Dark matter

Most of us know that space consists, in a large part, of dark matter (except for the Milky Way which consists mostly of milk chocolate matter). Scientists have pondered long and hard over what dark matter actually is — it can only be inferred by its effects on other things. There is consensus that there is dark matter because it explains away a lot of discrepancies in scientific calculations. So much better to say “the dark matter did it” than “oops, my bad” (in fact, I have never heard a scientist admit an error in calculations). But I stray from the topic:

When we gaze into space at night, we see twinkling stars, the glow of planets, the man on the moon, and also a lot of darkness. That darkness is “dark matter.” Well, you may ask, where does it go in the daylight? This sounds on the face of it to be a good question, but in fact it is a stupid question. When you are in a darkened room and you turn on the lights it is no longer dark is it? Did the darkness just somehow disappear? No, dumbhead, you just can’t see it because it is no longer dark — we have shifted the parameters of the experiment and now we see illuminated matter!

I apologize for calling you a dumbhead. It is just that Linshaolin has to put up with a lot of stupid questions and sometimes loses her patience… Dark matter does not emit light (or anything else for that matter). If you bounce a ball against it you will not see the ball return to you in your lifetime. Is dark matter so far away? Well, yes and no. It is both near and far. We have evidence of its nearness: do you have any unexplained bruises? Have you ever woken up with what feels like a hangover? These are evidence that you have bumped into dark matter.

Recently I have come to realize that the forces of dark matter have been at work in my refrigerator. On Thursday I bought a Pepperidge Farm chocolate cake with confetti icing. I served us each a modest piece (in keeping with our new slenderized bodies) and put the remainder of the cake in the fridge. The next day I opened the box to get a piece of cake but found that it was now filled with dark matter and not cake. I was dumbfounded but on introspection I came to realize that dark matter must require the consumption of calories to exist — the dark matter had consumed the cake. This explains so very many things!

Fritz Zwicky needs to be mentioned here (primarily because I love to say his name — repeat Fritz Zwicky three times!) He discovered dark matter way back in the 1930s. He worked at an astronomy laboratory and postulated that dark matter must exist because otherwise all his work would have to be chucked out. His theories have been confirmed by random but prevalent disappearances of food from staff cafeteria refrigerators everywhere.

Hurricane Irene causes run on gummi bears

Despite the fact that I have severe tendonitis in my ankle I waited in line at Walgreen’s for fifteen minutes to buy my hurricane supply of gummi bears. The line was insane — filled with people like myself who were sure that the End of Days was soon to be upon us and that those of us who were either not card-carrying members of  the Tea Party or were insufficiently stocked up on life necessities would not live through it.

Impending natural phenomena of the storm kind bring out a tension in most of us which is manifest by hoarding. Normal prudence is replaced by a skin-crawling need to buy bottled  water and canned peas even if one has never ingested either previously. My dear spouse, when instructed to “pick up something to drink”, came home with ninety-six bottles of water that had been purified not once but three times. I am quite sure we will be able to taste the difference. The Foodmaster’s shelves were bare of tinned food by last Friday. Even Nero Kitty was taken into consideration and has been supplied with a social security check’s worth of Science Diet (Tubby Kitty Care).

We have three flashlights, candles, batteries, a radio, a manual can opener, charged up cell phones, Kindles, and iPODs. Our gutters are cleared and the family of chipmunks that live in the garage’s foundation have been evacuated to a shelter. The trees are pruned. The car has been parked out of harm’s way.

Now we wait. .. The radio is saying that the hurricane has been downgraded to a Tropical Storm for New England…

Hair today, gone tomorrow

Having shaved my head, I have a new empathy towards men who are losing their hair. I do not look good bald. But it would not be so bad if it were not for the halo of scar tisssue that sits atop my head — refusing to regrow hair. I shaved my head to even out the surface after my recent brain surgery during which the surgeon had a field day clearing the landscape so that he could work unobstructed. Apparently, the idea of neatly parting my hair and pinning it out of the way was outside of his comfort zone.

But back to the empathy. I used to wonder why men made such a fuss about losing their hair and did really stupid things like comb-overs or really expensive things like weaves. I mean, with hunks like Patrick Stewart and Bruce Willis around giving baldness a good name, why the fuss?

Well, you have to start out looking like Patrick Stewart or Bruce Willis. If you take your average forty-nine year old male and rip most of his hair off you get a poor result — there are any number of factors that contribute to a bad look. One of them is jowels. Even the slightest bit of flesh hanging off the neck looks like a set of king-sized sheets flapping in the wind when there is no hair to obscure the motion. Until I lost my hair I had no idea that my genetic propensity toward jowels was so strong. If I turn suddenly I slap myself silly.

I have even contemplated doing a a “bang” that starts at least seven inches back — kind of a back to front comb-over to disguise the ridge of scars. No hairs seem to want to grow in that space. I am visualizing Martina Hingis’s forehead — add three more inches to it and you will have a good picture of my current look.

Until recently I have been wearing a knit cap when I go out in public but I take it off in the car since it is itchy. When I am stopped at lights I can feel the neigboring drivers stares. The curiosity — is that a man or a woman? If that is a woman, what the heck happened to her? Poor soul. .. well, after a week or so of having an intensely itchy head I decided to bare all (excuse the pun) and go topless. So far only small children stare at me. Others keep their eyes marvelously unfocussed (or perhaps I should say over-focussed). I was ordering my latte at Panera and the young man at the counter kept a laser-sharp focus on my eyebrows — even as I handed him my money. I could have given him monopoly money and he would have put it in the cash drawer, so focused was he on not noticing my head.

Actually, I am kind of getting to like having no hair. It makes quick work of the shower and really cuts down on shampoo.  Maybe I will keep the new look and start a trend. On the other hand, if it did not catch on for Demi Moore, maybe I should try a different look.

My Deep Brain Stimulation: Part III

For the first two parts please scroll through March 2011.

Halleljula! Today I had the newly implanted devices turned on and had my first pass at tweaking the settings, To cut to the finish: my results were complete elimination of the painful dystonia (twisting and spasming of my right foot and leg), 50 % improvement in the tremor on my right side (my worst side) and about 75% improvement on my left side. These results are without medication! I enjoyed my first latte without a straw and did not spill a drop. I literally cried with joy!

The tweaking to find just the right settings will take another few visits. After  1 1/2 hours of this visit I had to stop because of exhaustion. I was beginning to get headachy and nauseous. The procedure is: I was not allowed to have any of my Parkinson’s medication after 9:30 the night before. I arrived at my neurologist’s office in the hospital at 9:30 AM with my wonderful husband and was met by the doctor who as going to do the testing (the same doctor who tested me originally to determine whether I would be a good candidate for the DBS surgery). She took us into an examination room and explained what she was going to do. Each of the two electrodes in my brain has four nodes (0, 1,2,3), each of which can have multiple setting for voltage and frequency. She would test each node to see what was best and I was to report any unusual sensations.  Then she did an exam and videotaped me (seated and at rest and also walking). Then she draped the magnet, which would be used to turn on and program the device, around my neck and placed over the battery on my left side. The battery on the left side controls the electrode which is in the left side of the brain which in turn controls the right side of my body (my most affected side). My husband had been expecting to go into a room full of machinery and to have me studded with electrodes so he was a bit surprised. But I was not (having done a ton of reading).

After entering a bunch of data she said she was going to turn on the equipment. I must say I was quite disappointed when nothing happened. She upped the voltage — I felt a lot of tingling in my face. And so it went on with me getting ever increasing electric tingling at times. Once it was so severe that the right side of my face twisted into a horrible lop-sided grin and I could not speak. We quickly backed out of that setting. Eventually we found a setting which got much of the desired result with no side effects. We then moved to the left side.

We did a new scoring of my symptoms which had reduced from 41 to 20 without medication.

The continual barrage of side effects was getting to me — I was very tired so we called it a day once we found reasonable settings and I was allowed to take my meds. I was advised that I might experience increased dyskenesia (involuntary movements) and if so I should reduce my medications. I was asked to wait in the waiting room for 1/2 hour and then I was to be reexamined.

After my 1/2 hour wait I was seen, examined, and videotaped by the same doctor and by my regular neurologist. We all agreed that the day had been a success. I was thrilled that the very painful cramping I always experienced was completely gone and mt tremor was greatly reduced.

We made arrangements for another programming meeting in a month and I left a very happy person. My limbs felt so free and loose that I did not know what to do with them! I had arm swing! As the afternoon progressed I took a nap (actually crashed onto the bed and slept like a stone for over an hour). My dyskenesia did increase a bit but not enough to be bothersome.

I am eagerly testing my new body and am thrilled with the result!

No excessive bending

The medical discharge papers I received after my recent hospital stay for deep brain stimulation surgery included the admonishment “No excessive bending!” Now, I am not quite sure I know how to interpret that statement. When does bending for the normal course of living move over to “excessive”? For example, is bending over to put kitty food in Nero Kitty’s dish ok? What if I were responsible for feeding feral cats? Is bending over 16 kitty dishes excessive? Perhaps it would be better to just leave the bag of cat food open on the floor?

Regrettably, the second day after my release I was bending to put laundry in the clothes washing machine when I lost my balance and fell over, hitting my head. Clearly, that was an example of excessive bending. Linshaolin can not do laundry. This event so traumatized my husband that he now watches me like a hawk. If I so much as dip from the waist he yells at me — “NO bending!” I remind him that the words were “No excessive bending” but he just glares at me. So, in his presence I must go about life bending my knees and daintily dipping — I look like a Bavarian maiden at the beer-hall hop.

Until you are forbidden to bend you have no idea how much bending we do each day (most of which I consider to be not excessive): try putting on socks without bending. Even brushing one’s teeth, which on first glance looks pretty bend-free, gets you at the end when you have to spit out the toothpaste. How many of us move this into the “excessive” zone by also bending to slurp water from the faucet?

Even going to the Meditation Center has its bending hazards — even though the Lama has given me a pass allowing me to skip the full body on the floor prostrations I am still required to bow in respect. Surely I will not injure my health by being respectful. But what if I were a Japanese Buddhist and had to bow all the time? Would the writers of the Western-biased medical discharge instructions think that their social-norm bowing is excessive bending?

My husband bought me one of those reach and grab devices so I could get things I dropped on the floor. But I have to tell you that it does a very poor job picking up hair clippings — I had my daughter shave the rest of my head last night (to even out with the already surgically shaven front part) and the extension grabber was only useful for pushing the hair clipping out of sight under the vanity to await the time when excessive bending is allowed once again.

My Deep Brain Stimulation Surgery Part II: Neurostimulator Implants

A week after my brain surgery I went back to the
operating room for implanting of the battery packs in my chest and connection
to the electrodes in my brain. Unlike the first procedure, this one was
performed while I was anesthetized (so I have less to report).

