does not want him to go any place. But I also know caregivers need care. In my opinion, Rule # 1 of being the On Duty Person is that you need to be willing to ask for and accept help.Their church family has been great about bringing in meals, making food prep a breeze for a man who seems bottomless as a result of being on appetite- inducing steroids. Relief comes in many forms, and being able to get away for a breather is essential to sanity.
back in the land....
...of peaches! After an anxiety inducing experience at the Richmond Airport this morning when I had doubts about getting on the flight I was optimistic about squeezing into for return to ATL. I am beginning to think I need to let go of things I have no control over. Even though we are all guilty of saying we will, then grabbing them back to worry over like a dog with a chew toy, or peanut butter filled Kong.
When I got let out on the sidewalk at RIC, I went in to the Delta counter with full intentions of asking the personnel if there were still seats available on my hoped-for flight. But only got a boarding pass to get me through the TSA inspection, which is always something that causes one to be on their very best behavior. There is no comparison between RIC and ATL - I don't think any place can compare to ATL. Isn't it the busiest in the US, if not the universe? Imagine how intimidating, overwhelming and possibly frustrating it must be to someone arriving there for the first time? And what if you did not easily speak/read/understand English?
When I got to the gate (on concourse B -the only other is A) I did ask about available seats, and was told: 'hmmm.... it's looking pretty full...',which was very disheartening. All I could do was stand around and look hopeful. Uncertain what a 'hopeful' expression looks like, but I tried my bestest to manufacture one! At one point, as we were all milling around, wearing those facial expressions of optimism, a man in a pilot's uniform came up, skirted the crowd, and slipped behind the desk with the computer monitors. I thought to myself: 'I am going to be really annoyed if he gets my seat'. Knowing full well the driver will always take priority of the riff-raff flying on the cheap!
When they put out the call for 'everyone else', I nonchalantly eased myself into the line. After sacrificing my carry on when they sounded desperate for people to check bags reporting the space in the overhead bins was rapidly diminishing. I was reluctant to send my suitcase to cargo, fearing it would go to ATL and I would not. Then us riff-raff got on, headed to our seats amongst the tail feathers, discovering completely empty overhead bins along the way? Argghhh!
We made it back to ATL in record time, according to the driver, who reported we were fifteen minutes early for those dashing down the concourse hoping to make connections. Remarkably, my luggage had jumped onto the carousel in the terminal before I got there. Thankful again for safe travels, and a return to the land of peaches.
When I got let out on the sidewalk at RIC, I went in to the Delta counter with full intentions of asking the personnel if there were still seats available on my hoped-for flight. But only got a boarding pass to get me through the TSA inspection, which is always something that causes one to be on their very best behavior. There is no comparison between RIC and ATL - I don't think any place can compare to ATL. Isn't it the busiest in the US, if not the universe? Imagine how intimidating, overwhelming and possibly frustrating it must be to someone arriving there for the first time? And what if you did not easily speak/read/understand English?
When I got to the gate (on concourse B -the only other is A) I did ask about available seats, and was told: 'hmmm.... it's looking pretty full...',which was very disheartening. All I could do was stand around and look hopeful. Uncertain what a 'hopeful' expression looks like, but I tried my bestest to manufacture one! At one point, as we were all milling around, wearing those facial expressions of optimism, a man in a pilot's uniform came up, skirted the crowd, and slipped behind the desk with the computer monitors. I thought to myself: 'I am going to be really annoyed if he gets my seat'. Knowing full well the driver will always take priority of the riff-raff flying on the cheap!
When they put out the call for 'everyone else', I nonchalantly eased myself into the line. After sacrificing my carry on when they sounded desperate for people to check bags reporting the space in the overhead bins was rapidly diminishing. I was reluctant to send my suitcase to cargo, fearing it would go to ATL and I would not. Then us riff-raff got on, headed to our seats amongst the tail feathers, discovering completely empty overhead bins along the way? Argghhh!
We made it back to ATL in record time, according to the driver, who reported we were fifteen minutes early for those dashing down the concourse hoping to make connections. Remarkably, my luggage had jumped onto the carousel in the terminal before I got there. Thankful again for safe travels, and a return to the land of peaches.
Thursday, February 22, 2018
how's it going...
... in Virginia? Pretty rough. I have long realized that anyone who finds themselves in some sort of compromised position, unable to fend for themselves needs an advocate. Whether that individual is stuck on the merry-go-round of the legal system, or in a situation where they need medical help, a child without a 'voice' in foster care. Anyone cannot speak up for themselves: tied to a bed with tubing and wires, in a sterile hospital setting, or a minor who becomes a ward of the state: they need someone to be a mouthpiece to be insistent on their behalf.
The wife was with him the entire time he was in the hospital: staying there day and night for nearly three weeks. As well as being the primary care-giver after he was discharged to return home, having a seriously dismal prognosis. He and she have been here in this house since late January. I think yesterday when I sat with him on the deck behind the house on a bright warm sunny afternoon was the first time he has been outside since he was released. She was able to get away, run some errands, do some shopping without the urgency of returning, worry about how he was responding to paid sitters.
There has been a hospice worker sitting with him two nights this week. Bless you Tracy. He gets meds. that should make him sleep for at least several hours, but wakes and thinks he needs to get up about every forty-five minutes. We've all had that happen: You set the alarm. Go to bed. Sleep hard until one a.m., then suddenly wide awake, on full alert, thinking some drama is occurring and you absolutely positively must jump out of bed to handle some crisis. Or wake every hour thinking it did not go off/you missed hearing it chime, and now drastically late, heart racing, in a crisis mode.
He naps occasionally during the day, but a round-the-clock caregiver cannot, needing to get things done during normal 'doing things': washing, food prep., personal care. And if you are the one who has been up intermittently at least twelve times during the night shift - there's not much left of you to make it through the day. Especially if you anticipate another night of: sleeping in a chair at his bedside, constantly on the alert. Urgent necessity of The immediate needs of a guy who awakens every forty-five minutes ready to get out of bed, but unable to stand independently or walk without assistance.
There seems to be a disconnect with the care/attention they are receiving from the local hospice program/staff. When the nurse made the decision (based on guidelines, I am sure) that he should only have a visit from the staff once a week, it seems they became considerably less attentive. This cannot go on much longer. She is well past the end of her ability to hang on, but keeps hanging. Reminding me of the poster we've all seen with the kitten hanging on to the end of he rope: with the print telling us 'when you get to the end, tie a know and hang on!' It seems to me like there is nothing left - this family is well past the last little shredded string that they might hang on to...
The wife was with him the entire time he was in the hospital: staying there day and night for nearly three weeks. As well as being the primary care-giver after he was discharged to return home, having a seriously dismal prognosis. He and she have been here in this house since late January. I think yesterday when I sat with him on the deck behind the house on a bright warm sunny afternoon was the first time he has been outside since he was released. She was able to get away, run some errands, do some shopping without the urgency of returning, worry about how he was responding to paid sitters.
There has been a hospice worker sitting with him two nights this week. Bless you Tracy. He gets meds. that should make him sleep for at least several hours, but wakes and thinks he needs to get up about every forty-five minutes. We've all had that happen: You set the alarm. Go to bed. Sleep hard until one a.m., then suddenly wide awake, on full alert, thinking some drama is occurring and you absolutely positively must jump out of bed to handle some crisis. Or wake every hour thinking it did not go off/you missed hearing it chime, and now drastically late, heart racing, in a crisis mode.
He naps occasionally during the day, but a round-the-clock caregiver cannot, needing to get things done during normal 'doing things': washing, food prep., personal care. And if you are the one who has been up intermittently at least twelve times during the night shift - there's not much left of you to make it through the day. Especially if you anticipate another night of: sleeping in a chair at his bedside, constantly on the alert. Urgent necessity of The immediate needs of a guy who awakens every forty-five minutes ready to get out of bed, but unable to stand independently or walk without assistance.
There seems to be a disconnect with the care/attention they are receiving from the local hospice program/staff. When the nurse made the decision (based on guidelines, I am sure) that he should only have a visit from the staff once a week, it seems they became considerably less attentive. This cannot go on much longer. She is well past the end of her ability to hang on, but keeps hanging. Reminding me of the poster we've all seen with the kitten hanging on to the end of he rope: with the print telling us 'when you get to the end, tie a know and hang on!' It seems to me like there is nothing left - this family is well past the last little shredded string that they might hang on to...
Wednesday, February 21, 2018
book review: "Boundary Waters"...
... by my current favorite, William Kent Krueger. This one was originally published in 1999. Which means the family of my 'friend', Cork O'Connor consists of a wife, Jo, and much younger children than the more recently written tales. O'Connor is a former Chicago policeman, who left the city and moved back to his (fictional) hometown of Aurora, in Tamarack County, northern Minnesota.
Read/heard as a talking book, the story takes place in Minnesota in an area called the Boundary Waters, nearly a million acres of pristine forest, lakes and rivers situated on the border of the US and Canada. Cork is persuaded to go into this this vast woodland, part of the Ojibwa reservation, in search of a young woman who is living in a remote cabin. Shiloh is trying to get her life together, having gotten off track, lead astray with the glitzy life of a successful singer who has substance abuse problems. Someone wants her dead.
