Breakdown in the Fast Lane

Devoted reader (ah, that should be “readers” as in plural, as in maybe three or four) — you have seen me through thick and thin (OK, not thin) over the past year, but it is time for Linshaolin to take the next exit off the Fast Lane. This will be a temporary side trip. The Breakdown in the Fast Lane blog will resume. Perhaps in the Fall, perhaps sooner.

There are only so many hours in the day and I am getting older and can no longer live on four hours of sleep. Something has got to go so that I can concentrate on my novel. I need more time if I ever hope to finish that thing! Wish me luck and if any of you know a literary agent please introduce us!

See you in September!

If you are like me there are some words that you have to look up repeatedly since their definitions just don’t seem to stick in your head. Here are some that have come up recently in conversations (I am putting them together in a sentence for you to illustrate): I am sanguine that those of you in sartorial splendor find a surfeit of reasons not to infer from my speech that I deduce from the meager evidence that you are zoftig. I hope that the following translation and explanation helps you learn and retain these important words so that you too can sound erudite.

I am confident that those of you who are splendidly attired  will find an excess of reasons not to use your brains to figure out that what I am saying is that I have examined the little evidence that there is and have concluded that you are of a soft, well-rounded body type.

Sanguine literally means bloody or blood red. It gets its current usage (to be confident) from the medieval times when blood was thought to be the element representing passion or conviction. Sartorialrefers to ones manner of dress and derives from the Latin word for tailor. Surfeitmeans in excess or to to overdo (my favorite example is “a surfeit of eating leaves one feeling crapulous.”) and derives from French sur (over or above) and faire (to do).

Infer and deduce are often mixed up. Deduction and Inference are both forms of inference — they are subtly but importantly different. The Latin deducere means to lead away from. Deduction is the reasoning in which one reaches a conclusion based on the stated premises. Inference is reasoning to a conclusion by examining evidence presumed or known to be true. The Latin infere means to bring in! The difference has something to do with the certainty of the truth of the premises. It is a joyful occasion when one hears infer and deduce used properly — it is one of those “I can’t really explain it well but I know it when I hear it.”

Zoftig means a fleshy female (usually a fleshy buxom female) and comes from the Yiddish word for juicy. Language is divine!

This is really part three of a dialog on identity (Part one: Will the real Linshaolin please stand up; part two: GS’s response (relying heavily on Heisenberg’s Uncertainty Principle; and now part three — Linshaolin’s attempt at bridging particle physics and dinner parties). But before I begin, let me just set some ground rules: no disparaging comments about handbag acquisition will be tolerated, nor will unsupported statements be accepted as valid arguments. This is science after all.

Nobel laureate Werner Heisenberg developed the Uncertainty Principle which postulates that one can never know both the velocity and the position of a particle in space because the effects of measuring one affects the other in an unpredictable manner. However, the unpredictability is on a subatomic scale (i.e., it is teensy tiny). Not that I would ever stoop to arguing from authority( fallacious argument), but Herr Heisenberg was a physicst not a psychiatrist and while his exhalted position lends support for his ideas in quantum mechanics, it does little to support the extension of those ideas into the realm of understanding personal identity. If, as the respected scholar GS asserts, Personality were to be altered each time it was interacted with  (even a teensy tiny bit) then all humankind would suffer from dissociative fugue or at least would wear black socks with tennis shoes. Clearly this happens only in certain parts of Nevada and therefore puts a bit of a black eye on the UP as it applies to the Id.

But I have gotten way ahead of myself. I promised a discourse on uncertainty using the three archetypes. A quick refresher: an archetype is a cross-cultural foundation (as an example, the “mother-in-law” is an archetype found in every society and is immmediately recognizable)  – primarily found in myth and literature these achetypes are a manifestation of the collective unconciousness. There are three types of archetype: Character, Symbol, and Situation.