My surgery was scheduled for noon and I was asked to be
at the hospital by 10:00 AM. I checked in at the Surgical Desk in the hospital
lobby with my husband and we were then taken to the Pre-surgical unit where all
patients go prior to surgery. I put on the hospital gown and waited. Two and a
half hours after my surgery was supposed to begin the surgeon finally showed up
and let us know that things were running late. A bit later the anesthesiologist
came and interviewed me (she asked for my name, birthday, height, weight, any
history of trouble with anesthesia, any drug allergies). She put an orange
paper bracelet on me to indicate that I had a drug allergy (to sulfa) and put
on an IV into my hand. Then the resident anesthesiologist came (she had been
the anesthesiologist for my previous surgery) and we had nice chat about why
she chose anesthesiology as a specialty (her mom was an anesthesiologist). And
several other nurses from my previous surgery dropped by to say hi. I felt like
the celebrity patient.

Finally it was time to go to the Operating Room. I said
“ciao” to my husband and was wheeled away. From that point on I remember only having a gas mask placed on my face.

I awoke several hours later in the recovery room. It took
a few minutes to completely come out of my asleep state. My surgeon came by and informed me that they had shaved more of my head! Now I looked less like Ben Franklin and more like a samurai warrior. I was going to have a wicked mullet! My chest hurt as did the sides of my head. I had a bit of ginger ale and after about an hour I was ready to get dressed and go home. I had eight stitches on both sides of my head and on both sides of my chest just above the breasts. I
could feel the bulge of the batteries too. The incisions in my chest looked like two prime roasts trussed in string. I hoped they settle down over time since they are very ugly.

Going home was uneventful. We ordered Chinese food which
I gobbled up only to then vomit everything up violently. After that I could keep
nothing down for two days so I lived on ginger ale and lost 5 and ½ pounds.

My chest bruised badly and the bruising began to travel
downwards turning purple and yellow as it went. The swelling in my face from
the first surgery eventually went away but until it did I was one sight to
behold indeed! My hair began to grow and it felt like a hedgehog when I would
tough my scalp.

A week later I went back to the doctor’s office this time
to have a follow-up exam and my stitches taken out. I had worked myself up
unnecessarily thinking that would be painful but it did not hurt at all. It was
a quick trip – I was seen by the surgical nurse who told me everything looked
in good order. Over the next few days the chest incisions began to look less
red and swollen and I am betting that by this time next year they will be
barely noticeable.

I received a letter from the DBS coordinator informing me
that my programming would be on April 6^th and I should expect to be
there all day. Can’t wait!

My Deep Brain Stimulation

Before my Deep Brain Stimulation surgery I would have
benefitted from a personal account of the surgery that covered every detail.
Since I could not find one, I am writing one so that it will help others. I am
writing this after going through the first stage of the process and will post
another article when I have gone through each of the subsequent stages (stage 1
putting in the electrodes in the brain; stage 2 putting in the
neurotransmitters in the chest and connecting the wires from the brain; stage 3
turning on the device and programming it).

STAGE 1

I am a 61 year old female who first noticed Parkinson
symptoms in my late forties and was diagnosed at age 51. My father had
Parkinson’s too. Ten years post diagnosis I had disabling tremor in all four
limbs, micrographia, stiffness, could not turn over in bed, had painful spasms
in right foot and leg, and some cognitive decline. My neurologist suggested
that I was ready for DBS and scheduled me for the patient selection testing
(neuropsychological testing, psychiatric evaluation, day clinic to measure
response to sinemet, MRI, and finally surgeon’s evaluation) which all showed
that I would be a good candidate.

My surgery was for bilateral DBS and was planned to be
executed in two stages: Stage 1 would be implantation of the electrodes in the
brain and Stage 2 (a week after Stage 1) would be implantation of the neurostimulators
in my chest and connecting the wires. To give my brain a chance to have
swelling go down the device was not planned to be turned on for four weeks
after surgery. Following that would be several weeks of tweaking the settings
to optimize that result.

One week prior to my first surgery I went to the hospital
for two hours of pre-surgical testing. First I completed a medical history
questionnaire in which I listed all my medications and dosages, listed all the
surgeries I have had and their dates, my allergies, etc. Then a technician took
my blood pressure and gave me an EKG. Then blood was drawn. Next a nurse from
anesthesiology came to interview me about my past experiences with undergoing
anesthesia and some questions about my family history. She reviewed my medical
history that the hospital had online and asked me several questions to clarify.
And finally a registered nurse came to interview me about what to expect, what
to bring (my CPAP machine for sleep apnea) and what to leave at home
(everything else!) and we reviewed my Health Care Proxy (a legal form in
Massachusetts in which you designate the person who can speak for you if you
are unable to do so). Then she gave me instructions on how to bathe the night
prior and the morning of surgery and gave me a bottle of antibacterial soap
(this is to help reduce the risk of infection). Even though I had listed all
the medications I take, the nurse probed me for more information – I told her I
also took calcium with vitamin D supplement and an Omega 3 fish oil supplement.
She told me to quit taking the fish oil immediately since it acted like aspirin
in causing bleeding not to clot properly and was a danger in surgery. I am glad
she probed!

The day of Stage 1 surgery I arrived at the hospital at 6:00
AM (I was not allowed to take my Parkinson’s meds and I had no food or drink
since dinner the night before) and joined the rest of the “first shift”
patients. A customer service “ambassador” ushered us all to a waiting room
where we waited to be called in to our surgeries. Our family members were
allowed to wait with us and follow us when we were called. I was about the
fifth person to be called (wait time 15 mins) and was taken to a curtained
station where I changed into a hospital gown and socks. Then I was visited by
the anesthesiologist and the surgical nurse. The anesthesiologist explained
that she would give me something to help me relax as well as a light sedative
but it was the surgeon’s call as to how much. I made it clear that my vote was
for strong on both counts. The surgical nurse asked me if I wanted to use the
bathroom and that got me thinking ‘What If I need to urinate during the
procedure? So I asked the nurse and she asked me if I normally had to use the
bathroom often (which I do) so we agreed that I should have a catheter put in..
I was much relieved in hearing that (pardon the pun!). So if you have urinary
frequency issues do not be shy about asking for a catheter.

Then I was put in a wheel chair and rolled down to the
basement for an MRI.  Before the MRI I
saw the surgeon and he fitted me with a head stabilizing device which was
screwed into my head   (which had been
numbed). It felt like my ears were being squeezed in a vice. Then my head was
shaved by the nurse —  the bangs and a
strip from ear to ear and the back two inches. If you have not had an MRI this
is what happens: they slide you head first into a tube in a very tight fit .
You are given a “panic button” to press in case you need to get out fast [some
people are claustrophobic) and ear plugs. The machine makes a terrible racket,
There is no pain at all. The pictures are taken in chunks of anywhere from five
minutes to twenty minutes at a time. I kept my eyes closed and did silent
chanting. Every once in awhile a voice would ask me how I was doing and would
let me know how much longer it would take. After the MRI I was put back in the
wheel chair and wheeled back to the pre-surgical staging area.

My husband  was
sent home and it was time for surgery to begin. I was put in a semi-recling postion which was quite comfortable — I had been worried about how uncomfortable it was going to be flat on my back for so many hours but I was fine.

I was surprised by how busy the operating room was. There were at least two surgeons, the anesthesiologist, my neurologist,
another neurologist who was observing, and two surgical nurses.  The men left the room and the nurses put in the catheter. Then the men returned and the anesthesiologist asked the surgeon how deeply he wanted me “relaxed’ and he indicated he wanted to go light. I then felt  a stinging where the IV
entered my hand and knew that the drugs had started. I went to a happy place
but was fully awake (I fell asleep a bit later). Twice during the five hour
long procedure I felt pain – it felt like someone poured boiling water onto my
brain and lasted only a second or two. But my response was enough to get
immediate attention. I heard someone say “She is feeling pain!” The
anesthesiologist upped the pain meds immediately. The rest of the time I felt
like my head was cement –no sensation at all. I could hear some noises and the
chatter of the people in the room.

From the chatter I could tell what was going well and what
was not – there was a problem with the current from one electrical outlet and
there was a problem with one of the black lead wires which required that they
go back and do more to my right side. They spent a huge amount of time testing
and deciding on what was the best setting. My left side took much less time
because my arm refused to cooperate! It was like a dead tree limb. They had
draped a piece of plastic over my face and every once in awhile one of the surgeons would peak under it and tell me what they were doing. The surgical nurse and the neurosurgeon were discussing some screw up that had the nurse very upset. I was so glad that the surgeon was reassuring her – we don’t need an upset surgical nurse in the OR!

The doctors spent a lot of time manipulating my arm,
wrist, and hand – jerking them up and down, flapping them etc. to see how the
settings affected them in terms of looseness. And the observed my tremor making it come and go as they changed the settings. My neurologist massaged my legs and feet when they would start to cramp and the anesthesiologist occasionally gave my hand a reassuring squeeze. I did my meditation chanting (Om mane padme hung) over and over silently to help keep me calm during the long hours of surgery.

Finally it was over and my neurologist explained to me
what the outcome was (very positive for the right side, unknown for the left
side) and told me I would be taken to the recovery room. They unscrewed the
head stabilizer (and that was the worst part of the whole thing – very uncomfortable
but not really painful). I immediately got a vicious headache which I still
have 36 hours later. In the intensive care recovery room they gave me Percocet which I immediately vomited. Then they tried just Tylenol which I could tolerate but it did little for my headache. My blood pressure was elevated (and whose wouldn’t be  after all of that!). So they gave me IV meds for blood pressure but it did not come down for awhile. After several hours it got gown to normal so they transported me to a regular room. I was starving and thirsty but all I could have was clear liquids. I was given a broth which tasted wonderful, green jello and ginger ale.  I vomited again when they gave me more Percocet
and I finally told them no more. I’d rather have the bad headache than the
heaving up.

My husband and 26 year old daughter came to visit me in
the recovery room—they looked exhausted. But I had been so eager to see them –
my blood pressure dropped dramatically when they arrived – sometimes the sight
of a loved one can do wonders!  My family
had been waiting for hours to see me and were so tired we only chatted briefly
and I sent them home. They came back the next day at about noon and stayed with
me until I was discharged at about 5:00 pm. Before I could be discharged I had
o a) have had a bowel movement, b) be able to walk around without assistance
and c) not throw up.  The first night in
the room was busy with nurses coming in and out of  my room taking my vital signs and giving me
my Parkinson’s meds. I had several lovely nurses as the shifts changed. They
were always positive and cheerful even when I threw up on the sheets and when
my room mate was uncooperative. I never found out what was wrong with her but
she was not responsive most of the time. My room was next to the hospital’s
helicopter landing pad so I got to watch the night time emergency helicopters action.
I awoke finally at about 4:30 AM  For breakfast I got more green jello and broth
and some apple juice. I wanted a salad desperately. I spent the morning dozing
and watching the TV. Finally it was time for lunch and the nurse said I could
have whatever I wanted. I ordered a Greek salad. It was divine. It came with a
nasty orange ice which I tasted and then took a pass on. I was discharged in
the late afternoon. The nurse gave me a packet of information (my discharge papers)
and went over them with me briefly.