Cork is lead to believe he is going to her rescue, and thinks he is accompanied by her dad and Federal agents who want to protect her. The group travels in three canoes, lead by a child who is the only one who knows where the cabin is, as he went with his uncle to take supplies and bring out mail from the primitive site. Nothing is as it first appears, the group of men is followed and chased, shot at and beaten by hired killers who have been sent to kill Shiloh.
Corks' wife Jo, an attorney, does much to unravel the deceit and mystery of the men who are all searching for the young woman. While getting little information or reassurance from the people she is questioning to try to understand what she can do to help with the search. More than one man appears in the town of Aurora, claiming to be the father of the young woman. The people who claim to be Federal agents are killed by the hirelings, as the group is canoeing through the raw wilderness of the Boundary Waters.
I continue to find these books on Cd's and listen while driving. Have a really hard time turning the story off when I get to my destination. But if I had the books in print, I would be up in the wee hours, desperately trying to help with resolving the crisis, get the good guys safely home. I've really enjoyed getting to know the O'Connor family, as the author has created some characters that are remarkably human, and believable. Adding little quirks and details to their lives to give them qualities that make them remarkably lifelike.
Read/heard as a talking book, the story takes place in Minnesota in an area called the Boundary Waters, nearly a million acres of pristine forest, lakes and rivers situated on the border of the US and Canada. Cork is persuaded to go into this this vast woodland, part of the Ojibwa reservation, in search of a young woman who is living in a remote cabin. Shiloh is trying to get her life together, having gotten off track, lead astray with the glitzy life of a successful singer who has substance abuse problems. Someone wants her dead.
Cork is lead to believe he is going to her rescue, and thinks he is accompanied by her dad and Federal agents who want to protect her. The group travels in three canoes, lead by a child who is the only one who knows where the cabin is, as he went with his uncle to take supplies and bring out mail from the primitive site. Nothing is as it first appears, the group of men is followed and chased, shot at and beaten by hired killers who have been sent to kill Shiloh.
Corks' wife Jo, an attorney, does much to unravel the deceit and mystery of the men who are all searching for the young woman. While getting little information or reassurance from the people she is questioning to try to understand what she can do to help with the search. More than one man appears in the town of Aurora, claiming to be the father of the young woman. The people who claim to be Federal agents are killed by the hirelings, as the group is canoeing through the raw wilderness of the Boundary Waters.
I continue to find these books on Cd's and listen while driving. Have a really hard time turning the story off when I get to my destination. But if I had the books in print, I would be up in the wee hours, desperately trying to help with resolving the crisis, get the good guys safely home. I've really enjoyed getting to know the O'Connor family, as the author has created some characters that are remarkably human, and believable. Adding little quirks and details to their lives to give them qualities that make them remarkably lifelike.
Tuesday, February 20, 2018
update on the bro....
... as the hospice nurse reported a couple of weeks ago: 'he seems to be stable.' Which could mean nearly anything for someone with an internal life-threatening evil substance exponentially expanding, running rampant in his head. The nurse likely comes in order to fulfill some sort of federal mandate for evaluation of the home-bound patient, the guy who reassigned all his medicare rights in order to receive the care provided by the hospice program. When they came recently, checking his vital signs, inquiring to be sure he had plenty of Rx meds on hand, the report was apparently the same as the previous, causing her to decide she would only come once a week instead of twice.
He seems to be more confused, possibly struggling with vision problems as the evil thing in his head expands and affects optic nerve behind his eye. This awfulness is growing, creating pressure, causing him to need increasing dosage of steroids to help control swelling - and steroids come with their own set of disabilities and side effects. Plus he does not sleep well at night, getting up numerous times to for a trip to the bathroom. Which means the caregiver does not get any restful sleep due to getting up continually to help him find the way to the toilet.
"A giloblastoma is an uncommon tumor that forms in the brain or spinal cord. Glioblastomas belong to a group of tumors called gliomas. Gliomas arise from star-shaped glial cells. These cells form tissue in the brain that provides the support structure and insulation for neurons - the central nervous system's primary message carriers. Doctors grade gliomas and other classes of brain tumors on a scale from I to IV to reflect their aggressiveness and growth potential. Glioblastomas are grade IV tumors, the most aggressive form.
"Glioblastomas can either emerge as a grade IV tumor or develop from a slow-growing low grade tumor called an astrocytoma. Unlike most other brain tumors, glioblastomas grow and spread into surrounding brain tissue rapidly. Many blood vessels sprout from the tumors to provide nourishment, which fosters aggressive tumor growth." (Univ. of CA., Berkeley, School of Public Health, Nov.'17.)
If you want more sad, heartwrenching news, read on: About 3 in 100,000 Americans develop these horrible things each year, more common in older males. No one can say where they come from, what causes it, whether it is in the environment, DNA, coming out of your heating ducts, in the polluted ground water we all consume. They are usually found growing in your cranium, squeezing into space you need for your brain - creating pressure, and affecting the stuff you have been using your head for all your life: memory, vision, walking, talking, feeding yourself, complex reasoning.
I understand the growth pattern is often compared to an octopus, a solid mass with lots of tentacles spreading out in all directions. The one in my brother was so large the surgeon could do little when they went in to try to remove most of it. The evil thing, overtaking their lives, continues to grow and create swelling/pressure. Please pray for Tom and his sweet wife/primary caregiver. Peace, patience, the grace needed to see this through.
He seems to be more confused, possibly struggling with vision problems as the evil thing in his head expands and affects optic nerve behind his eye. This awfulness is growing, creating pressure, causing him to need increasing dosage of steroids to help control swelling - and steroids come with their own set of disabilities and side effects. Plus he does not sleep well at night, getting up numerous times to for a trip to the bathroom. Which means the caregiver does not get any restful sleep due to getting up continually to help him find the way to the toilet.
"A giloblastoma is an uncommon tumor that forms in the brain or spinal cord. Glioblastomas belong to a group of tumors called gliomas. Gliomas arise from star-shaped glial cells. These cells form tissue in the brain that provides the support structure and insulation for neurons - the central nervous system's primary message carriers. Doctors grade gliomas and other classes of brain tumors on a scale from I to IV to reflect their aggressiveness and growth potential. Glioblastomas are grade IV tumors, the most aggressive form.
"Glioblastomas can either emerge as a grade IV tumor or develop from a slow-growing low grade tumor called an astrocytoma. Unlike most other brain tumors, glioblastomas grow and spread into surrounding brain tissue rapidly. Many blood vessels sprout from the tumors to provide nourishment, which fosters aggressive tumor growth." (Univ. of CA., Berkeley, School of Public Health, Nov.'17.)
If you want more sad, heartwrenching news, read on: About 3 in 100,000 Americans develop these horrible things each year, more common in older males. No one can say where they come from, what causes it, whether it is in the environment, DNA, coming out of your heating ducts, in the polluted ground water we all consume. They are usually found growing in your cranium, squeezing into space you need for your brain - creating pressure, and affecting the stuff you have been using your head for all your life: memory, vision, walking, talking, feeding yourself, complex reasoning.
I understand the growth pattern is often compared to an octopus, a solid mass with lots of tentacles spreading out in all directions. The one in my brother was so large the surgeon could do little when they went in to try to remove most of it. The evil thing, overtaking their lives, continues to grow and create swelling/pressure. Please pray for Tom and his sweet wife/primary caregiver. Peace, patience, the grace needed to see this through.
an educational experience...
... that I readily admit I did not want to participate in. But in an effort to be parsimonious, went looking for the opportunity. I have been to Virginia three times since the first of the year, twice in early January, buying some pretty expensive tickets for a ninety minute airplane ride. Hoping to figure out a way to get a better price. Wanting to go regardless of the price, but convinced there must be some way to beg, plead and/or grovel to reduce the expense of getting there. Believing there is some way to throw myself on the mercy of Delta Airlines for a discount.
Then I remembered about a someone I met through our common love of growing things/gardening who retired from Delta. I know that former employees can get a discount, or fly free if they meet the parameters. So I gathered up my gumption, and called the friend. Thankfully she was more than agreeable, helpful in allowing me to get a really reasonable price on a 'buddy pass'. In retrospect, there was no 'down side' to the benefit of her assistance in flying to Richmond - but at the time, when I understood that I would be on 'stand-by' status, I was profoundly anxious.
Wondering if I would spend the day in the Atlanta airport, reminiscent of that Tom Hanks movie where he is stranded in limbo, having found himself stuck in an airport and unable to return to his former life in a country that no longer exists. I have never been a stand-by before, never arrived at the airport lacking a clear plan for when I would be able to leave, with a firm ETA for my destination. Fearful that I would be consistently, continually bumped from one flight to the next as each flying tube filled to capacity. As the person on the bottom rung, understanding that many others standing-by would have priority over my ability to hitch a ride: pilots needing to be at another airport or flight attendants assigned jobs at different locations. Retirees with travel plans taking vacations to exotic locales, passers-by jumping the line, pushing me to the side.
I thought: be calm, be patient, this will all work out. When the Delta person showed up at the desk about 45 minutes before the flight was scheduled to leave, I had to go and inquire. After wringing my hands for over an hour, I was hyper-anxious, ready for any kind of answer - good or bad. The Delta guy said: 'Oh, you won't have any problem... there are plenty of empty seats.' I expect the relief was instantly apparent on my face, as I offered a silent prayer of thanks.