GS poses the question: “Who is to say who the real Linshaolin is?” I respectfully answer: perhaps Linshaolin is the best person even if she chooses to do so through performance art. Almost all behavior is learned, and since everyone now has access to the Internet so no longer need learn anything at all, it is fair to say that we no longer need to have behavior well-incorporated into our Id in order to claim it to be our own — part of our own true self. I can read about art appreciation one half hour before the art reception, retain it for an hour, sound brilliant, bask in the sunshine of admiration, build up my already grandiose self-esteem and it is all me.

“Lin, you have not yet touched upon the three archetypes,” you say peevishly. Well, alrighty then. Let’s start with Character. Linshaolin is a character — that is, she has been crafted by her owner to have certain traits that are Public and a whole lot more behind the scenes. Even within the Public set of traits, some are reserved and only a subset of the world gets to witness them. Like all good characters, Linshaolin is flawed, skirts peril, faces doom, finds romance, sacrifices heroically, suffers hubris, has an achilles heel (ok, it is plantar fascitis but that is close enough), and lies at parties.

These characterisitics (note the root “ristics”) are in every shade and nuance of world literature and fine art — they define the Archetype called Character. There is no uncertainty here. They form the core of Identity thus making Linshaolin recognizable to everyone on the planet. But Character is but one of three Archetypes and all three are needed. It is the active selection of aspects of Character that allows for the integration of the second Archetype — Symbol. …to be continued in Part 2.

Having just tried (unsuccessfully) to use my thumb to drive a needle through several thicknesses of cloth, I now have the opportunity to do some scientific observation on the nature of this most important digit. At a force of about seven pounds per square inch, a needle will penetrate a thumb to the depth of approximately one quarter inch. A square inch of thumb, at a depth of one quarter inch, has close to seven trillion nerve cells and a litre of blood. The recoil of a stabbed thumb exceeds the speed of light but the sound barrier remains unbroken — so the F word rings out loud and clear. This is followed by intense thumb observation to ensure that the blood that is beginning to rise up out of the wound like a lava flow out of Vesuvius is sufficiently red and so that the optimal amount of blood pooling occurs so that the subsequent urgent thumb sucking is effective in staunching the flow of one’s vital essence.

Observation of the physical data points is not sufficient in itself. It must be accompanied by an internal dialog about the psychology of repeated stupid actions (i.e., using one’s thumb to force a sharp object through unyielding substance). Being an avid scientist, I have kept a log of these internal dialogs over time: July 11, 1956 — “Whaaa, MMooommmy”; October 3, 1967 — “That was so f&*ing not groovy!”; May 15, 1986 — “What the frig!@##!”; May 9, 2008 — “OK, I give, go ahead and  use me as a stupid pin cushion, I really don’t care!” Careful analysis of these log entries can be found in my best-selling self-help book (soon to be available at Buck-a-Book) Prozac and the Art of Quillting. I quote: “Repeated disregard for pain and the very real chance of getting blood all over your sewing project is a sign of failure to learn from experience disorder. Talk therapy, while amusing, has a poor outlook in terms of problem resolution. Mood altering drugs are even less efficacious. Patients with this disorder are advised to take up book binding. (However, please bear in mind that book binding requires the use of a hot glue gun and patients should be alerted to the dangers of using their thumbs to sop up spilled piping hot glue.)

For those of us resistant to treatment and who continue to proceed with using sharp needles in our hobby work, perhaps a bit of anthropologic documentary will give us sufficient context with which to better appreciate our thumbs (and, as a result, to treat them with more respect):

The prehensile thumb (a thumb capable of the universal hitchhiking gesture) developed in early anthropods before they developed walking skills. Thumbing a ride is still widely prefered over schlepping over long distances. The truly opposable thumb soon evolved as homo habilis spent more time on the ground than in trees. This rapid evolution continues even today with the recent mutation within a selective population of metacarpus starbuckians — tissue and connective matter between the digits that not only allows for maximum opposability but also allows for balancing hot paper cups while opening car doors with a remote device.