When I got home I went to bed pretty much right away and
slept a good eight hours (which is remarkably long for me). On the second day
after surgery I noticed that my forehead was swollen. Later that evening my
eyes felt stingy and itchy. I was just about to go look in the mirror to check
them out when my daughter looked at me in a panic and said “Mom! Your face is
completely swollen!” I looked in the mirror then and was horrified – my eyelids
were so swollen that they were pressing my eyes shut and below my eyes were two
huge bags of fluid that were livid red. My cheeks and even my neck was swollen.
I called the number given to me with my discharge papers and was told that is
sounded like an allergic reaction. As things continued to get worse I called
the surgeon’s office and told them what was happening. She said “This is going to happen? It is perfectly normal. Everyone calls in a panic and says my eyes are swollen shut!!” To be fair, I am sure I was told but forgot in the haze of anesthesia.

I received a call from the case manager from the Insurance Company who was basically gathering data to ensure I had been treated competently while in the hospital. And I received a  call from my primary care doctor’s case
manager who wanted me to know that she was available to me if I had any
questions or concerns.

My headache continued and I continued to take Tylenol
(and at night Tylenol with codeine). By Sunday afternoon it was at a manageable
level without taking any pain killers. I had lots of visitors at home and
received lots of flowers. I went out for coffee every day with my husband and
by Sunday was feeling quite like my self.

Linshaolin contemplates getting a pixie cut

I am having brain surgery in early March. The neurosurgeon informed me that a broad band of my hair, from ear to ear, will have to be shaved. I am not anxious about the fact that my skull is going to be bolted to a metal stabilizer ring then will be drilled with power tools. Come on — that’s kid’s stuff. What is keeping me up at night is what am I going to do about my hair! The last person I saw with a bald stripe was a Klingon warrior lady with bad teeth. Not the fashion statement I am looking for this season.

My lovely locks are currently chin length in a rich tapestry of colors ranging from gray at the roots to blond at the tips. My hair will grow out gray — or I guess I should say, gulp, it had better grow! I guess where they actually drill there might be some problem with future hair growth but I am sure I can disguise those spots or if worse comes to worst I can draw happy faces on them. Maybe I can do a seasonal treatment — red and green spots for Christmas, pale lavender and mint for Easter… Are there such things as glue on hair extensions?

Well, I think it best if I have my hair cut really, really short so that I do not look like I have an extreme mullet. I will get a pixie cut like I had in fifth grade. It looked awful cute. I am just hoping that a bit of hanging jowls does not mar the effect.  But I guess no one will be looking at my neck — they will all be contemplating the bald stripe. As my hair grows in I can spike it with Dippity Do.

I am quite aware that people who see me are going to wonder what horrible thing happened to me that required a bald pate. Maybe I could just use a marker pen and write across it “Brain Surgery — am doing fine.” Maybe I will wear scarves. But scarves need a bit of curl poking out around the hairline. Maybe I can sew some wig bits onto the scarf.

On second thought, scarves are a bad idea. I look enough like a character from Cadfael as it is. I try for Audrey Hepburn and get medieval peasant. I think tomorrow I will try on hats.

Ice and other damns

President Obama need no longer worry about the economy — every guy with a ladder and a golf putter from the Midwest to New England is gonna get rich this winter hacking down icicles and breaking up ice dams. We called the guy who does our gutters and asked him to come over and break up the ice dam that ran the full width of the house — we use this guy to clean our gutters because he is a) cheap and b) cheap. He said “Gee whiz, Mrs. Shaolin, I’m booked til March but I’ll put you down for March 3rd OK?” I was just about to hang up and put a note on the refrigerator for hubby when the gutter guy said “Oh, yeah, I guess I should tell you that I’m charging a minimum of $1000 for ice dams this winter. Say, Mrs. Shaolin, what’s that noise? You got a sick cat or something?” Once I could speak I thanked gutter guy but declined his services. Hubby would just have to go up on the roof himself.

What am I thinking? I had just had lunch with a girlfriend who regaled me with a description of her husband tackling his roof-line with a baseball bat, leaving a series of dents where the ice gave way more readily than he expected it too. And they are having the skylight replaced immediately. On the way home from lunch I drove by house after house with ladders precariously leaning against the icy roof, homeowner grasping the gutter with one hand while violently swinging all manner of lethal weapons. I saw an axe, a golf club, a drill, several garden spades, and a thingy mechanics use to put tires on cars.  One fellow was sitting on his ice dam staring desolately down at the ground where his ladder had fallen.

It started raining late this afternoon, melting off a considerable amount of snow. Now you know that matter can neither be created nor destroyed. So you’ve got rain and you’ve got melted snow. Both those things are water. And we all know what happens to water when the temperature drops over night. Water becomes a frozen lake. When we get up tomorrow we will be able to skate to church and all those roofs that had been de-dammed will have new sparkling ice dams. And all those householders who only got halfway through their labors and left their axes, putters, blow torches, and baseball bats on the roof will find their tools have become one with the roof — encased in ice, frozen until Spring.

I’m going to tell hubby to stay indoors and watch the Super Bowl. Repairing the roof can wait until Spring.

 

Why I am not cleaning my home office

My home office is a rat hole — a mess, a zone of unspeakable horrors like granola crumbs and crumpled paper that did not quite make the trash basket. I know your eyebrows are raised in shock and dismay and I have absolutely nothing to offer as an excuse — except that I got laid off again, I am about to have brain surgery, tax forms arrive in the mail each day like a plague of, well, tax forms, my one remaining knee finally gave out completely so I am in constant pain, and we are in the middle of the monster storm that has dumped a couple of feet of snow and ice in the last two days. Even my cat has turned against me and bit my ankle when I passed by his food dish without depositing a cupful of kitty crunchies.

Just in case I had failed to notice that my life has gone into the “completely sucks” zone, my therapist has decided to go to Cambodia, leaving me to slide back into all sorts of bad mental health habits like describing my life as “completely sucky.” “Well, Lin,” you are saying, “chin up and all that and tackle that office cleaning — it will be therapeutic.” And I am saying that I have honestly tried. I started off by putting on some music — unfortunately my choice was Amy Winehouse and the first song that came on was “Rehab” followed by “I’m no good.” I switched to my album of Tibetan singing bowls but that put me in a stupor. I then put on a DVD of James Bond’s “Diamonds are Forever” — 86 minutes later I realized I had watched the movie instead of having it on for background noise. Such an intense cultural experience had made me drowsy so I took a nap.

But I am back in my office surveying the mess. Most disturbing is an open box on the floor with miscellaneous electrical cords spilling out. I had been looking for my Kindle recharger (ultimately found in my daughter’s room). I have no idea what  90% of the cords are for and I am afraid to toss them. Just like I am afraid to toss the box of keys and the box of checks from old accounts. All this stuff is shoved in next to the box of Christmas cards that have turned yellow with age.

Perhaps as a first step in office cleaning I will go boldly where no one has gone before and actually open the handbag storage closet. I know for certain that there is a lethal wall of handbags behind that door just waiting to crush the poor fool (me) who unleashes them. I will have Kathy Van Zeeland bling marks imbedded in my forehead for years to come.

And the ironing basket….well, technically there is no basket — the daughter took that for purposes unknown some time ago — the laundry waiting to be ironed has spilled off a broken chair onto the floor. Perhaps I need to acknowledge that if I have not ironed this apparel in several years then I might not need them. But what if I am wrong?

There is the desktop. I swear I routinely open my mail at least twice a year and yet I have stacks of mail, folders, rolls of towel paper, office supplies, and a very nice bunch of pens with logos that a friend sent me from her x-ray shielding company, coffee mugs, books, sewing supplies, head phones, CDs, a metal object I bought at TJ Max cause I thought it would make a good necklace tree (it didn’t), and my computer equipment (cable boxes, routers, printer, mouse charger) and phone. Every time I go to throw away old calendars I remember my mother had neatly organized a pile of calendars going back to 1933 (but then she also had a collection of several dozen shirt buttons just in case the laundry sent back a shirt with a broken button).

My husband advises me to just start somewhere. Starting is the key. Once started I am sure the rest will flow easily. Starting does not mean I will be locked into commitment. No one will be forcing me to get rid of anything. Anything I discard will be by my choice. It will be an opportunity to think clearly, to examine my life, to buy a refill for my label maker. I promise I will start just as soon as I get back from Staples.

The gym

My hubby and I hit the gym three or four times a week at roughly the same time — 4:30 PM — so we are part of the “regulars.” As a “regular” I have a routine and it upsets me when that routine is broken. Like today. I have a favorite exercise bike — it is right in front of a big TV screen and I watch Judge Judy while I do my twenty-minute “Random Hills” ride. Today my bike was gone. In its place was a spiffy new bike with its own screen that showed different trails you could navigate. Being a mature woman I decided not to go directly to the management to complain — I decided to try the bike out — to give it a proper chance.

Things started out badly. Instead of simple foot straps it had an elaborate strapping system that engulfed the toe box — or should I say it would engulf the toe box of a person with a size 6 shoe. I wear a ladies 10. I wedged the tips of my toes into the strapping and extended my leg — the seat was too low. I got off the bike to assess how to adjust the seat. I have a bachelor of arts degree which apparently is not enough. I could not figure out how to raise the seat. I got back on the bike and peddled, my knees grazing my elbows with every rotation. I decided to distract myself by focusing on Judge Judy. There was no Judge Judy — only an almost blank screen that had the words Direct TV floating randomly over it.

I left the bike area hoping things would work out better on the elliptical. All the good ellipticals were in use. Off in a corner were a couple of elderly machines that had seen better days. I stepped on, thinking my considerable weight would depress one of the steps. Nothing happened. I gave a little hop. No budge. I stepped on the other step but it did not move. I clambered down and went over to a vacant treadmill. The emergency stop wires were hanging down and I was quite sure that the stain on the tread was a blood stain.

I noticed a portly middle-aged woman watching me (another portly middle-aged woman). It was clear she was checking out my gym togs. I don’t exactly have gym togs — I tend to wear comfy pants and t-shirts. She was wearing spandex peddle pushers and a wife-beater. Perhaps if I wore proper gym togs I would have a better result from my efforts. However, I casually looked about, hopefully giving the air of confident athleticism. No matter, my sneaker snagged in the rubber matting, propelling me forward. I used my superior language skills to remark succinctly.