Then he said: 'It's a good thing you were not here last week, when there were people everywhere on standby, hoping to get on flights all over the place. I heard about eighty people who were just hanging around, in the stand by mode, hoping to get to Las Vegas.' Which, of course, made me wonder what in the world was going on in Nevada that was so appealing, and made half the population of the eastern seaboard think they needed to all be there at the same time?
It all worked out, my anxiety was for naught. I got on the next to last row, and ended up right where I wanted to be. The oddest part: when we arrived at our destination, with an airplane full of people who wanted to all be in Richmond, 80% of them just sat there. I got up, rooted around in several overhead storage bins before finding my suitcase, and got in line to disembark. They all just sat there, seemingly stunned at an unexpected turn of events. Strange - as they knew when they got on, they wanted to go to Richmond. Wondering still why they were so surprised to get there?
Then I remembered about a someone I met through our common love of growing things/gardening who retired from Delta. I know that former employees can get a discount, or fly free if they meet the parameters. So I gathered up my gumption, and called the friend. Thankfully she was more than agreeable, helpful in allowing me to get a really reasonable price on a 'buddy pass'. In retrospect, there was no 'down side' to the benefit of her assistance in flying to Richmond - but at the time, when I understood that I would be on 'stand-by' status, I was profoundly anxious.
Wondering if I would spend the day in the Atlanta airport, reminiscent of that Tom Hanks movie where he is stranded in limbo, having found himself stuck in an airport and unable to return to his former life in a country that no longer exists. I have never been a stand-by before, never arrived at the airport lacking a clear plan for when I would be able to leave, with a firm ETA for my destination. Fearful that I would be consistently, continually bumped from one flight to the next as each flying tube filled to capacity. As the person on the bottom rung, understanding that many others standing-by would have priority over my ability to hitch a ride: pilots needing to be at another airport or flight attendants assigned jobs at different locations. Retirees with travel plans taking vacations to exotic locales, passers-by jumping the line, pushing me to the side.
I thought: be calm, be patient, this will all work out. When the Delta person showed up at the desk about 45 minutes before the flight was scheduled to leave, I had to go and inquire. After wringing my hands for over an hour, I was hyper-anxious, ready for any kind of answer - good or bad. The Delta guy said: 'Oh, you won't have any problem... there are plenty of empty seats.' I expect the relief was instantly apparent on my face, as I offered a silent prayer of thanks.
Then he said: 'It's a good thing you were not here last week, when there were people everywhere on standby, hoping to get on flights all over the place. I heard about eighty people who were just hanging around, in the stand by mode, hoping to get to Las Vegas.' Which, of course, made me wonder what in the world was going on in Nevada that was so appealing, and made half the population of the eastern seaboard think they needed to all be there at the same time?
It all worked out, my anxiety was for naught. I got on the next to last row, and ended up right where I wanted to be. The oddest part: when we arrived at our destination, with an airplane full of people who wanted to all be in Richmond, 80% of them just sat there. I got up, rooted around in several overhead storage bins before finding my suitcase, and got in line to disembark. They all just sat there, seemingly stunned at an unexpected turn of events. Strange - as they knew when they got on, they wanted to go to Richmond. Wondering still why they were so surprised to get there?
what a difference...
...eighty minutes makes in the weather conditions. I was planning to go to Virginia to spend several days with my brother and his wife. Those who know me and/or read the meanderings about my life and times are aware of the situation in the lives of these two people. Best, most kindly described as awful, but that word does not even begin to provide an accurate depiction of the daily struggles as she does around the clock nursing duty for him.
I drove up to Decatur on Sunday afternoon, a warm day in middle Georgia, with spring-like temperatures. I set the alarm for four, to get to work five o'clock in the morning, and put in my eight hours. I ran home to throw some clothing in a suitcase, and headed north. Driving on the interstate to Decatur on a bright sunny with spring-like temperatures. The earliest signs of changing seasons are beginning to show out in the woods: the trees that put out the rosy-rust colored tiny new leaves are starting to demonstrate signs of life. There were a few spots where the right of way was a profusion of yellow from dandelion blooms. A couple of times I noticed the bright yellow of the twining vines of Carolina jasmine up in the tree tops, always climbing towards the sun.
I got a ride to the airport at 5 a.m., to get on a 7:30 flight. You never ever know whether you will get through TSA in twenty minutes or two hours, so need to prepare for the worst while hoping otherwise. I was actually on the underground 'plane train' headed for concourse 'A' by 5:45, with a lot of time to kill before the flight was scheduled to leave. Leaving ATL on a dark dreary morning, with rain spitting out of the sky, and all the glowing, colored lights of the airport leaving bright, watercolor reflections on the wet pavement. It was an uneventful flight, arriving at RIC in record time.
As we disembarked, that little crack between the airplane door and the tunnel leading to the terminal made me discover the weather was vastly different in Virginia:. about forty degrees different. I was drastically under-dressed, making me think I would have to put on all the clothes in my possession to make it through the week. Hopefully the sky will clear today, the sun will appear and the promise of spring will return.
I remember being in Virginia many years ago, visiting these same people when they had small children. I was astounded by the gorgeous beauty of spring flowers: forsythia, tulips, daffodils in glorious color. I instantly fell in love with the glorious tiny brilliant yellow blooms of forsythia, one of the earliest to show color in the spring. Now I have forsythia growing at my house that is so happy it has turned into a nuisance: I have begun to dig it up and give it away, putting the odd piece in the trash to prevent it from taking root. If you want some, please give me a call! I will dig and deliver!
I drove up to Decatur on Sunday afternoon, a warm day in middle Georgia, with spring-like temperatures. I set the alarm for four, to get to work five o'clock in the morning, and put in my eight hours. I ran home to throw some clothing in a suitcase, and headed north. Driving on the interstate to Decatur on a bright sunny with spring-like temperatures. The earliest signs of changing seasons are beginning to show out in the woods: the trees that put out the rosy-rust colored tiny new leaves are starting to demonstrate signs of life. There were a few spots where the right of way was a profusion of yellow from dandelion blooms. A couple of times I noticed the bright yellow of the twining vines of Carolina jasmine up in the tree tops, always climbing towards the sun.
I got a ride to the airport at 5 a.m., to get on a 7:30 flight. You never ever know whether you will get through TSA in twenty minutes or two hours, so need to prepare for the worst while hoping otherwise. I was actually on the underground 'plane train' headed for concourse 'A' by 5:45, with a lot of time to kill before the flight was scheduled to leave. Leaving ATL on a dark dreary morning, with rain spitting out of the sky, and all the glowing, colored lights of the airport leaving bright, watercolor reflections on the wet pavement. It was an uneventful flight, arriving at RIC in record time.
As we disembarked, that little crack between the airplane door and the tunnel leading to the terminal made me discover the weather was vastly different in Virginia:. about forty degrees different. I was drastically under-dressed, making me think I would have to put on all the clothes in my possession to make it through the week. Hopefully the sky will clear today, the sun will appear and the promise of spring will return.
I remember being in Virginia many years ago, visiting these same people when they had small children. I was astounded by the gorgeous beauty of spring flowers: forsythia, tulips, daffodils in glorious color. I instantly fell in love with the glorious tiny brilliant yellow blooms of forsythia, one of the earliest to show color in the spring. Now I have forsythia growing at my house that is so happy it has turned into a nuisance: I have begun to dig it up and give it away, putting the odd piece in the trash to prevent it from taking root. If you want some, please give me a call! I will dig and deliver!
Saturday, February 17, 2018
book review: "What the Dead Leave Behind"...
... written by Rosemary Simpson, and published by Kensington Books in 2017. Not the type thing you would normally find me reading, though my choices are random and eclectic: whatever strikes my fancy when I go in the library and browse the shelves. Or something there has been a reference to in other printed matter: Time magazine or a book review that sounds interesting.
The sub title on this one 'A Gilded Age Mystery', makes me think there might be others by the same author? It's already back in the stacks, so I cannot look to see if she has written more in a similar vein. The story is set in the latter years of the 1800's, in New York City. The book is peopled by characters who are money-ed,would be considered upper crust, attorneys and doctors, who are rarely exposed to the seamier side of hardscrabble life in the city.
Prudence is the daughter of judge, who recently died. The judge had been blackmailed into marrying a woman who is (obviously) deceitful, in the relationship for the money to be had when the judge mysteriously dies within a two years of the unexpected second marriage. The step-mother, is, as you might expect: wicked! Prudence, under age and sheltered, is left as the ward of the evil one, who contrives with her equally debauched brother to kill the man Prudence expects to marry, in order to control the estate left to Prudence. The deceased finance appears to have frozen to death, lost in a freak snowstorm.
Lots of intrigue. Plenty of sneaking around, slipping down dark corridors, peeping around corners, observing shady behavior. This girl is really smart, having been trained by her attorney dad to be cautious, constantly on the alert and aware of her surroundings. But hampered by the limitations society placed on females in this era when they were thought to be delicate and flighty, rather than capable and self-sufficient. A really interesting story, well worth staying up too late to see the baddies get their comeuppance.