While metacarpus starbuckians is truly one of those adaptations that will separate out the weakest of the species, it does little for the problem of Quilter’s Thumb (and please note: only Mr. Obama has addressed this problem in his Plan for the Presidency). Time will tell whether a) quilters die out or b) quilters evolve in such a way as to become unaffected by stabbing pain, or c) needles evolve.

Post Script: before certain Floridians call to my attention the tool know as the thimble, I will strike first and inform that this tool is only useful to non-Quilters. Real quilters consider it to be a sign of personal weakness to use a thimble. They are collectible items only — decorative, not functional.

The famous CBS TV show To Tell the Truth (from which the even more famous line “Will the real [insert name] please stand up” comes from) was all about deception. T.S. Eliot’s “Prepare to meet the faces that you meet” from The Lovesong of J. Alfred Prufrock is all about the deceptions that take place in the social arena and the anxiety such situations provoke. The vast body of literature (think of all of Shakespeare’s women dressed as men and men dressed as women) and other forms of entertainment that deal with the deception of others reflects humankind’s fascination and anxiety over identity. Identity is so easy to create and so easy to use to manipulate others. We all do this all the time — most of us in a benign way.

Say you go to a social gathering, let’s say an art gallery reception, and you scan the room thinking “My god, they are all looking at these paintings with such knowing looks! I’d better look interested and perceptive too. . .” You are approached by an attractive man (woman, you pick) who says “Hi. This is great stuff! I love the way the artist infuses her work with a motif in the key of G.” You panic and say “My days at the Conservatory did little to prepare me for this masterful blending of fine art and music.” Of course, you never went to the Conservatory and the last music you listened to was “I ain’t got no satisfaction.” You pretend to choke on an olive and excuse yourself.

And how many of us are actually quite shy but no one has a clue. “Why Bella is the life of the party!” We become what we need to be. How and why do we become such great actors? When does acting become reality? What started out as emulating a cool kid so that you would “fit in” becomes such an easy mask to wear. Why take it off? Being the life of the party makes you fun and popular. So never let on that you would prefer a one-on-one discussing philosophy. Does the incorporation of what we borrow from others make it real identity? Are we now really the life of the party?

Most of the people who know Linshaolin casually think of her as a serious, mature woman. Those who know her through this blog think she has a sense of humor. Her husband and her therapists think she is whacko. Her close friends think she is a prankster. The guy at the art gallery thinks she went to the Conservatory of Music (well, in fact I did, but only for one semester. . .) Is Linshaolin a person who faces adversity with courage and resolve or is she a person who whines and is pathetic. Or is it both depending on what suits the occasion? What about you? Do you prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet? 

Wednesday night, returning home from taking my daughter out for dinner, we were rear-ended while waiting at a stop light. This happened six days after we picked up our car from the repair shop where it had its entire driver’s side rebuilt after my daughter lost control on black ice. My first thought, after the initial “I’m about to die” thought was “my insurance company is going to become hysterical.” On the contrary, the acted most professionally . . . “Do you mind holding just one moment? Hey, Justine, its the Shaolins again! (snort, snort). What? Oh no, I was not referring to you. I was telling Justine about another customer names Shaolin.”

Back to the scene of the accident: nineteen-year-old male is in lala-land and fails to notice that the cars in front of him are slowing to a stop at a red light and plows into our Corolla at thirty miles an hour. Did you know that Corolla bumpers are engineered the same way M&Ms are? Thin shell stuffed with styrofom. Do you know how many feet a Corolla bumper can fly when torn off a car at thirty miles per hour? Many. Do you know what happens to the contents of a trunk when it is accordian pleated? They become accordian pleated too. So much for my spare tennis sneakers and the left-overs from Cheesecake Factory.