Having used up half an hour of my gym time I decided to go upstairs to the twenty-minute workout circuit. The room was teaming with men who clearly had never had instruction on how to use the equipment. One fellow was doing stomach crunches with the weights set on a million pounds. He would give a terrible groan and do his crunch then let the weights slam down. After listening to this for a few minutes I was about ready to go over and tell him that a) he was an idiot and b) that he was a flabby idiot when luckily one of the gym staff did it for me. Another young man was apparently in a race to see how fast he could use the leg press. I wondered what he was hoping to accomplish by speed pressing.

I was not in a good mood when I finished, but still looked forward to my usual ten minute break in which I watched lessons on the tennis courts. A small child approached me carrying a peanut butter and jelly half-sandwich. She must not have noticed that I was not her mother because she very sweetly leaned back against my legs and deposited her sandwich on my lap — a little jelly oozed out and ran down my leg.

I always end up my visit to the gym by utilizing the foaming hand disinfectant dispenser. It was empty.

2011 and don’t look back (or down)

My husband has lost seventy pounds. He looks fantastic. He feels fantastic. I want to swat him upside the head. For all our forty some years of marriage I have always weighed thirty pounds less than he — but that is no longer the case. He gets up in the morning and dresses all the while giving me the details of the experience . . .  “Oh gosh, these jeans are about to fall off! And they are the jeans I used to wear back in the eighties!” Or “Look at this tee-shirt! I am swimming in it.” I reply with a forced smile and glazed expression. “Gee, that is really wonderful sweetie.” Any normal person who had a healthy regard for his survival would stop there. But no, a few minutes later at breakfast he says “Do you want the rest of my banana? I just can’t seem to eat the whole thing.” I say “Sure, why don’t you set it down next to my pecan sticky bun and hot chocolate?”

I am not a mean-spirited person — I am thrilled that he is slender and I would never think that just because he was in intensive care and very ill for months and months that it was not his strenth of character alone that made him forego food for an entire year. He deserves all the credit for a successful weight loss. And that prescription medicine that he had to take that killed his appetite, well that just helped things along and in no way takes away from his self-discipline. And, on the other hand, I would never suggest that my maintaining my curves was in any way due to my severe anxiety over his medical condition. He was not, after all, actually responsible for my added stress.

And so, I looked at the coming new year as yet another opportunity to diet. I started out the year with a Plan and Great Enthusiasm which lasted well into the day of January 2nd when  my brother came to visit bearing a late Christmas basket filled with gourmet goodies. I am a very considerate person and would never hurt my brother’s feelings by thanking him profusely then putting the basket on display untouched. No, I thanked him profusely, broke out the imported salami and biscuits and splashed the champagne into our over-sized bubbly glasses.

I am well aware that diet advisors say that one should not let a  diet “slip” run the entire effort into the ground. So I doubled my vigilance as we headed out to Panera for cafe latte’s. The cashier swiped our Panera card and informed us we had a free pastry reward. My mother taught me to be frugal — and free is something we frugal people do not pass up. I ordered a cinnamon roll. The latte and cinnamon roll left my digestive tract feeling unbalanced so I got a cheddar soup to go in the hopes that salt and protein would restore harmony.

I gave up all attempts at dieting on January 5th. Clearly the stars were not in the proper order for success. My regular lunch of Cheetos and Oreos resumed. I weighed myself on the scales at the gym. I despaired. My knee hurt (I have only one real knee, the other does not hurt because it is titanium). My genetic propensity toward hanging jowls grew more obvious. My ankles swelled. I must cut down on the honey and onion pretzel bites. Hubby came out of the gym locker room looking pleased. “Dropped another half pound!”‘ he said radiantly. I gave him my best “I am so pleased for you” look and suggested we celebrate by going to Not Your Average Joe’s for dinner.

I have decided to try again. It just doesn’t seem right to be able to beat your husband at arm wrestling.

Parking

I am that woman you watch in the parking lot attempting during several tries to park in a straight line somewhere near the curb. Today I managed the straight line but was straddling two parking spaces — I got in and out of the car three times checking to see if there was any improvement. There was not. So I backed out, drove around the lot until I found a place between two SUVs. I pulled in and then realized that I was so close to one of the SUVS that I could not open the door. I backed out (I am very skilled at backing out) and tried again. Fortune was smiling on me and I managed to pull in exactly equally between the two vehicles. Upon leaving the car, however, I saw that I was hanging into the space behind me so that only one of those European mini cars would fit. I am considerate person so I reentered my vehicle and pulled forward. A second check verified that I was now only intruding into their territory by a quarter car length, leaving enough space for a compact car. Feeling completely justified in the intrusion since any car larger than a compact is an assault on air quality, oil reserves, and is probably made in China, I congratulated myself.

My husband tried to teach me how to park. I am happy to say that after intensive marriage counseling he is, once again, my husband. His guidance consisted of telling me to turn the car into the space leaving not quite enough room to avoid hitting the adjacent vehicle, then, at the last minute, to swerve hard, stop abruptly all while speaking to my therapist on my mobile phone. I did precisely as he instructed. turned into the space, swerved hard, clipped the rearview mirror off the passenger side of the adjacent vehicle, called my therapist and booked double appointments for that afternoon. Husband’s next instructions were not helpful so I will not include them in this accounting.

I dislike women who back in to parking spaces. The only legitimate reason I can see for backing into a parking space is if you are about to burgler a  bank and want to make a quick getaway. Otherwise you are just showing off. Backing in while talking on the phone is just plain crude. It is the female equivalent of a man driving a Hummer. Explain to me the rationale for backing in. If you want to save time upon leaving you have already negated the benefit by taking twice as long to park in the first place. If you think it is safer to pull out face forward you are failing to notice the danger in backing in — how many cars did you wipe out before you mastered the maneuver? And don’t expect me to believe for a moment there are not still a few “oops” dingers. And how do you load groceries into a car parked backwards?

I do not parallel park. There are some parts of town that I do not visit because there is only parallel parking. When I took my driving test I was really afraid I would fail because of  parallel parking. However, as luck would have it, the RMV tester had broken out into a sweat and was feeling nauseous so he called the test short. Upon his trembling exit for the vehicle I quite distinctly heard him say “good job” or possibly it was “my god!”. In any case I passed.

Snow (the cold white flakes) and what it does to New Englanders

Legend has it that the Aleut’s (aka Eskimos) have a whole bunch of words for snow since snow plays such a large part in their existence. We, in New England however, have many more — none of which I can actually publish on the Internet, but you know what most of them are. From November through March (and sometimes even into May) snow falleth mightily on New England making our daily lives down right miserable. Except for skiers. Their sick and twisted minds think sliding headlong into a stand of pine trees at fifty miles an hour while wearing periwinkle bib pants and a hat with ear flaps is the cats pajamas.

I once  knew a fellow who gave up a perfectly good career as a truck driver to become a chef in a ski lodge just so he could get free slope time. He spent twelve hours a day making hot chocolate and pancakes so that for one hour he could stand outside enjoying wind gusts bring – 25 degree “chill”. For thirty-eight of the sixty minutes of ski time he got dressed (17 minutes), waited for the snow lift (11 minutes), stood in line at the summit (ten minutes) and then spent six minutes skiing. The remainder of the hour was spent getting his parka zipper disentangled from the wire fencing at the base of the run.

Skiers relax after a hard six minutes on the slopes by hanging around a fireplace listening to “meglio stasera” being sung by a woman in a tight sweater. It is customary for one skier to be sitting in a big overstuffed chair having his leg cast autographed by young skiers, eyes glazed in admiration at his fortitude in the face of such a horrific accident. It is impolite to point out to impressionable youths that slipping in the bathroom can happen to anyone.

In New England we are a hearty lot.  It is not uncommon to see men jogging in a blizzard. Shorts are de rigueur until twelfth night. Just this week I noticed a pedestrian manfully walking to work as the arctic air brought seven inches of snow to our fair city, wearing a Michigan hooded sweatshirt and shorts, carrying a briefcase. Teenagers consider it a sign of weakness to wear coats and mothers with infants fear they will overheat their offspring if they dress them in more than a onsey and socks (yet they have the odd need to drape blankets over their strollers in such layers that I worry that the air supply will run out before they go back indoors — either their babies are incredibly homely or are vampires).

The New Englanders who love snow the most, however, are men with snow blowers. At the very first wispy flake I can hear the engines warming up and if I look out my window I can see on either side of my house my neighbors lovingly polishing the already gleaming stainless steel snow blower handles. Then there is the man vs man race to cover the most territory — this sometimes leads to a standoff in the middle of the sidewalk outside my front door. Just as things begin to look pretty ugly, the neighbor from across the street opens his four-car garage door and the purr of motor can be heard. Emerging from the darkness of the garage comes the majesty of blowers — sleek, cobalt blue with a dashing red logo that, from my busybody vantage point, sure looks like the Mercedes logo. The hum of the engine is thrilling. My two neighbors, no longer glaring at each other, heads lowered in submission, yield the neighborhood to the Man and return home. I long ago realized it was a mercy to them not to rush out and shovel my walkway — far be it from me to tear away their small pleasures. I watch as the snow plow comes up the street pushing heavy, wet slush into the driveways. The Man and Machine from across the street begins the real work of being a New Englander.

Clamshell packaging vs slicing bagels — trips to the ER

Even after the invention of the bagel guillotine enough people end up in the Emergency Room for injuries sustained while trying to slice bagels that the phenomena has its own acronym (BRI for bagel related injury). (In fairness to the bagel guillotine, I suspect that the majority of injuries happened when the guillotine was sitting forgotten in the gadget drawer.)  But BRI scores only a measly 2000 victims annually. The king of slice and dice is clamshell packaging (you know, that hard plastic stuff that can’t be opened) with a casualty rate of over 6000 in a banner year (2004) — and we are counting only bloody injuries; no one knows the psychological toll — you’ve got a nifty new electronic Rubix Cube and for life or money you can’t get it out! I have seen grown men cry. “Wrap rage,” the term for the acute psychological stress caused by the frustration of being unable to open a package, combined with the environmentally unfriendly composition of clamshell packaging, would seem to make this evil stuff anathema. But no — it is everywhere.

I am not sure why clamshell packaging is so prevalent these days. Its manufacturers claim it cuts down on shoplifting because it is so bulky. But clearly it is because shoplifters can’t stand the stress of liberating their ill-gotten goods. That leaves the consumers, who have actually paid for the item, left to their imaginations to figure out how to open the shell. The most prevalent advice is to use a rotary can opener. Let’s say you have a rotary can opener and are willing to sacrifice it for a single use, the result of using it is a series of lethal perforations that make Jaws’ choppers look like kitten’s teeth.