The sub title on this one 'A Gilded Age Mystery', makes me think there might be others by the same author? It's already back in the stacks, so I cannot look to see if she has written more in a similar vein. The story is set in the latter years of the 1800's, in New York City. The book is peopled by characters who are money-ed,would be considered upper crust, attorneys and doctors, who are rarely exposed to the seamier side of hardscrabble life in the city.
Prudence is the daughter of judge, who recently died. The judge had been blackmailed into marrying a woman who is (obviously) deceitful, in the relationship for the money to be had when the judge mysteriously dies within a two years of the unexpected second marriage. The step-mother, is, as you might expect: wicked! Prudence, under age and sheltered, is left as the ward of the evil one, who contrives with her equally debauched brother to kill the man Prudence expects to marry, in order to control the estate left to Prudence. The deceased finance appears to have frozen to death, lost in a freak snowstorm.
Lots of intrigue. Plenty of sneaking around, slipping down dark corridors, peeping around corners, observing shady behavior. This girl is really smart, having been trained by her attorney dad to be cautious, constantly on the alert and aware of her surroundings. But hampered by the limitations society placed on females in this era when they were thought to be delicate and flighty, rather than capable and self-sufficient. A really interesting story, well worth staying up too late to see the baddies get their comeuppance.
Friday, February 16, 2018
something went wrong...
... when we were going to have breakfast for dinner tonight. I made biscuits: two ingredients - just biscuit mix and milk. And cooked two eggs. And made a pot of grits. I know I am absolutely certain I do know the recipe for grits. You have to measure. Just add 1/4 as much grit as you put water in the pot. Let the water come to a boil and slowly add in the grit, stirring as you pour it into the pot of boiling water. Something did not go as planned. The grit never got thick. It cooked and cooked, while I stirred and stirred to keep it from getting lumpy - just did not thicken up, although I measured both the water and the cup of grits.
Wondering what to do, when the biscuits were done, and the grits were still super soupy. So I added cornstarch! It thickens, right? Just a spoonful in some cold water, stir to dissolve and slowly pour it into the hot liquid. It worked. Added the cheese and put it in the bowl to put on the table. Voila!
Wondering what to do, when the biscuits were done, and the grits were still super soupy. So I added cornstarch! It thickens, right? Just a spoonful in some cold water, stir to dissolve and slowly pour it into the hot liquid. It worked. Added the cheese and put it in the bowl to put on the table. Voila!
update on brother...
... who was diagnosed the end of December with a tumor that turned out to be largely inoperable in his brain. He was in the hospital about three weeks early in the year, discharged to go home with hospice care/support. Not sure how helpful the support has been, as the wife seems to be doing most of the care on her own, with some workers coming in periodically who help with personal hygiene and 'sitter' who comes for several hours in the afternoon.
She reports thinking he has lost most of his vision, as she gives him cards of support mailed from friends and church family, but he seems disinterested, might look at some correspondence upside down. The surgeon said the growth would likely affect optic nerve as it is growing behind his right eye. Scans done while he was still in the hospital indicated he had a stroke, in a area that affects balance, so he has trouble walking, and is very unsteady on his feet. I expect he does not make much effort to walk, lacking energy to push himself to motivate. From caring for my dad, I know that 'inertia breeds inertia' and when you don't get up, you get to the point that you can't. So expect his being sedentary has made him less and less able.
Surprisingly, she reports that his appetite is very good. She said when we talked on the phone that he will clean his plate and yours too, if you are not fast enough. So it is obvious there is nothing going on that might suppress his interest in food and eating.
After his discharge, when they first got home, about three weeks ago, there were more caregivers coming and going, but apparently not really helpful. And confusing with all the in-and-out activity, in addition to being only marginally useful by way of assisting with his needs. So she only has the one who comes regularly in the afternoon, that gives her a break from round-the-clock care. He does not sleep consistently, awakens often at night, and gets up to relieve himself, but apparently goes back to bed and can get back to sleep with little difficulty. But needs to have someone there for assistance.
It is a heart-wrenching situation. Nothing about this is good, and the future is equally dismal. Something she said when I talked with her recently made it sound like the surgeon, when he realized the situation, did not expect him to survive long. And that the time frame as she understood it has come and gone. They've been together for 47 years. I can imagine that it is a struggle just to get through the day trying to provide for his needs, so it is even more difficult to see sunrise as a welcome blessing. Try to find something positive to be encouraged over or optimistic about.
She reports thinking he has lost most of his vision, as she gives him cards of support mailed from friends and church family, but he seems disinterested, might look at some correspondence upside down. The surgeon said the growth would likely affect optic nerve as it is growing behind his right eye. Scans done while he was still in the hospital indicated he had a stroke, in a area that affects balance, so he has trouble walking, and is very unsteady on his feet. I expect he does not make much effort to walk, lacking energy to push himself to motivate. From caring for my dad, I know that 'inertia breeds inertia' and when you don't get up, you get to the point that you can't. So expect his being sedentary has made him less and less able.
Surprisingly, she reports that his appetite is very good. She said when we talked on the phone that he will clean his plate and yours too, if you are not fast enough. So it is obvious there is nothing going on that might suppress his interest in food and eating.
After his discharge, when they first got home, about three weeks ago, there were more caregivers coming and going, but apparently not really helpful. And confusing with all the in-and-out activity, in addition to being only marginally useful by way of assisting with his needs. So she only has the one who comes regularly in the afternoon, that gives her a break from round-the-clock care. He does not sleep consistently, awakens often at night, and gets up to relieve himself, but apparently goes back to bed and can get back to sleep with little difficulty. But needs to have someone there for assistance.
It is a heart-wrenching situation. Nothing about this is good, and the future is equally dismal. Something she said when I talked with her recently made it sound like the surgeon, when he realized the situation, did not expect him to survive long. And that the time frame as she understood it has come and gone. They've been together for 47 years. I can imagine that it is a struggle just to get through the day trying to provide for his needs, so it is even more difficult to see sunrise as a welcome blessing. Try to find something positive to be encouraged over or optimistic about.
update on the hand...
... but first a reminder of the back story: even before the injury back in October, when I fell and broke the bone that connects the parts together. When I am work, having the use of my hand is essential. I spend my time doing prep. work for fresh food: continually cutting, a knife and flexibility of my right hand are essential, a necessary part of the job. I broke the arm bone, right where it adjoins the hand bones. Making me useless for holding a knife for several months, awaiting surgery, recovering, then into rehab. to regain strength, stamina, flexibility.
But before the accident in mid-October, in late August and early September: I noticed pain in my arm and hand, along the outer edge (pinky finger area) and up towards the elbow. Feeling pretty sure it was work related, due to repetitive motion of using that knife over and over and over during the course of a day's work, I reported the concern to my manager. And also spoke of it to the store manager, in the interest of 'documenting' a possible problem. They were both sort of 'hmm..', noncommittal as you would expect of anyone who sees the looming issue of a workman's comp. claim. One of the things I am often very thankful for is good health insurance.
In early September, I called and made an appointment to see the guy who specializes in hands. I got on the calendar for early November, the first available as a 'new patient'. As things devolved, that original appointment was for the same day as my 'follow-up' after the had surgery in late October. My hand, the broken part, is now back to about 95% - as good as it is going to get, in my estimation.
But the original problem is recurring. Now that I am able-bodied and using a knife all day. That paining problem I called and made an appointment for in September has raised it's ugly head, and caused me to think I need to be evaluated.
But before the accident in mid-October, in late August and early September: I noticed pain in my arm and hand, along the outer edge (pinky finger area) and up towards the elbow. Feeling pretty sure it was work related, due to repetitive motion of using that knife over and over and over during the course of a day's work, I reported the concern to my manager. And also spoke of it to the store manager, in the interest of 'documenting' a possible problem. They were both sort of 'hmm..', noncommittal as you would expect of anyone who sees the looming issue of a workman's comp. claim. One of the things I am often very thankful for is good health insurance.
In early September, I called and made an appointment to see the guy who specializes in hands. I got on the calendar for early November, the first available as a 'new patient'. As things devolved, that original appointment was for the same day as my 'follow-up' after the had surgery in late October. My hand, the broken part, is now back to about 95% - as good as it is going to get, in my estimation.
But the original problem is recurring. Now that I am able-bodied and using a knife all day. That paining problem I called and made an appointment for in September has raised it's ugly head, and caused me to think I need to be evaluated.
how's that hand...
... that caused you to be out of work for three months last year? Well...it's probably as good as it will ever be. I have heard people say that you should never expect a body part to return to it's 100% post-surgery ability/use. The act of surgery will reduce function and create other associated difficulties which will prevent the problematic part: joint, spine, whatever, to never regain the full range of motion and ability that you had before you allowed someone to slice you open, hoping for relief or improvement. I think my hand, though not as strong or flexible as it was before "Foosh" (falling on outstretched hands) is a strong as I can expect, with the therapy I was willing to do. Were I more diligent, I would continue with the exercises and regain more of what was lost when the hand was immobilized while healing.
The original problem still exists: the concern about hand pain, long before the Foosh, has begun to return. Not surprising, since I have been working regularly in recent weeks. I knew it would not just disappear of it's own accord, so went back last week to re-visit the hand doctor for an evaluation. After I did the repetitive paperwork and sat in the waiting room for an hour, someone announced this particular man was about an hour behind with seeing patients. 'You can wait, or reschedule'. I choose to reschedule as I was on my lunch hour from work, and was given an appointment to come back on Thursday afternoon (yesterday).