Our car plows into the car in front of us (also a Corolla) occupied by a family of five including an infant. After recovering from the shock I went to check on them — they were fine and their car looked pristine  (as did the front of mine). The nineteen-year-old male comes to check on everyone and is very apologetic. The police arrive. The ambulance arrives. The fire trucks arrive. Only my daughter and I are injured — she is backboarded and we go to the emergency room at the nearest hospital. She is carted off immediately for CAT scans. This is at about 8:30 PM. I am seen by a doctor at about 1:00 AM and am sent off for x-rays and a CAT scan. Verdict — I have whiplash (and, by the way, some arthritis of the neck). Alli has torn the ligaments that support her upper spine. She has to be in a neck brace. At 4:00 AM we were allowed to go home under instructions to rest for the remainder of the week. I read the instructions out loud in the presence of the discharge nurse to be sure my husband understood them: “Complete bed rest for four days. Caramel latte by 9:00 AM daily. No bending to do laundry until July.”

Now comes the infinite number of calls with the lawyer, various insurance companies, renting a car, getting the car towed, retrieving our stuff, going to the police station, filling out reports, getting prescriptions filled, falling further behind at work. . . This is the second time I have been hit by a driver in an SUV. SUV is not the same as 007 — you have a driver’s license fella — not a license to kill! So, if  you must drive a big, gas-gussling, bad for the environment, supporting foreign economies car, then please be aware of two things — 1) everyone knows you are compensating and 2) if you hit me all you will be able to afford in the future is the bus.

I have been married for forty years — which means that for forty years any man over the age where cheek-pinching is permitted has been off limits. (Forgive me, those of you men in your early fifties who have smarting cheeks!) I have been able to manage this limitation by a) having a handsome husband, b) keeping a boyfriend in the attic, and c) associating only with men who are either by vocation unavailable or who are gay. Every once in awhile, however, worlds collide and I am put in the path of a damn attractive and potentially available man.

“Now, Linshaolin,” you are sputtering . . . “you are nearly sixty and your youthful approach to life has somewhat outlived your less than youthful body . . . and this sort of fancy is just foolishness!” And I say in return . . . Balderdash! I have very few wrinkles (and it is not because, as some unkind people say, my skin is stretched so tight over my fat) and my hair remains that dark ash brown so often referred to in romantic literature as Preference by L’Oreal #434. My mind remains as intact as it ever was. I can still bat my eyelashes and smile coyly. The years have done nothing but given me experience, sophistication, and a fine patina. And really, if this were a man’s blog, you would expect some ramblings about gun racks and milking the herd. But this is a woman’s blog and I would never mix metaphors like that.

So put away your misconceptions about older women – we are now referred to as “cougars” if you please. The only reason those damn attractive men remain unmolested is that we have developed inner resources, the ability to translate our desires into forces of good for the world. As evidence, I point you to the decorative, crocheted tissue box cover. Indeed, the entire collective of crocheted and needlepointed home decor items would not exist to enhance the majesty of our planet were it not for this inner strength. When you see a king-sized hand appliqued quilt you must appreciate that monumental work of art for what it truly is — it is a physical manifestation of a . . . well, I am sure I have provided sufficient evidence.

Not wanting to be fully dependent on only my inner strength, I choose to work from home. This limits Exposure. My field trips are few and consist of my tai chi lessons (taught by a monk), my psychotherapy (where I would be bitch slapped for even thinking about erotic transference), and my Sunday mixed doubles match (where it is more likely that I would want to take out my partner’s shins than take him out on the town). All my other activities are female oriented. I have polled my girlfriends and without exception their approaches are at least similar.

Having a stroke or other major illness is one way we cougars handle Temptation. Being IVed to a chemo drip leaves the hands free for knitting while ensuring that there is no wandering. The “girls week” vacation plan is another solid winner — even if the girls go to Vegas, the sight of five to seven postmenopausal ladies entering the casino like O-Ren-Ishii arriving at the House of Blue Leaves with her posee is enough to scare the hell out of every guy in the place. Frees up the tables nicely. What happens in Vegas . . .

So, I have no issues with attractive men. (I will refrain from saying that I have the matter well in hand.) My husband can sleep secure in the knowledge that Michael’s Crafts has an unlimited supply of yarns and flosses. My girlfriends have unlimited ideas for many happy girls’ nights out. The only other male with whom I will be cuddling is Nero Wolf (kitty).