Some online retailers are providing their customers with video instructions for opening their goods. That’s nice and I’ll start viewing those just as soon as I complete the four DVD set of instructions that came with an “assemble it yourself” bookshelf. Amazon.com is selling a universal package opener that sounds pretty good — and when I can get it out of its packaging I’ll try it out.

There is one thing even  more impenetrable than PVC plastic — and that is a gift package from my mother-in-law. She starts with a cardboard box and then covers every square inch of it in packing tape. Then she takes it to the Miami Dade County Shrinkwrap Emporium and has it shrink wrapped. Back home again she reinforces the corners and edges with shiny brown tape and finishes it off with brown paper wrapper and a stamp. I fear for my child since this compulsion to over-wrap seems to be genetic – my husband shows tendencies (he hermetically seals gift bags). If my MIL ever discovers clamshell packaging it will mean the end of Christmas.

Don’t pretend that you’ve never gotten up in the middle of the night to…

I know you have gotten out of bed in the middle of the night to rummage for loose M&Ms at the bottom of your handbag. And, admit it, you have spent a fair bit of time trying to pry loose a Milk Dud that was stuck to the bottom of the box. Welcome to the Candy Confessional where, in the privacy of the Internet, Linshaolin will hear your deepest, guiltiest, secrets of sneak eating — where you can be with others similarly afflicted.

It is best to make a full confession. Linshaolin knows your secrets already but wants you to benefit from the catharsis or admitting your shame:

The night table drawer. Night tables were designed by secret eaters. They have long but shallow drawers so that candy (unwrapped earlier in the day) can be pushed to the way back. An especially effective combination are Kit Kats and night table drawers. The average night table drawer geography (starting at the front) is a pen, a mini flashlight, a doohah of Post-It Notes, a popsicle stick (leftover from a summer binge) and backed up by a paperback Sunday New York Times Crossword Puzzle book, an easily portable religious pamphlet (religion of your choice), a condom packet, a Nice’n Clear eyeglass wipe packet (never try to clean your glasses with a condom) and a wedge of Toblerone (consisting of three “hits, well, OK, two hits and a third).

The handbag. If you keep Smarties in an old prescription bottle, remember to eat them before handing over your bottle to the pharmacist for a refill. Also, it takes some discipline and practice to always put your change in change purse instead of just dropping it into your purse, but it is really unhygienic to have your M&Ms rub against circulated currency. But if that does happen, remember that time is on your side. All germs on either coins or candy die off after seventy-two hours.

The baking ingredients shelf. No one in the grocery store is going to look at you and murmmer “man the life rafts” when you buy chocolate chips and flour. Whereas purchasing the equivalent ounces of Snickers will elicit snickers. However, one dropped chocolate chip on the kitchen floor will be noticed by your spouse who will demand cookies. Also, adult children who live with you (again) will definitely eat your chocolate chips before you do, so it is best to keep only bittersweet chocolate with your baking ingredients and store your chips in an old Old Fashioned Quaker Oats canister.

On top of the refrigerator. Unless you have unusually tall people in your household, keeping secret candy on top of the fridge, behind the box of Rice Crispies that has been there since you were a Brownie Scout troop leader, is very effective.

Perhaps I am being unkind to the candyholics. There are just as many scorffers of cheese (if it comes in a microwavable glass jar so much the better/worse). And bread — baguettes to be precise or Iggy’s Franchesca, It is a good thing Iggy’s is so hard to slice — we would be a nation of Yeast otherwise. I know of at least three individuals who do a 3:00 AM night walk to the kitchen for fig jam and brie.

Who amongst you has not gone to Walgreen’s to stock up on three boxes for three dollar candy before the movies because it is more economical than paying six bucks for one box at the theater? I can count on the fingers of one hand the number of readers who do not have at least three Good and Plenty pieces in the tips of their mittens (oh, thank you for pointing out that Linshaolin’s fan base can be counted on the fingers of one hand). . .

Truth be told, there are worse vices than midnight perambulations to satisfy a sweet tooth or a cheese attack. Just don’t try to fool yourself that I don’t know what you are doing.

K cups

Having recently noticed a rash of references to K cups I was wondering why there was a sudden explosion of women needing massive bra sizes in colors like “glazed chocolate” and “dark magic.” Well, silly me — K cups have nothing to do at all with bras; they have to do with the marketing of coffee. K cups seem to be the gold standard for individual coffee servings packaged in little plastic tubs. These tubs go along with coffee makers that make one cup at a time. I got one for Christmas.

I hate myself because I love it. It is environmentally unfriendly. It is expensive. It is about as necessary to a happy life as studded blue jeans (but I must have those too). There is something indulgent about making yourself a coffee. First you get to choose your flavor — and if you are lucky like me your coffee is neatly displayed in a stainless steel “coffee carousel” — then you get to pop it in to the coffee maker  and two seconds later that wonderful aroma of freshly brewed coffee fills the kitchen.

My husband is quite perplexed about the whole single serving coffee maker business. Even when we had guests over and they clustered around the coffee carousel picking out their after dinner coffee he did not get it. Even when I told him there were K cups for tea and hot chocolate also he did not see why we needed to use up valuable kitchen counter real estate for this (even though it was he who bought it for me after my subtle hints took hold). But perhaps he is coming around — yesterday he asked me to show him how to make a cup of coffee (ah, you put the plastic tub in the tub holder and press the button).

K cups do not spell the end of Starbucks. They do not come with “people watching” opportunities or chatting with the baristas or with the other people who are known by name in at least three Starbucks locations. But on a snowy winter morning they are a pleasant indulgence. I promise to reuse the tubs for an art project (hey, my local art museum has a twenty-foot sculpture made out of plastic detergent bottles) — or maybe they will make excellent starter pots for tomato plants. I think there is a spin-off industry waiting to happen.

Parkinson’s…Year 10

I drank my New Year’s Eve champagne through a straw. No longer able to hold a glass full of liquid without the seismic activity of my tremor splashing it across the room, I have found some workarounds. Food and drink are not the only challenges — I can put my left leg into pants just fine but my right leg refuses. It has no idea what to do. I sit on the edge of the bed looking down at the empty pant leg — it matches the empty left sleeve of my shirt. It takes me half an hour to get dressed in the morning. And yet I can keep up with my tai chi class. Tai chi class is an hour of freedom during which I can balance on one leg, gracefully pivot, and execute the forms. Parkinson’s is an odd, odd disease.

My neurologist and I have agreed that it is time for me to be evaluated to see whether I would be a good candidate for Deep Brain Stimulation surgery. During DBS devices are implanted in one’s brain with wires running under the skin down the side of the neck to a battery pack that is implanted in the chest. The device sends signals to the part of the brain that is firing wildly out of control and jams the signals causing the firing to stop. This causes the tremor and other nasty symptoms to abate.

Not every Parkinson’s patient will benefit from the surgery. The evaluation takes two full days in which they test one’s neurocognitive functioning, one’s psychological state (being depressed is a no-no), and one’s response to L-dopa. My neurocognitive functioning is just fine. Only yesterday, during a dinner party conversation, the question arose “what was the name of Thor Heyerdahl’s boat?” Without missing a beat I said  the “Kon Tiki.” All eyes looked at me in wonderment. I have no idea why I remembered that. I also won a bet that the guy who plays the police detective in Psych also had a four-second role as a three-eyed psychic in Starship Troopers. So I think I am good on the cognitive testing part (unless it is a math test). The depressed issue is another matter. But what do they expect? I can’t imagine that there are too many Parkie’s who bound out of bed in the morning singing zippity do dah. The testers must be looking for people who are really, really feeding off the bottom of the tank. So I think I am good there too. That leaves the L-dopa response. They are looking for people who respond really well to taking L-dopa. I think I definitely do, so here’s hoping.

DBS surgery is the last recourse in this progressive disease. I don’t even want to think about the possibility that I would not be a good candidate.  I guess I would just have to entertain myself by having my other knee replaced. Having knee replacement is on hold until I know whether I am having brain surgery but the situation is getting pretty desperate. When I got up from my chair at Starbuck’s today a bolt of pain shot through my knee that was so bad that I inadvertently shouted “shit!” out loud. I apologized to all the mothers who had brought their young’ns in for hot chocolate. Some day they will understand.

In reference to my knee, my husband’s advice is to “ice it.” That is like saying to Anne Boleyn “a lovely scarf and no one will know the difference.” Sometimes, when karma is clearly at work, my leg tremor will cause my knee to violently jerk up and down with each wave bringing tears to my eyes.  I must have done something horrendously bad in a past life. With the way things are going I will, no doubt, break out in pustules any moment.

Not that I am complaining. Certainly not. This blog is a vehicle for education — never, never for idle venting. No, I would never question the Great Scheme of Things that makes my friend a vigorous and (worse) slim sixty while I am a train wreck. Far be it from me to feel sorry for myself. After all, I have a complete collection of Star Trek Next Generation action figurines and three Peace Beanie Babies.

One thing about the surgery bothers me. Magnets cause havoc with the devices in one’s brain, often turning them off. If you think about your life you will begin to realize just how many opportunities for exposure to magnets there are. Every store has magnetic sensors that you have to pass through to enter or exit. No more shopping. Every refrigerator is covered in magnets. No more midnight raids on the freezer for ice cream. Every handbag has a magnetic closure somewhere. I’ll have to carry my stuff in a pillow case.

Difficult dharma questions and for asking them 50 cycles through the bad karma wash…

I recently attended a two day yoga retreat overseen by a lama and a tai chi instructor. What? Are you crazy Linshaolin? You can barely see your feet much less touch them! OK, I admit it was a challenging experience. After the first twelve minutes sitting  in the Lotus posture my legs were a firey pit of pain and my back was sagging so much that my forehead rested on the floor. The tai chi master excitedly pointed out to the class (while pointing at me) that even an old bag could become flexible following the tai chi Path. I tried to stand up to wave benevolently to the  applauding participants, but after five minutes of attempting to pry one leg off the other I opted to utilize the famous yoga technique of rocking from one butt cheek to the other, dragging myself like a dog with a nasty bit of turd stuck to his rear. I made it to the wall where I leaned in relief and wondered how I was going to survive two days of this. And the Tibetan chanting had not even started yet. My husband, who has recently lost 70 pounds, released his legs with recoil worthy of Smith and Wesson, plumped up his yoga cushion and contently admired the view of thirty new age, art-matron women in spandex yoga pants,

The first morning was devoted to an “empowerment” –a Buddhist activity in which the lama reads out loud in Tibetan and the non-Tibetan speaking listeners are spiritually transmitted the teaching, thus making them ready to the potential of understanding ( a necessary step in achieving enlightenment). I was surveying the large room in hopes that there was a rocking chair stashed in a corner. But even though my attention was just a teeny bit divided, I did feel that the transmission took and I would be a much better Buddhist for it. The lama was explaining to us that we should be visualzing the deity of our choice (with a strong suggestion that choosing Green Tara would be most beneficial. The lady next to me whispered “I don’t know why we have to get deities involved — I would rather not get religion mixed up in this!” I rolled my eyeballs while saying ”I am sure the lama agrees with you.” The woman yanked on her Om Mani Padme Hung tee-shirt and slugged down some Perrier water from her environmentally friendly water bottle.