When I went back yesterday, arriving half an hour early to do the paperwork, I took a book, expecting to sit and wait my turn. After about thirty minutes, someone announced the doctor was at least an hour behind schedule. 'You can wait or reschedule.' I said a very bad word, then went to the window to reschedule. The staffer at the window recognized me from last week, and laughed when she saw me step up to get a new appointment. They apologized, just like they did last week, when they had no control over the mess. And made me an offer to return in mid-March. What could I say?
The original problem still exists: the concern about hand pain, long before the Foosh, has begun to return. Not surprising, since I have been working regularly in recent weeks. I knew it would not just disappear of it's own accord, so went back last week to re-visit the hand doctor for an evaluation. After I did the repetitive paperwork and sat in the waiting room for an hour, someone announced this particular man was about an hour behind with seeing patients. 'You can wait, or reschedule'. I choose to reschedule as I was on my lunch hour from work, and was given an appointment to come back on Thursday afternoon (yesterday).
When I went back yesterday, arriving half an hour early to do the paperwork, I took a book, expecting to sit and wait my turn. After about thirty minutes, someone announced the doctor was at least an hour behind schedule. 'You can wait or reschedule.' I said a very bad word, then went to the window to reschedule. The staffer at the window recognized me from last week, and laughed when she saw me step up to get a new appointment. They apologized, just like they did last week, when they had no control over the mess. And made me an offer to return in mid-March. What could I say?
speaking of 'not inhaling'...
... now that more and more states are making the use of marijuana for medical purposes legal, and it is getting much more commonly available, without risky legal ramifications. I was talking to a casual friend recently, who always, consistently, invariably makes me laugh. He would appear to the average passerby, people who might encounter him in the business world, in a brief interchange/conversation to be an upstanding citizen. Fairly well groomed, well mannered, clearly a successful, grounded adult. Who comes from a history of smoking pot.
I did not know this guy when he was younger, in his college years, but he makes no bones about having enjoyed quite a few home-rolled smokes. He will, without hesitation, if called upon to give a report, tell of antics that occurred years ago. When he was in his early twenties, and enjoying the life of higher education on a athletic scholarship. Apparently all you need to know is who to contact for a resupply when your stash gets low.
From what he has shared in chance encounters when I see him pushing a grocery cart through the store, he is looking forward to his retirement years when he can resume former habits. He has had some health problems, and expects to have some surgery before he will end his career. This man's work is highly physical, and has caused him to stress and damage some joints over time. I know he has had one knee replaced and contemplating shoulder surgery.
He works for a well known company, that like many, has some firm parameters for employee standards, among them being zero tolerance for drug use. I understand he is anticipating the time when he, a seemingly capable, responsible adult will sit on the porch in the late afternoon, having happy hour, getting mellow as the day draws to a close. After working hard during his career in serving commendably, dependably reliable for his employer, he is making plans for his golden years. Probably with a chronic case of the silly giggles, as pot is prone to induce.
I did not know this guy when he was younger, in his college years, but he makes no bones about having enjoyed quite a few home-rolled smokes. He will, without hesitation, if called upon to give a report, tell of antics that occurred years ago. When he was in his early twenties, and enjoying the life of higher education on a athletic scholarship. Apparently all you need to know is who to contact for a resupply when your stash gets low.
From what he has shared in chance encounters when I see him pushing a grocery cart through the store, he is looking forward to his retirement years when he can resume former habits. He has had some health problems, and expects to have some surgery before he will end his career. This man's work is highly physical, and has caused him to stress and damage some joints over time. I know he has had one knee replaced and contemplating shoulder surgery.
He works for a well known company, that like many, has some firm parameters for employee standards, among them being zero tolerance for drug use. I understand he is anticipating the time when he, a seemingly capable, responsible adult will sit on the porch in the late afternoon, having happy hour, getting mellow as the day draws to a close. After working hard during his career in serving commendably, dependably reliable for his employer, he is making plans for his golden years. Probably with a chronic case of the silly giggles, as pot is prone to induce.
Monday, February 12, 2018
not inhaling....
... part of a quote from former President Bill Clinton, when asked if he had smoked pot in his younger years. He claimed he had been offered a joint, and had accepted but added the qualifier that 'I did not 'inhale.' Which, one would assume, means he was not flaunting the law against possession of marijuana?
I spent six hours on Saturday when I was at work filling mylar balloons with helium: filled but not inhaled. I recall reading something years ago about the hazards of helium. It is highly flammable. And dangerous to inhale, as filling your lungs with the gas in order to talk with a high-pitched squeaky voice like Mickey Mouse can kill you. If you do it repeatedly, you replace so much of the oxygen in your blood with helium, it is possible for it to die. Don't do it, even if it seems amusing.
Almost all of the ones I filled, literally hundreds, were red and heart shaped. I probably only filled about half of the ones that were ordered from the balloons supply place in Arkansas. Maybe another 200 that need to be done before Wednesday. I did not know that there will be a discounted price for the smaller ones that usually sell 3 for $10. The ad. in the newspaper has them available at the price of 2 for $3, which means they are less than half-price. A real bargain, if you are desperately in need of helium filled balloons. And also an indication of the amount the price is otherwise inflated.
I expect I will be filling more balloons with helium when I go to work tomorrow. And that we will sell every single one that has been inflated, while they are at such a discounted price. As well as hundreds of dozens of roses that will be in high demand on one day of the year.
I spent six hours on Saturday when I was at work filling mylar balloons with helium: filled but not inhaled. I recall reading something years ago about the hazards of helium. It is highly flammable. And dangerous to inhale, as filling your lungs with the gas in order to talk with a high-pitched squeaky voice like Mickey Mouse can kill you. If you do it repeatedly, you replace so much of the oxygen in your blood with helium, it is possible for it to die. Don't do it, even if it seems amusing.
Almost all of the ones I filled, literally hundreds, were red and heart shaped. I probably only filled about half of the ones that were ordered from the balloons supply place in Arkansas. Maybe another 200 that need to be done before Wednesday. I did not know that there will be a discounted price for the smaller ones that usually sell 3 for $10. The ad. in the newspaper has them available at the price of 2 for $3, which means they are less than half-price. A real bargain, if you are desperately in need of helium filled balloons. And also an indication of the amount the price is otherwise inflated.
I expect I will be filling more balloons with helium when I go to work tomorrow. And that we will sell every single one that has been inflated, while they are at such a discounted price. As well as hundreds of dozens of roses that will be in high demand on one day of the year.
book review: The Vanishing American Adult"...
... by Senator Ben Sasse. I heard an interview with Sasse on public radio last year, probably right after the book came out.The subtitle is 'Our coming-of-age crisis and how to rebuild a culture of self-reliance.' I was intrigued by some of his thoughts, ideas included in his writing, and felt that the book would be interesting. I was not disappointed.
Sasse is from Nebraska, married with three children. The family commutes to Washington during the week, and returns home on the weekends. The children are home-schooled and highly portable. Their parents have tried to teach them to be self-sufficient, developing independence from a very young age, teaching them map-reading, money handling, trip-planning, logistical skills all necessary for living independently in the world.
The parents insist that their children read, for education as well as entertainment. Their desire is to raise adult who are 'addicted' to reading. Sasse tells of the history of the printed word, how earliest writing was painstakingly done by scribes, and only available in Latin, so only educated church officials could read, thus providing their 'interpretation' of the Bible. Along comes Gutenberg, and his press with movable type, making printed matter available to the masses. Then comes Martin Luther, nailing his letter to the church door, disputing and disruption centuries of church doctrine and the hold the Holy Roman Church had on Europe.
Some of the information will be familiar to anyone who has a background in education, aware of how our country developed and children went from working at a very young age to spending many years in classrooms. Education theorists have changed the way we think of youth, how children spend their time isolated, in small groups of children of the same age, resulting in them being completely unprepared for the realities of being self-supporting when classroom time comes to an end.
We are raising a generation of young people who cannot discern between wants and needs, and see the goal of being employed as a means of self-gratification. They have little sense of caring for something bigger than themselves, no understanding of the necessity to provide service or volunteer. No way to realize that they can do work that has no payoff/monetary value, but results in a sense of accomplishment or intrinsic value without dollar signs attached.
There is far too much value and information in Sasse's well thought out writing to condense it here. It is something well worth reading, and having on hand to refer to for anyone with children, attempting to grow a family into productive responsible citizens. I wish it had been available years ago, for me to read and take to heart while trying to train/insert character and values into the two I was given to nurture, and now admire as capable, compassionate adults.
Sasse is from Nebraska, married with three children. The family commutes to Washington during the week, and returns home on the weekends. The children are home-schooled and highly portable. Their parents have tried to teach them to be self-sufficient, developing independence from a very young age, teaching them map-reading, money handling, trip-planning, logistical skills all necessary for living independently in the world.
The parents insist that their children read, for education as well as entertainment. Their desire is to raise adult who are 'addicted' to reading. Sasse tells of the history of the printed word, how earliest writing was painstakingly done by scribes, and only available in Latin, so only educated church officials could read, thus providing their 'interpretation' of the Bible. Along comes Gutenberg, and his press with movable type, making printed matter available to the masses. Then comes Martin Luther, nailing his letter to the church door, disputing and disruption centuries of church doctrine and the hold the Holy Roman Church had on Europe.
Some of the information will be familiar to anyone who has a background in education, aware of how our country developed and children went from working at a very young age to spending many years in classrooms. Education theorists have changed the way we think of youth, how children spend their time isolated, in small groups of children of the same age, resulting in them being completely unprepared for the realities of being self-supporting when classroom time comes to an end.
We are raising a generation of young people who cannot discern between wants and needs, and see the goal of being employed as a means of self-gratification. They have little sense of caring for something bigger than themselves, no understanding of the necessity to provide service or volunteer. No way to realize that they can do work that has no payoff/monetary value, but results in a sense of accomplishment or intrinsic value without dollar signs attached.
There is far too much value and information in Sasse's well thought out writing to condense it here. It is something well worth reading, and having on hand to refer to for anyone with children, attempting to grow a family into productive responsible citizens. I wish it had been available years ago, for me to read and take to heart while trying to train/insert character and values into the two I was given to nurture, and now admire as capable, compassionate adults.
book review: "Mercy Falls"...
... another talking book, written by William Kent Kreuger. The copyright date was back in 2005. I knew when it started, providing background information about the O'Connor family I've come to know well from listening to other recorded books it was an older story, as the children were much younger. Well written, with lots of details about places and people that make the characters seem to come to life, very believable.
Cork O'Connor, Sheriff of Tamarack County, is drawn into a situation where he and one of his deputies are injured by a hidden sniper when they go out on call to the Ojibwe reservation in Minnesota. As his team of deputies are trying to collect evidence, find the shooter, a homicide victim is discovered at a well known public park named Mercy Falls. This man, Eddie, is known to Cork as well as his wife, Jo, who is an attorney, representing the Ojibwe tribe. Eddie is attempting to persuade the tribe to allow his employer to manage the casino on reservation property, and is in talks with tribal leaders.
O'Connor eventually determines the sniper to be a man who he sent to prison years ago. The sniper takes a hostage, Cork begins to track him,with the help of a friend, Henry, who is an Ojibwe healer. Along with the father of the hostage, they follow the former convict into the Boundary Waters, a vast area of lakes, dense forest, unpopulated North country on the Canadian border.
It is a great story, making it hard to turn off the CD when I get to my destination. I find myself wishing it were a book in print, so I could take it with me every where I go and read a few sentences while waiting in line. The people at NPR call them 'driveway moments', when you get home, and won't stop the car, sit in your driveway, listening. I sit in the parking lot at work, waiting until the last possible moment, getting in a few more words before I have to dash in the door.
Cork O'Connor, Sheriff of Tamarack County, is drawn into a situation where he and one of his deputies are injured by a hidden sniper when they go out on call to the Ojibwe reservation in Minnesota. As his team of deputies are trying to collect evidence, find the shooter, a homicide victim is discovered at a well known public park named Mercy Falls. This man, Eddie, is known to Cork as well as his wife, Jo, who is an attorney, representing the Ojibwe tribe. Eddie is attempting to persuade the tribe to allow his employer to manage the casino on reservation property, and is in talks with tribal leaders.
O'Connor eventually determines the sniper to be a man who he sent to prison years ago. The sniper takes a hostage, Cork begins to track him,with the help of a friend, Henry, who is an Ojibwe healer. Along with the father of the hostage, they follow the former convict into the Boundary Waters, a vast area of lakes, dense forest, unpopulated North country on the Canadian border.
It is a great story, making it hard to turn off the CD when I get to my destination. I find myself wishing it were a book in print, so I could take it with me every where I go and read a few sentences while waiting in line. The people at NPR call them 'driveway moments', when you get home, and won't stop the car, sit in your driveway, listening. I sit in the parking lot at work, waiting until the last possible moment, getting in a few more words before I have to dash in the door.
Thursday, February 8, 2018
something you never ...
...thought to be thankful for, but I constantly consider it, and am always appreciative of: clarity of mind. There is a family history of dementia, so it could very easily be lurking in my DNA. Enough close relatives have been diagnosed over the years that I am very aware of the possibility - not that there is really anything you can do to prevent. Read more, play puzzling games, eat right, exercise, be kind and respectful to your body. Most of which I semi-do, semi-frequently.
But taking responsibility for the auntie who is in nursing care in Valdosta has made me very aware of the blessing of being able to fend for myself. Having a clear mind, and some degree of memory is not to be taken for granted. I had a pink post-it note on my shirt today, and someone asked me what it was for. I said it was a reminder to do something I did not want to have slip out of my brain. She is a nurse-practitioner,and laughed, saying she is always making notes to herself, writing on her hand. I said I have been pinning notes on myself for many years, to keep myself on the straight and narrow.
The auntie called me recently, sounding super anxious, sort of frantic, needing help.Telling me she did not know where she was, other than she thought it was a Holiday Inn. She said someone had broken into her house, and she needed for me to come and do something about it. She could not find her house key, and wanted me to bring a key so she could get in the house. (She was, of course, calling from the phone at the nursing desk at the place where she has been living since last June.)
I told her I thought her house was ok, and reminded her that a cousin was in Valdosta for a few days visiting.He had been staying in the house, so I was certain he had a key, and there was nothing amiss. She insisted the nephew has left, and someone was getting into her house with a key they found. I told her to sit tight, there at the Holiday Inn, and I would call the cousin to check and call her right back. He was perfectly fine. The house is perfectly fine.No intruders, nothing out of order.
I am assuming she remembered just enough of their repetitive/circular conversation to know someone had gotten in. I can imagine her asking him over and over and over: 'where are you staying?' and 'do you have a key?' repeatedly in the same conversation. Since she has NO short term memory and cannot recall what she just said by the time she puts a period on the end of the sentence.
So it's both sad and funny. I know what 'irony' means, but I don't think irony is applicable here. Is there another word for a situation like this? When you have to laugh to keep from crying....Just very thankful I currently have my wits about me!
But taking responsibility for the auntie who is in nursing care in Valdosta has made me very aware of the blessing of being able to fend for myself. Having a clear mind, and some degree of memory is not to be taken for granted. I had a pink post-it note on my shirt today, and someone asked me what it was for. I said it was a reminder to do something I did not want to have slip out of my brain. She is a nurse-practitioner,and laughed, saying she is always making notes to herself, writing on her hand. I said I have been pinning notes on myself for many years, to keep myself on the straight and narrow.
The auntie called me recently, sounding super anxious, sort of frantic, needing help.Telling me she did not know where she was, other than she thought it was a Holiday Inn. She said someone had broken into her house, and she needed for me to come and do something about it. She could not find her house key, and wanted me to bring a key so she could get in the house. (She was, of course, calling from the phone at the nursing desk at the place where she has been living since last June.)
I told her I thought her house was ok, and reminded her that a cousin was in Valdosta for a few days visiting.He had been staying in the house, so I was certain he had a key, and there was nothing amiss. She insisted the nephew has left, and someone was getting into her house with a key they found. I told her to sit tight, there at the Holiday Inn, and I would call the cousin to check and call her right back. He was perfectly fine. The house is perfectly fine.No intruders, nothing out of order.
I am assuming she remembered just enough of their repetitive/circular conversation to know someone had gotten in. I can imagine her asking him over and over and over: 'where are you staying?' and 'do you have a key?' repeatedly in the same conversation. Since she has NO short term memory and cannot recall what she just said by the time she puts a period on the end of the sentence.
So it's both sad and funny. I know what 'irony' means, but I don't think irony is applicable here. Is there another word for a situation like this? When you have to laugh to keep from crying....Just very thankful I currently have my wits about me!
a really productive day...
... has occurred in my life. After getting out of bed at 4 a.m. to go to work at five, I have also spent several hours on a sub. teaching job I scrounged up last night. The person who was out needed a replacement for half of the day, starting at 11:30. Excelllent timing, as I got off work at 9:15 and had plenty of time to get to the elementary school for wrangling four year olds.
I half-expected they would be in the lunchroom, or just coming back, which would take up a considerable amount of the three hours, but they probably start lunch as soon as others finish breakfast. Already in the classroom when I reported for duty, a noisy bunch that could induce a headache if you were in close quarters with them all day long. Fortunately, these little ones are still of the age that they are encouraged to take naps - so that made the time move along speedily.
I'm inching closer to the minimum twenty days required for the school year. I think today gives me a total of seventeen. So it should be easy to get at least three more between now and mid-May when the schools are out for summer.
I half-expected they would be in the lunchroom, or just coming back, which would take up a considerable amount of the three hours, but they probably start lunch as soon as others finish breakfast. Already in the classroom when I reported for duty, a noisy bunch that could induce a headache if you were in close quarters with them all day long. Fortunately, these little ones are still of the age that they are encouraged to take naps - so that made the time move along speedily.
I'm inching closer to the minimum twenty days required for the school year. I think today gives me a total of seventeen. So it should be easy to get at least three more between now and mid-May when the schools are out for summer.
'let some air out'...