Later, during Q&A time, she asked the lama if it were OK to visualize something  other than a deity. She said she was an agnostic and was only attending a Buddhist empowerment because she had not known what it was and had mistakenly thought it would be a feminist thing. I dug the crumpled flyer from my purse and examined it to try to find the feminist message I had clearly missed. It was a plain flyer with a photo of a boat in a harbor and a setting sun. “Yoga Retreat with Lama” Discover the peace within you.” Clearly there had been two versions of the flyer distributed. At least half the class got the one that specified “Before attending the retreat you must complete the prework — shopping for new yoga outfits and matching prayer beads…”

The lama asked if there were anymore questions. I raised my hand. “Lama, how do animals accummulate good karma so that they can be reborn in a higher realm?”There was stunned silence. The lama looked at me as if I were a chronic pain-in-the-ass. The tai chi master smothered a beaming smile and looked seriously at the practitioners. After a few moments the lama responded. “Animals love their children and provide for them.” I decided not to mention the Lion daddys who eat their children. Anthropromorphizing tends to weaken an argument but I was already feeling the bile of bad karma  for asking a question that has been nagging in my mind ever since I became a Buddhist. I smiled pleasantly at the answer. I silently calculated that it has been almost two thousand years since Buddha Shakyamuni turned the wheel of dharma.

After the day’s session was over I went up to the Lama’s station in order to purchase a copy of his book (which, by the way, had a perfectly good explanation of the animal/karma question) and to be given a spiritual name (I already had one but was open to getting a second). He thought carefully then assigned me the name Joyful with Knowledge. I wondered whether he was being ironic or wise.

Downsizing

My husband and I, like so many sixty-somethings, are contemplating downsizing our housing needs and moving to a climate that does not fluctuate between steam-roasting and flash freezing (aka Massachusetts). About once a week over coffee one of us will blurt out  “we really have to move somewhere cheaper” and the other will snorf in derision. We have a four bedroom house that currently houses three adults and three home  offices, an art studio and a cat. That sort of living can’t just be sandwiched into a two-bedroom condo in Tampa.

Let’s take a look at the home offices: daughter is a professional photographer and graphic designer. She has lighting equipment, tripods, sketch pads, computers, scanners, printers, graphics pads, cameras, framed photos, photo greeting cards in boxes of 100, sample photo glass coasters, display props, retail shopping bags (in case she sells something), books, magazines, and bags of gummi bears. Husband is an artist and writer, His office has hundreds of books, a writing desk, a computer desk and printer stand, three chairs, the mother-of-all wastebaskets, printers, a corner devoted to displaying destroyed tennis rackets and his framed certificate awarding him “Most Feared Player” status,  board games, a collection of stuffed animals (gifts from his daughter), maps, three CD/radios, dozens of CDs and DVDs, a set of Encyclopedia Brittanica from the 1960s, the United States’ entire supply of triple A batteries, and a pile of tennis sneakers that need to be washed. My home office doubles as a sewing room. In its 12 x12 foot space there are three tables, three office chairs, two lamps, and ironing board, two floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, several dozen handbags hanging from hooks, plastic storage bins holding fabric, sewing equipment, computer, printer, phone, rolling file cabinets, cat bed, and Buddhist home shrine.

The art studio is a 25 x 15 foot room in the basement. In addition to five windows and a fireplace, there is a ping pong table which serves as the main drawing space, an enormous table housing my doll-house in progress, metal shelving for art supplies, and the width of the room is fully taken up by custom made shelving for storing finished artwork. It is also home to two weaving looms, a tower of yarn, a bicycle, chairs, portfolios, a model Starship Enterprise half constructed, and dozens of framed paintings lining the walls.

Let’s face it — we ain’t mov’n anytime soon. Besides, I don’t want to disrupt Nero Kitty’s domestic life until he gets out of college. Thus, I am forced to admit that our lifestyle is out of hand and I need to take some action to get things under control. Hey, you say, didn’t you blog about getting things under control already? OK, I admit that this drive to conquor chaos occurs about every year or so — but this time I am actually going to get further than the “spend lots of money on cleaning supplies” stage. I am going to tackle this like any good project manager would: I will start by going to Dunk’n Donuts for iced coffee. Then I will make a project plan consisting of a Powerpoint presentation with a slide for each room showing the key steps needed for Order to be restored. I will force my family to give up watching NCIS for one hour and I will present to them the Plan and their personal To Do lists.

Husband: downstairs bathroom — put away the painting supplies left over from the last time the bathroom was painted (2007); remove the sconces (purchased at the time of the last painting job) from the box and install them; take down the Christmas window display.

Daughter: — bedroom — …oh, never mind…

Me: master bathroom (I love refering to a 4 ft x 7 ft room as a “master”) — remove mold from tiles using chemicals banned for use against soldiers during conflicts by international treaty; find all the towels in daughter’s room and launder them, apply new tracking devices and hang on back of door; bedroom — dump contents of the “single sock” basket onto bed and challenge oneself to beat her personal best of matching one pair of socks; bookshelf — remove the issue of Lara Croft Hints and Cheats Millenium Edition that keeps getting knocked off the shelf; kitchen — determine once and forall why someone keeps spilling poppy seeds underneath the sink.

If we accomplish this much I will be satisfied for another few months. It gets us nowhere closer to downsizing I admit. But there is a lot to be said for staying where we are.

Linshaolin finds employment

It has been such a long time since I posted that I feel quite rusty — the gift of gab has been sealed up like one of the Christmas packages my mother-in-law sends me, the gift being enclosed in a cardboard box sealed with reinforced tape then wrapped in brown paper and every square inch of that sealed with clear tape. All to house a sweater.

Speaking of sweater, it is 97 degrees here and humid. I am damp. I hate being damp. For one thing, sweat trickles down between my boobs thus rendering them useless for housing my cell phone — sufficiently damp it slips down to my waist giving me a rather unusual protrusion. Actually I was dwelling on the boobs-as-cell-phone-holder thing the other day. I bet very few of you men realize that women’s bra sizes do not measure width and volume, they actually are a code for storage capability. An A cup means that the owner can stash a Bic lighter; a B cup yields space for a lighter and a pack of cigs; a C cup is the SUV of bras and has roomy storage for smokes and a cell phone (and if the bra wearer takes out the padding from a push-up bra there is room for a two-way radio and a night scope. D cup ladies, the Hummer of boobs, can stow a 21-piece set of Tupperware and a brownie (yes, wrapped).

Why have I not posted for ages and ages? Well, I was depressed, uninspired, feeling yucky, dieting, and using my Kindle. Being marginally employed (10 hours a week of back-breaking labor administering a grant at a university) sucked. All my buddies were working at Big Corporation and I was scraping wallpaper at home. But then, just as suddenly as I had been laid off, they were laid off. I had to set a positive example and give them hope — so, after a year and a quarter, I managed to land a job. I will be dealing with the government; I will be dealing with software engineers; I will be under great, stressful deadline pressure. I am overjoyed!

Gone forever is the big salary, the international travel, the glamor of phone conferences with Japan at 3:00 AM. Now I will be driving exactly nine minutes to work, going to the in-house gym, getting free coffee. I will meet new people, attend company picnics, and learn how to use new productivity tools. How good can life get?

Upon receiving the offer call I did three things: I told my husband (who is now standing in the shower singing “Zippity Do Dah”), wrote thank you notes to my references (they had insisted on prepayment), and sent my shrink an email with a smiley face.

I will start writing again. I will complete the drawing for my patent application for the “Flower Parts Pin” (pestles are separately orderable). I will weigh myself at the gym. Life resumes.

Taking care of sick ones

For a long time now I have been convinced that I am being tested to see whether I have sufficient mettle to accomplish some Herculean task which, for the time being, is known only to the gods. Why else would I have married an artist, been laid off at age sixty-one, have early onset Parkinson’s, not one but two cancers, a knee replacement, and a child with bipolar disorder? Clearly stress-tolerance is a big part of this test. I guess I was handling it too well. Two weeks ago I came home from a medical appointment (actually it was for an ultrasound to check out an “irregularity” in what is left of my thyroid) to find my husband having difficulty breathing and unresponsive. I called an ambulance.

I rode in the ambulance up front with the driver. My daughter followed us in the car. We were in the midst of a snow storm. My telephone, which I keep stored in my bra (that will be another post) rang. Without thinking I reached into my shirt and fished it out. The driver had to be reminded to keep his eyes on the road after he swerved. After shutting down my cell I began doing a meditation breathing exercise to calm down. I snorted violently; I inhaled deeply; I exhaled long and smooth; I chanted. I felt the driver looking at me again. Nevertheless, we arrived at the emergency room and went into action.

Many wires and tubes later my husband was transferred to the intensive care unit where the attending doctor declared that hubby had pneumonia. The doctor who relieved her declared that he did not. Many images later it was declared that he had simultaneously had an asthma attack, bronchial pneumonia, and viral gastroenteritis. Two days later he was well enough to move to a regular room. A bronchoscopy showed that he had a hole in his bronchial tubes and a condition called trachealbroncomalacia. He was sent home to recuperate. The hole and the condition to be dealt with later. I did not sleep for four days.

While my husband was in the hospital my daughter came down with the same viral gastroenteritis and spent four days vomiting. I felt under seige. My shrink was in Hawaii and I had only two Ativan left. I was not sure whether to pray that I be spared from coming down with the virus or to pray that I would and thus be relinquished from all duties except existing. On her first night of illness she slept on the couch so she could watch TV. She insisted that I stay with her so I sat in my husband’s chair and watched NCIS reruns all night.

My daughter’s idea of proper nutrition during a tummy bug is M&Ms. I was sent to the store to fetch plain ones. She went an entire week eating only M&Ms and raman. Her only other demands on me were that I sit and watch her play video games. When President Obama was reviewing our military’s interrogation techniques he specifically vetoed the use of enforced watching of Fallout III in excess of seven hours at a stretch. But apparently a sick child (even one who is twenty-five) can inflict this on a parent without repercussions. Every time I began to drop off her head would swivel in my direction and she would complain “You are not sleeping are you?”