..is what they would say when a truck got stuck under train trestle. I thought about it recently when I saw someone try to go through a door with stuff that would not fit. The story is: many years ago, I worked in a business that was situated adjacent to railroad tracks. The street that ran in front of the store went under the tracks, so it was a pretty drastic dip in the road there where vehicles would go through to get to the other side of the railroad. When it rained, the low spot in the street would have standing water, as it drained poorly. But seeing that water in the street did not stop trucks and cars from trying to take a shortcut, often with unexpected results.
The other reason for disasters would be when a work truck or big box truck (think U-Haul size) would attempt to go under the tracks, and get stuck due to inadequate clearance. Or worse: have the metal top of the truck peel back like an accordion when the ignoramus driver would go barreling down the hill and disregard the flashing lights and posted signs about maximum clearance. If there was no need to call a tow truck, and the vehicle was merely wedged under the trestle, someone would go out the door and tell the noodle-brained driver: "just let some air out of the tires." Not to the point of flat, just enough to resolve the problem, so they could go along their merry way to the next job.
This person I saw at work several days ago had a tall stack of Lay's products on a cart, pulling the chips off the sales floor after the Super Bowl. She tried to push it through the door, and bags of chips dropped everywhere when they fell off. Making me think about that train trestle from years ago. I wanted to step over into the hall way and tell her to let some air out. But it would have been pointless as she was driving a cart with wheels similar to those on a grocery buggy: hard, solid rubber, so there was no way to let any air out and make her passage smoother.
It was pretty funny, but maybe you had to be there to appreciate the encounter. I did go over and help her pick up all the bags of chips that were probably shattered into crumbs by the time she got her wares into the stock room. Without offering me any for being such a good picker-upper.
The other reason for disasters would be when a work truck or big box truck (think U-Haul size) would attempt to go under the tracks, and get stuck due to inadequate clearance. Or worse: have the metal top of the truck peel back like an accordion when the ignoramus driver would go barreling down the hill and disregard the flashing lights and posted signs about maximum clearance. If there was no need to call a tow truck, and the vehicle was merely wedged under the trestle, someone would go out the door and tell the noodle-brained driver: "just let some air out of the tires." Not to the point of flat, just enough to resolve the problem, so they could go along their merry way to the next job.
This person I saw at work several days ago had a tall stack of Lay's products on a cart, pulling the chips off the sales floor after the Super Bowl. She tried to push it through the door, and bags of chips dropped everywhere when they fell off. Making me think about that train trestle from years ago. I wanted to step over into the hall way and tell her to let some air out. But it would have been pointless as she was driving a cart with wheels similar to those on a grocery buggy: hard, solid rubber, so there was no way to let any air out and make her passage smoother.
It was pretty funny, but maybe you had to be there to appreciate the encounter. I did go over and help her pick up all the bags of chips that were probably shattered into crumbs by the time she got her wares into the stock room. Without offering me any for being such a good picker-upper.
Tuesday, February 6, 2018
interesting and educational...
So I proposed an excursion on Saturday morning. Taking along a passenger who has GPS on her phone, making her navigational skills essential to finding our way there and back again. Pretty sure she was not at all interested in going to see old guns, but she was a really good sport, agreeable to my plan.
it was so amusing...
... at work one day recently, when I did something so funny, I laughed about it for the rest of the day. It still makes me smile a week later, when I am doing the same job, and remember how entertaining it was: made me feel like there must be a hidden camera somewhere, to catch the foolishness and post it on youtube for all the world to see.
Anytime you are handling/touching/dealing with food items prepared for sale, it is imperative you are wearing gloves on your hands, so you do not touch/contaminate the food someone else will consume. Which means there are plastic gloves on my hands more often than not when I am in the production area of the produce department. As well as a hairnet: we are all about being sanitary.
There are several items prepared and placed in little brown bags that you can cook right in the bag. Put in the microwave if you desire and dump into the serving dish. A mushroom dish, another with green beans and almonds, and one with a combination of cauliflower/broccoli/Brussels sprouts. They all have some type fresh herb added to the packet, and sealed up for sale.
After the bag is filled, you fold over a flap, and pull off a strip of paper that protects the adhesive surface, which seals the bag closed. I was making some of these fresh vegetable combinations recently and failed to take my plastic gloves off before I pulled that protective strip of paper off the sticky part. So naturally my gloved finger stuck to the adhesive. I tried to pull it loose, with my other hand, assuring that both would then be stuck on the bag. It felt just like I was in a cartoon.
You know those scenes were some cartoon creature gets stuck on flypaper, and the harder they try to get loose the more they get stuck? That was me. I got so tickled I had to just walk away from the whole process. I've told con-workers about it, but they were not nearly as amused as I was when I got half my gloved fingers stuck on the cooking bag. It got so bad, I had to go get another bag and start over, pouring the vegetables out of the one that was un-usable. I am still amused picturing ME as that cartoon.
Anytime you are handling/touching/dealing with food items prepared for sale, it is imperative you are wearing gloves on your hands, so you do not touch/contaminate the food someone else will consume. Which means there are plastic gloves on my hands more often than not when I am in the production area of the produce department. As well as a hairnet: we are all about being sanitary.
There are several items prepared and placed in little brown bags that you can cook right in the bag. Put in the microwave if you desire and dump into the serving dish. A mushroom dish, another with green beans and almonds, and one with a combination of cauliflower/broccoli/Brussels sprouts. They all have some type fresh herb added to the packet, and sealed up for sale.
After the bag is filled, you fold over a flap, and pull off a strip of paper that protects the adhesive surface, which seals the bag closed. I was making some of these fresh vegetable combinations recently and failed to take my plastic gloves off before I pulled that protective strip of paper off the sticky part. So naturally my gloved finger stuck to the adhesive. I tried to pull it loose, with my other hand, assuring that both would then be stuck on the bag. It felt just like I was in a cartoon.
You know those scenes were some cartoon creature gets stuck on flypaper, and the harder they try to get loose the more they get stuck? That was me. I got so tickled I had to just walk away from the whole process. I've told con-workers about it, but they were not nearly as amused as I was when I got half my gloved fingers stuck on the cooking bag. It got so bad, I had to go get another bag and start over, pouring the vegetables out of the one that was un-usable. I am still amused picturing ME as that cartoon.
Friday, February 2, 2018
book review: "Trickster's Point"...
... by William Kent Krueger. Another book read while driving. As well as sitting in the car at my destination: parking lot, driveway, carport - it was so good I would find myself unwilling to turn the car off, waiting for a little more conversation, nefarious activities to be revealed. I have read/listened to a couple of the series featuring the same characters. And found them so believeable, with interesting little personality quirks, and habits I feel like I am personally acquainted with this extended family.
I made a list of all the books Krueger has written, with plans to request others from the library, then randomly came across two of them on DVD that I checked out last week. These books are so well written, making you want to know more, turn the page - I know I would be awake half the night wrapped up in the plot, anxious to resolve the mystery. Making it best that I not have an actual book with pages to turn, especially when I have to be up and out the door before 6 a.m.
Lead character Cork.O'Connor is a retired Chicago policeman, as well as having retired from the elected position of Sheriff of Tamarack County in Minnesota. He is half-native, and resides with his family near the Ojibwa reservation. Trickster's Point is a large upright rock on the edge of Iron Lake and was the scene of a death when Cork was a teen, along with his friend Jubal Little. Little dies years later at that same place when he and Cork are bow hunting, from an arrow that appears to be just like the custom made arrows Cork uses.
Naturally everyone assumes Cork killed him, especially when Cork says he sat there in the woods with his friend for three hours talking while Little bled out. Lots of unexpected surprises follow, as Cork, though retired from law enforcement, tries to piece the parts together to resolve the mystery and clear himself. All the characters are interesting, well-formed, with many details provided to make them seem remarkably like people you would want to know, have in your life.
I made a list of all the books Krueger has written, with plans to request others from the library, then randomly came across two of them on DVD that I checked out last week. These books are so well written, making you want to know more, turn the page - I know I would be awake half the night wrapped up in the plot, anxious to resolve the mystery. Making it best that I not have an actual book with pages to turn, especially when I have to be up and out the door before 6 a.m.
Lead character Cork.O'Connor is a retired Chicago policeman, as well as having retired from the elected position of Sheriff of Tamarack County in Minnesota. He is half-native, and resides with his family near the Ojibwa reservation. Trickster's Point is a large upright rock on the edge of Iron Lake and was the scene of a death when Cork was a teen, along with his friend Jubal Little. Little dies years later at that same place when he and Cork are bow hunting, from an arrow that appears to be just like the custom made arrows Cork uses.
Naturally everyone assumes Cork killed him, especially when Cork says he sat there in the woods with his friend for three hours talking while Little bled out. Lots of unexpected surprises follow, as Cork, though retired from law enforcement, tries to piece the parts together to resolve the mystery and clear himself. All the characters are interesting, well-formed, with many details provided to make them seem remarkably like people you would want to know, have in your life.
every day is a new opportunity...
... to pick your sorry self up, dust your backside off and get back in the saddle. Or on the wagon - what ever it is that you might have fallen from. For me: going back to Weight Watchers, after slipping down the slippery chocolate-covered slope of bad habits since some time back in 2016. Watching it creep up through the self-flagellating process of getting on the scales in the bathroom. Knowing that the button that keeps my pants on was under great stress and hanging by a thread.