As overjoyed as I was when my husband was released from the hospital to recover at home I knew it was the beginning of many days of caregiving. Now, there have been plenty of days in which my husband has had to take care of me. But I am an ideal sick person. When asked what I want for lunch I reply that an apple and a cup of tea would be perfect. Dinner can be Campbell’s soup and saltines. I do not fuss. I entertain myself. Hubby, on the other hand, orders lunch: “I would like a corned beef sandwich with a pickle and some olives. Not the Greek olives. I’d like the green ones stuffed with pimentos. And I’d like some Armenian string cheese, half a musk mellon, and a Fresca with five ice cubes. Oh, Lin, if the rye bread is not really fresh would you go to the bakery and get some fresh cause I hate stale rye bread. And since you are going out can you stop at Walgreen’s and get me some sugar-free popsicles? He is a sick man, it is his first day home. I must make sure he gets whatever will help him recuperate. By day five I announce “Here is your lunch.” It is a slice of Kraft cheese on a half a whole wheat bagel.

Today the cat vomited at least half a bag of cat food on the bedroom rug.  Husband calls from the bed: “Sweetie, would you come here?” He points accusingly at the cat and then at the regurgitated food. “I am feeling too weak today to do anything.” As I clean up the mess I smile. Life is good.

You are your bathroom

I don’t understand why folks spend money on traditional dating services. Clients select prospective dates based on their responses to a questionnaire. Come on, who is actually gonna tell the truth. “I am a member of a support group called Over Fifty and 100 Pounds to Lose.” “I sometimes forget basic hygiene.” ”I sleep with a stuffed animal. OK, well really, I sleep with 17 stuffed animals and tuck each one in at night.” No. Questionnaires are about as reliable as the videos you get to watch. Sure you get to see what your prospective date looks like — at least their head. But looks are a very superficial criteria in the selection process. I grant you that it helps a bit since you can rule out the mullets right away but it does nothing for the really important qualities.

Do not despair. I have started a new service. Candidates send in a photo of their bathroom. Clients can view the photos online. Bathrooms tell everything. I’ll give you an example: the bathroom pic shows that there are twenty-seven rolls of toilet paper stacked in a neat pyramid on the floor. Each one is encased in a crocheted bog roll cover. There are several books on the floor — a graphic novel about Bertrand Russell, a bodice ripper called ”Night of the Valient Princes”, and a copy of ”Going Rogue.” Next to the bathtub is a small rolling cart crammed with bath products and a shoe box containing soap remnants. The toilet seat is raised. On the sink, lined up in a neat row are seven electric toothbrushes all plugged into a power strip. Someone has written on the mirror in red lipstick “I’ll be right back.”

As part of the basic fee my service will send you a detailed analysis of the photo revealing a deep psychological portrait of the candidate. For the above example the analysis would be something like this (abbreviated to save space):

The client is a well-groomed woman whose multiple personalities will keep you on your toes – you will never be bored in her his her charming company. She enjoys crafts and grows hemlock on her balcony. She is resourceful and ecologically-minded — especially suitable for our clients living in Eugene, Oregon. She is like getting seven dates for the price of one.

Actually the part about the bathroom example is taken from real life (mine). The only part I made up is about the bodice ripper. The real title is “Thus Spake Sara Theresia.” I am working on coming up with a name for my new dating service. The top running ideas are : Lavatory Love, Toilet Twosomes, and Double Duty.

Wheat-free, sugar-free, dairy-free. . .

The Shaolin household is on a special diet. The hubby has been diagnosed with diabetes and heart problems and is forced to radically change his eating habits (which means the entire household has to change its eating habits cause there ain’t no way I am shopping and cooking for three distinct tastes!). Forever my life calendar will be divided into the Before era when a breakfast of Ricola (original flavor) and a grande caramel machiato was nutritionally balanced at lunch with Campbell’s soup (for the veggies) and the After (diagnosis) era when breakfast consisted of half a cup of spelt, a teaspoon of raisins and a sugar-free, soy chai latte sweetened with some vile white powder that looks like cocaine (as depicted on TV) and sounds like it was named after someone in Fleetwood Mac.

The doctor asked hubby what percentage of his diet was made up of cheese. Hubby, clearly delirious at the time, told him about 20%. In fact, if the dear man were to be examined today we would discover a cheese to muscle ratio of 63.1825 to 1. Now please don’t be hard on me by reminding me that my figure is not exactly bearing witness to proper adherence to the food pyramid — I have a valid excuse — I am dyslexic and had inverted the pyramid for all these years. And besides, women are supposed to be soft and round. Why just the other night my beloved said to me “dearest, you still have the butt of a young woman. In fact, you have the butt of two young women.”

I went to Whole Foods Market today to investigate food options. They have a whole aisle dedicated to “special diets”. As you approach the aisle, there is a conveniently located ATM with Fast Cash defaulting to $260 and a small desk with a bank loan officer. The food is organized by type and price: “Gluten-free, artificial chocolate, pancake mix, three ounces, $17.50″. “Brown rice flour (expiring in 2007), $29.79.” Bread is sold by weight. Have you ever tried to lift a loaf of barley and sprouts bread? The loaves are about four inches square and are used by the U.S. Mint to counterbalance gold bars on the scales. In tiny print they carry a disclaimer (Not responsible for damage to dentures.)

My husband’s doctor told him to buy copper tabs, Sam-e, and zinc something. I went to customer service to ask where I would find these items. The store manager stepped out of his office beaming. “Mrs. Shaolin, oh do let me help you my good woman. Let me find you a concierge to help with your shopping.” As he left I swear he was quoting Lucy from the Peanuts cartoon: “Nickles, nickles. Oh, I love the sound of nickles. Cold hard cash!” My concierge was named Paul and he swooped down flicking bits of parsley and rosewater soap from his apron. “Hello, hello, hello! Before we begin, have you seen the loan officer? May I get you an Evian water? No? Well, let me see your list. Ah! Sam-e. Do you want the 20 or the 30?” Not knowing what the unit of measure of Sam-e was (in fact I did not know whether Sam-e was a food or a person) I opted for the 30. I was handed a box measuring one inch by three inches and marked $39.99. Copper tabs were priced with a variable rate depending on how soon you thought you could pay them off. The zinc thingy was out of stock.

For dinner we had leftovers — vegetarian lasagna made with rice noodles. We’ll be having it again tomorrow. For dessert hubby enjoyed a crunchy hazelnut rice cake. I am glad that most of the box is remaining since I need to mail a tea set to my aunt for her birthday.

Hubby’s health is, of course, my number one concern. But some good is coming from this unfortunate news — it is bringing my daughter and myself closer — we now meet secretly at Burger King to enjoy some mother/daughter time.

Reports of my demise are greatly exaggerated

It has been too long since I last posted — I have been intensely busy. Ever since I was laid off from Big Corporation in April and joined the ranks of  job seekers I have been engaged in many productive, altruistic activities. As an example I will mention farming. Yes, this East Coast urban pseudo-intellectual now has a many acre farm growing vegetables, flowers, and raising livestock. Farming keeps me pretty busy. My farm is in Farmville in the state of Facebook. Many of my friends have also become farmers despite the fact that they still have jobs. Farming is the new face of social networking.

I start each morning at 5:00 AM (everyone knows farmers are up before dawn) and harvest my crops, brush my livestock, milk my cows, and pick the ripe fruit from my orchards. Then I collect the gifts that my fellow farmers have sent me during the night — right now I am receiving lots of colorful presents to put under my tree. With each twenty presents my decorated Christmas tree grows a little bigger. Then, being a good citizen, I go help out on my friends farms, fertilizing and chasing away nasty critters. My actions are not entirely altruistic — I gain “experience” points for helping out. I can use these to expand my farm.

When I get exhausted by my labors I can play Bejeweled Blitz on Facebook. It is about as addictive as potato chips. It is a game in which manual dexterity is important — I have the hand speed of a turtle (if turtles had hands) and so my scores pale against those of my friends. But I am working toward a personal best. It is a sign of my maturity and intense personal discipline that I limit my game time to six hours — my life is rich and multifaceted — I must leave time for Starbucks.

Oh, I have been job hunting too. I got pretty close to a job recently. I had a phone screening with HR, then two 45 minute phone interviews with the hiring manager, did a product evaluation and then was invited to drive to New Hampshire to meet the manager and three other executives. Was it my age or my Parkinson’s that ditched the deal? Never heard from them again. But I mush on, applying to three or four jobs a day. I am giving myself until next Spring to find a job in my field (pardon the sly farm reference). If no one recognizes my talent and good looks by then I will pursue a different line of work. I have been toying with the idea of starting a business as a line-stander. You can hire me to wait in line on your behalf.  “Hello Lin? I am here at the post office and there are at least twenty people in line in front of me….” At your service.

Another great idea I have been pursuing is recycling pet hair. All over America pet owners are brushing their cats and dogs and then just throwing away the hair. Think of the wonderful insulating properties of pet hair. Good bye duck feathers, hello tabby hair.  Actually I have been overflowing with ideas since my layoff. Just as soon as I get enough points to buy a thresher I will do something about them.

Bare feet

Despite the fact that I own over fifty pairs of shoes I seldom wear them. I prefer to go bare foot. Even in the deep of winter I hang around the house shoeless — even occasionally venturing outside in the ice and snow for a quick trash run. After sixty years of going au naturel my tootsies are impervious to most abuse. My desire to have naked feet does not strike me as deviant behavior or even as odd behavior but it sure upsets a lot of people.

My mother, who grew up in rural Kansas during The Great Depression, equated going barefoot with being poor. She refused to let me go barefoot, fearing that the neighbors would think that I was not well-cared for. I tried the old “wear the shoes but then ditch them as soon as you were outside” ploy, but my filthy feet gave me away at bath time. She bought me cool Keds in the hope that I would find them both comfortable and stylish — they were white and had laces coated with antilaced — I found them both ugly and dangerous. She bought me Oxfords which were the traditional black and white with laces — they weighed at least five pounds and made me drag my feet. I would have worn the super nifty black patent Mary Janes with the strap that could be pushed to the heel so it looked like you were wearing strapless shoes but Mom nixed those as being “shoes for older girls.” Hey, I was seven — how old does a girl have to get?

One Christmas we were forced to get dressed up in our party clothes (which for me was a red organza  sparkley thing that my Dad bought me) for holiday photos. Mom did not notice that I was shoeless (I was wearing nice white ankle socks) until the pictures were developed. I had to spend New Year’s Eve in my room as penance. She thereafter referred to me as the Peacock (lovely feathers, ugly feet). Happily I grew into the Sixties — a time when going shoeless could be passed off as a political statement. I joined the throngs of hippie boys and girls for whom shoes were to be worn only when appearing in court or as an excuse to buy thigh high boots.

I discovered that employers prefer shoes but female bosses were often sympathetic to going shoeless if you wore three inch heels to work. I would put on my heels just before entering the work place and limp about, setting the stage for a Mercy pass, and ditched them by 9:45. I kept a pair of Earth Shoes in my drawer to slip on for going out to lunch. In my later career I worked from home and could even put my naked feet up on my desk during conference calls if I wanted to.

My husband is a shoe person and has attempted to exert serious pressure on me to comply. If he sees me going into the basement shoeless he will use the flimsest logic to berate me — “Are you really going into the basement without shoes? You will track dirt all over the house!” Um, and if I am wearing shoes then I suppose they will shed the dirt before I return upstairs? “Are you really going outside without shoes? You will cut your feet!” In sixty years the only time I ever cut my feet outside was at the beach in the water, stepping on a shell. My lawn is not littered with razor blades. “Are you really driving without shoes? It is illegal!” I read the driver’s manual and no where does it say that shoes must be worn. (I can just hear the stampede of readers heading off to Google…)

So why do I have fifty pairs of shoes? Well, I love the look of shoes — they are an awesome accessory. And once in awhile I do need shoes to go out to a restaurant — someone might have dropped a fork on the floor.

Singers

Let’s just say I have eclectic tastes. The two top singers in my life right now are Amy Winehouse and Susan Boyle. I do tend to fixate on singers…can’t get enough of their music for awhile then abruptly drop them and move on to someone else.  I remember driving on the highway listening to the radio and heard “Unbreak My Heart” for the first time. I bought the CD that day and played it compulsively for weeks. Then one day I did not play it again. Same with Christina Agueiler’s “Fighter.” My poor child listened in utero to Michael Jackson’s “Thriller” for nine months. I guess she is repaying me by giving me an Amy Winehouse CD. “Me and Mr. Jones” is stuck in my head. Only the burning need to hear Susan Boyle sing “Wild Horses” gets me to turn it off. I think I have mentioned in an earlier post that my mother “inadvertently” melted my record albums after one too many afternoons listening to Johnny Mathis. Chances are that I went out and bought the album again.

Susan Boyle and Toni Braxton at least have great Being Discovered stories. Boyle on Britain’s Got Talent TV show and Braxton singing Gospel at the gas pump while refueling her car. Oddly, given her unconventional lifestyle, Winehouse had a more traditional rise to stardom — going to theatre school and then doing music gigs. But right now she tops my charts not only for her smokey and much abused pipes but for her compositions and lyrics. I love above all things unique and expressive language and her lyrics have that in spades. In “Mr Jones,” bemoaning the lost opportunity to get tickets to a concert, she writes “What kind of fuckery is this? You made me miss the Slick Rick gig. I thought I didn’t love you when I did. I can’t believe you played me out like that.” Deliver those lyrics all messed up in blues.

I’m already looking for a new singer to love.

Cell phones

My cell phone worked just fine but it wasn’t sexy. In fact it was, according to my daughter, rather an embarrassment. It did not flip or switch or rotate. It did not make sounds or have a camera. It did not fit into cell phone holders. It did not have a cool name or one preceded by an “i” or succeeded by a “berry”. It was non-fruit. Its instruction manual was only a two-sided sheet — one side in English and the other in Japanese. It was not sleek. It had an antenna which made me feel like ending every call with “Roger Wilco.” I think I bought it about fifteen years ago. I liked that phone.

But I was about to buckle to the pressure of looking “with it”– and, truth be told, the screen had become so scratched I could no longer see who was calling me. Well, if the whole truth be told, no one actually called me except by mistake. I long ago had forgotten what my cell phone number was so I never gave it out to anyone. My cell phone was for emergencies on the road. I did use it twice (or would have used it) for that purpose. The first time was when I got a flat tire at night. My phone battery was on empty — I managed to call the first three digits of Triple A’s number before it went dead. I had a long walk in search of an open gas station and used their phone. The nice man at the gas station explained to me that there were rechargers that could be plugged into the car’s cigarette lighter thingy. I went to Radio Shack the next day, phone in hand.

The sales associate looked at my phone with curiosity. “You still use this?” “Well, yah, that is why I am asking for a recharger for it.” “Um, chargers are no longer made for this model m’am. You probably will wanna think about updating your phone. The new ones are smaller and you can text and play games on them. Sweet.” I did not know what texting was and I did not want to play games on my phone. So I said no thanks and made it a point to recharge my phone at home.

My second car emergency was not so much an emergency as it was a need to get instructions while driving. Traffic was terrible and was inching along when I noticed a little draught of smoke emerging from where my radio was fitted into the dash. I placed my fingers on the dashboard and it was hot. I may not be the world’s greatest technologist but I do know that radios are not supposed to be hot and smokey. I pulled off to the side of the road with every intention of calling hubby to confer about what to do. I rummaged around in my handbag looking for my phone. I dumped out my bag onto the passenger seat. No phone. Then I remembered that I was recharging it at home. Damn!

A kind motorist stopped to assist me. He must have noticed the flames. Armed with a portable fire extinguisher, he sprayed my dashboard until the fire was out. I drove home sitting on a sodden, foaming seat, vowing to go out and buy a new phone immediately. About four more years passed before I got my new phone. And I was driven by necessity. I dropped my phone in the ocean while climbing on rocks at the seashore. I learned that a dip in the ocean (or toilet bowl) is a fatal accident for a cell phone. I read reviews of telephones and saw one that was marketed to older people and featured a large-print display and big buttons for arthritic hands. It sounded perfect to me. Hubby and I went to the phone store and bought the new phone. It was pearlized white and I could read the screen. That was all I could do.

The instruction booklet was over 200 pages (I grant you that half was in another language) but nowhere did it say how to turn the phone on. By process of elimination I determined that  pressing the “end” button made it start. I dialed a number but made no connection. I pressed all the buttons. The “send” button did the trick despite the fact that I had not yet said anything to send. I inadvertently connected to the Internet and was shown a lively bar chart of all the bytes I was transferring to God knows where. I rapidly pressed the buttons looking for “off.” It turns out that the “end” button is both the start and the end key. Go figure.

I had not owned my cell phone long when I received a text message. My phone told me “New text message” and gave me the option to call. Now, how does one call a text message? Afraid I would start transferring expensive bytes again I opted not to call. But curiosity overcame me and I broke down. I chose the “call” option. Lo and behold, I was taken to a screen which displayed this message: “Is that you?” Well, duh, I should think so. But I did not know how to text back my affirmation. Very frustrating. The next day I received another text message: “Hey Stuckup!” I got my daughter to text back for me. “Hi, yes this is me — who are you?” I never heard back.

Labor Day

My therapist does not understand why the thought of Labor Day upsets me so much — of course he doesn’t — he is employed. For the tens of thousands of us who are not, having the whole nation celebrate their labor is a slap in the face. Next there will be a Have Health Insurance Day or a Trophy Wife Day. There is a growing lack of sensitivity in our country. Why just yesterday I went on a job interview and met with five of the top executives. Not one of them was over thirty. When I walked in the room the audible intake of breath was accompanied by one of the two company dogs curling his lip at me. I interpreted both acts as examples of “Oh my god, an old person!”.

Despite the fact that I had just colored my hair, I had forgotten that young executives do not wear polyester and frowned upon anyone who did. And I regretted the last minute application of eye liner. Since I can’t wear my glasses when I put on eye liner I just have to do my best and yesterday my best was reminiscent of Elizabeth Taylor in Cleopatra. Young female executives don’t wear eye liner — they have tattoos. Not one for lingering over my mistakes, I put my best foot forward and actually had a decent interview. It was a great company and they were great people. I can’t hold it against them that their cumulative ages was less than my bra size.

After my interview I went to a workshop at my career transition service. It was about stress management. We spent an hour and a half meditating and talking about how our spouses were getting on our nerves. We learned that we needed to take breaks from job hunting and treat ourselves to something nice. We went around the room to survey what we were doing to take a break from job hunting. The majority admitted that they had actually taken the summer off and were stressed only because it was now Labor Day and they probably really should begin looking for employment. I, on the other hand, have been working my sizable rear off all summer and have sent out hundreds of applications  with the yield being one phone screening and two interviews. I  believe my colleagues had the better idea.

Mine was not an idle summer on other fronts as well. I had many accomplishments. At the gym I have increased my incline on the bike to a 2 setting and I no longer stop off on the way home at Panera for a latte and cinnamon bun. I discovered that the peacan braids were much better. I dropped out of Tibetan language class — it was causing me too much stress. But I started studying Spanish. My husband is a native Spanish speaker and he helps me. He has taught me to say “Yo soy tu esclava para siempre.” He says it is a feminist slogan. All these years of my enlightened reasoning has had an effect on him. I have also enjoyed a fair bit of culture — my girlfriend and I went to an exhibition of shoe art and I have seen several stimulating films. Like “District 9″. I keep wondering if Americans will realize that prawns are basically shrimp. The whole plot hinges on an understanding of this cultural difference. My husband says I worry about others too much.

Talking about shrimp reminds me that we have invited a couple over for a barbeque on Labor Day. We plan to play tennis first and then cook up some shrimp and chicken. Both of them are employed, so I will put on a brave face and celebrate their Labors with them but first thing Tuesday I am calling my Congressman to get a petition started for Unemployed Day.

When students rule. . .

Normally our Tibetan Buddhist practice is led by our lama but he is on an extended retreat. We have a wonderful monk temporarily filling in, but he is not able to lead all our practices so, being a democratic sangha, we allow the more “senior” students to lead.

A few months ago I was asked to lead.  Needless to say, I was extremely nervous about this opportunity despite the fact that I was given a pretty thorough lesson plan to follow. All was going well until we got to the dharma discussion. We were discussing nonviolence and meditation. Fully into the swing of things I was going on about how the meditation we had just done would bring many benefits to the practitioners — “It’s like killing two birds with one stone!” I happily proclaimed.

Last night was the weekly Beginners’ Night practice and the center had several newcomers checking out what it was like. The student leader had captured the audience’s attention and all eyes were riveted on her. She began to talk about how if we did not show compassion for each other the world would decline and suffering would arise. To illustrate, she then began talking about a mother who decapitated her baby and ate its brains. There was a great deal of squirming while in lotus posture.

At a yoga class the teacher was out sick and had called a student to lead the class. She began with a five minute lecture on why it is OK to fart while doing yoga.

During our Tibetan language class the lama was pronouncing words and having us repeat in unison after him. We were doing fine until we got to the word for student. We all repeated what we had heard him say and the monk turned bright red and began laughing hysterically. Apparently the minute error in our pronunciation caused us to say a very bad word. Khenpo refused to reveal what we had said. So now we all have to avoid using the word for “student” in our speaking.

Buddhism has survived for centuries. I hope there is good karma in trying one’s best.