It should be a comfort to anyone who can't seem to walk the straight and narrow to know: you are not alone. Temptations abound every where, every day, in an endless array of items you should avoid. But that dangerous thinking of 'just one' leads you off the path so easily- that 'one' making you think: 'oh, what the hell, I've already fallen off - might as well eat the whole bar/bag, start over tomorrow!'
I didn't want to go back, get lectured, feel incompetent, hopeless on Jan. 2 with all those other well-intentioned who resolved to do things in this new year of pristine opportunities. I knew it would be a mob scene, as any place of exercise and calorie burning would surely be swamped as new years' resolutions were activated. So I waited a couple of weeks and forced myself to go the middle of January. Even so, there was a crowd of people with good intentions, high expectations, and optimism lined up, nearly out the door, waiting for the alternative to the guillotine to make them feel inept, lazy and depressed as pounds were measured.
If there is a bright spot in all this, it is the fact that the day I went back, to get up on that same horse that has bucked me off numerous times: it was very cold, so I had on a lot of layers which I did not take off. Probably foolish to be weighing things that can be removed, extra pounds that can be shed in minutes. But going the next week and wearing only shorts and a T-shirt, thereby dropping much of he pseudo-weight was remarkably encouraging, even though it was piled up there on the chair, waiting for me to put the layers/weight back on.
The most helpful aspect of the process for me is writing down everything. Making notes all day long as you put things in your pie-hole. Just knowing you have to put it on your list makes you stop and think. And actually adding it to your daily count makes you much more conscious of every little thing you pick up, consider consuming. Remembering the mantra, constantly aware: If you bite it, write it.
I was offered a vast array of yummy eats yesterday as others shared a buffet with fajitas, rice, beans, chips and cheese, tasty desserts. I will admit to having several sinful churros, fried sweets that are all carbs and granulated sugar. Along with my little micro-waved lunch of 7 points.
It should be a comfort to anyone who can't seem to walk the straight and narrow to know: you are not alone. Temptations abound every where, every day, in an endless array of items you should avoid. But that dangerous thinking of 'just one' leads you off the path so easily- that 'one' making you think: 'oh, what the hell, I've already fallen off - might as well eat the whole bar/bag, start over tomorrow!'
I didn't want to go back, get lectured, feel incompetent, hopeless on Jan. 2 with all those other well-intentioned who resolved to do things in this new year of pristine opportunities. I knew it would be a mob scene, as any place of exercise and calorie burning would surely be swamped as new years' resolutions were activated. So I waited a couple of weeks and forced myself to go the middle of January. Even so, there was a crowd of people with good intentions, high expectations, and optimism lined up, nearly out the door, waiting for the alternative to the guillotine to make them feel inept, lazy and depressed as pounds were measured.
If there is a bright spot in all this, it is the fact that the day I went back, to get up on that same horse that has bucked me off numerous times: it was very cold, so I had on a lot of layers which I did not take off. Probably foolish to be weighing things that can be removed, extra pounds that can be shed in minutes. But going the next week and wearing only shorts and a T-shirt, thereby dropping much of he pseudo-weight was remarkably encouraging, even though it was piled up there on the chair, waiting for me to put the layers/weight back on.
The most helpful aspect of the process for me is writing down everything. Making notes all day long as you put things in your pie-hole. Just knowing you have to put it on your list makes you stop and think. And actually adding it to your daily count makes you much more conscious of every little thing you pick up, consider consuming. Remembering the mantra, constantly aware: If you bite it, write it.
I was offered a vast array of yummy eats yesterday as others shared a buffet with fajitas, rice, beans, chips and cheese, tasty desserts. I will admit to having several sinful churros, fried sweets that are all carbs and granulated sugar. Along with my little micro-waved lunch of 7 points.
Thursday, February 1, 2018
book review: "Rise"...
...by Cara Brookins, published by Macmillan in 2017. Definitely non-fiction, a memoir written by a remarkably sturdy woman who had a really rough time in her early adult life. The subtitle is "How a house built a family," and relates the story of how a desperate woman convinced her children they could watch enough YouTube to be able to construct their own house. The back story is one of poor choices: two husbands who were bad guys, one a scary, violent abuser, and the other a psychotic who was in and out of mental hospitals, threatening her, until he went off his meds and killed himself.
She tells the story of building a house with her four children. The older two were in their teens, the youngest a toddler, unable to actually be helpful or work, and needing to be watched carefully at a construction site. Starting from knowing absolutely nothing about construction to standing in front of the completed two story, five bedroom brick house completely finished. She worked as a computer programmer/code writer during the day and they built the house in the evenings and on weekends when they could go to the work site. Literally from the ground up: pouring the slab, laying a gazillion bricks, sawing, hammering, erecting walls, hanging sheet rock and painting. She did most of the plumbing (the guys she hired turned out to be pot-heads, inept and undependable), and as much of the wiring as she could, though some had to be done professionally to meet code and pass inspection.
Really amazing tale of resilience. She had a bank loan to buy the materials, but knew she could not afford to pay labor expenses, so she read books, watched videos and made a lot of mistakes in the learning process. But they built it together. There were times when they were so exhausted trying to meet the deadline for inspection, required by the bank that loaned her the money, they fell asleep in their plates at dinner. And days they were so weary they could hardly move, but they built it.
She tells the story of building a house with her four children. The older two were in their teens, the youngest a toddler, unable to actually be helpful or work, and needing to be watched carefully at a construction site. Starting from knowing absolutely nothing about construction to standing in front of the completed two story, five bedroom brick house completely finished. She worked as a computer programmer/code writer during the day and they built the house in the evenings and on weekends when they could go to the work site. Literally from the ground up: pouring the slab, laying a gazillion bricks, sawing, hammering, erecting walls, hanging sheet rock and painting. She did most of the plumbing (the guys she hired turned out to be pot-heads, inept and undependable), and as much of the wiring as she could, though some had to be done professionally to meet code and pass inspection.
Really amazing tale of resilience. She had a bank loan to buy the materials, but knew she could not afford to pay labor expenses, so she read books, watched videos and made a lot of mistakes in the learning process. But they built it together. There were times when they were so exhausted trying to meet the deadline for inspection, required by the bank that loaned her the money, they fell asleep in their plates at dinner. And days they were so weary they could hardly move, but they built it.
backing into ...
... a day of substitute teaching in an elementary school. My phone consistently rings each week day morning at 6:00 o'clock, with a call from the automated service the school district uses to find replacement teachers to fill in for teachers or para-professionals who are absent. I sometimes ignore it, and sometimes answer the call, to keep the robo-calling computer from making a dozen more calls, hoping I will be available to jump in the fray. This morning, when the phone chimed at 6, it woke me up, but I did not get up to answer, so I knew to expect more calls. The computer that searches for substitutes is nothing if not persistent.
For some reason, I answered the next call: it was not the computer, but a staffer from one of the elementary schools I have not been to in years. Actually one of the best run, most efficient in the entire county. It is a magnet school, that requires students to test for admission. Pretty competitive even at the first grade level. When they are accepted, if they don't make sufficient progress, are not able to do the work as expected, they are invited to transfer into another school the following year.
It was a remarkably pleasant day, being in a classroom of five year olds where every one of them did what they were trained to do: get busy, cooperate, toe the mark consistently all day long. I would go back in a heart beat. In fact, I spoke to the staffer who called me at 6:45 this morning before I left and told her was available again tomorrow if she could find me a job. Probably won't happen, but I would most definitely go.
What I learned in Kindergarten today:
A big sign on the wall in the lunchroom: "Never let the fear of striking out keep you from playing the game." Babe Ruth
A note on the teacher's personal space, where I was the para. sub for the day: "When life gets rough, feed the turtles."
And when the kids went to the computer class room, I noticed a long list of tricks to have up your sleeve for solving problems when you are struggling with navigating technology, amongst them being when you think you have erased your document, hit 'control + z'. A good thing to know/remember when I have been typing on the blog, or composing a email and it suddenly disappears because I failed to periodically hit 'save.'
For some reason, I answered the next call: it was not the computer, but a staffer from one of the elementary schools I have not been to in years. Actually one of the best run, most efficient in the entire county. It is a magnet school, that requires students to test for admission. Pretty competitive even at the first grade level. When they are accepted, if they don't make sufficient progress, are not able to do the work as expected, they are invited to transfer into another school the following year.
It was a remarkably pleasant day, being in a classroom of five year olds where every one of them did what they were trained to do: get busy, cooperate, toe the mark consistently all day long. I would go back in a heart beat. In fact, I spoke to the staffer who called me at 6:45 this morning before I left and told her was available again tomorrow if she could find me a job. Probably won't happen, but I would most definitely go.
What I learned in Kindergarten today:
A big sign on the wall in the lunchroom: "Never let the fear of striking out keep you from playing the game." Babe Ruth
A note on the teacher's personal space, where I was the para. sub for the day: "When life gets rough, feed the turtles."
And when the kids went to the computer class room, I noticed a long list of tricks to have up your sleeve for solving problems when you are struggling with navigating technology, amongst them being when you think you have erased your document, hit 'control + z'. A good thing to know/remember when I have been typing on the blog, or composing a email and it suddenly disappears because I failed to periodically hit 'save.'
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