There is a field somewhere near Weston, Vermont — unremarkable in its Queen Ann’s Lace and Heather except for the fact that deep within its acreage lies a massive rock pushed up out of the earth without reason, without neighboring rocks, without any geological raison d’etre. Nor did it fall from space in one of those freak, isolated showers of debris. No impact crater has left its depression, no bits of stone are strewn about. This is a single rock, an outcrop, a bed for the gods.

It has been worn smooth by time and exposure to harsh winters and hot summers. It has eroded into an egg shape lying on its side but with the side shorn flat and riddled with a million pock marks, each just deep enough to hold the morning dew, giving the illusion of a tranquil pond suspended three or four feet above the flowers. It is home to all manner of insects which hover around it — darting in and out of the deep shadow it casts. The sound of summer insects is cacaphony against the hot stone.

I came across this field, this rock, this place that divides Vermont from Heaven, while trying to find a shortcut between the tiny room I was renting for the summer and the town. It was a summer in which I was intentionally seeking isolation but even I could not stand the aloneness of a rural hot summer. I became obsessed with the idea of cold root beer — I would sit on the steps of the country store and drink it. I would see people, mostly tourists in town for a theatrical. I would wander over to the mill and watch the water wheel spill a perpetual gush of water into the gorge stream behind the theatre. I might end the day at the monastery watching the monks turn pots. If I was lucky I would witness the moment when new wares were brought out of the kilns and see the look of joy in the eyes of the brothers.

But I saw the rock instead. I lay down on its dewy pitted alter like a sacrifice and turned my face to the sun. I bathed in warmth and allowed the insects to settle on my dusty legs. I stretched out my arms and let my fingers explore all the crags and pits of the surface, unafraid of what lay beneath the water or in the shadows. The sky was sharp blue interrupted by only a single cloud that seemed to have lost its way — or perhpas it was there for me — an entertainment. I closed my eyes and listened to the high vibration hum that seemed so loud I thought it might drive me crazy. Once or twice I sat up to check the landscape, to make sure no one was about to stumble upon me at this precise moment of my great divide. I told God that it was quite ok if He wanted to take me then and there. But the doorway to Heaven did not open. The rock did not swallow me up. The insects did not consume me.

The cloud briefly obscured the sun and then drifted off finding nothing sufficiently interesting to keep it above the field. I began to think about the root beer. My clothes were damp and I hoped that the sun would evaporate the dank before I got to the village. I sat up and swung my legs to the ground. I thought that I must be one of those human sacrifies saved by the eclipse — one who gets to live but who never gets to experience that awful moment of glory when the blood is shed and the gods retrieve the soul. My soul would have to be content with Queen Ann’s Lace baked so dry by the sun that it shattered as I walked the field, covering my shins with flower dust.

My adult daughter, who shares my home office with me, is soon to move out and get an apartment of her own. This will break the impass that has kept us from painting the office — she wanted turquoise and I wanted yellow.  The office will be mine alone and the decision will be mine alone.  But now that I’m on the brink of yellow freedom I am thinking about khaki.  Yellow had been my color of choice because it is happy, alert and energetic.  I held the firm belief that if my walls were happy, alert and energetic then so would be my office work.

But now I am thinking that my life would really be improved by a cool crisp linen khaki color — sophisticated and somewhat spartan.  Khaki walls would require an orderly desk.  Khaki would inspire self-discipline.  Khaki would remind me that less is more.  Khaki would not tolerate an ill kept pedicure or a collection of plastic containers of yesterday’s ice coffee adorning my desk.  Khaki would expect nothing less than precise thinking and crisp decision-making.

My new office will be a refuge from life’s chaos.  I will remove the sign that is now on my door that says “Be Happy” with one that says “Be Productive” — work will pour forth in crisp black-and-white out of my printer, onto my screen, into my hard drive.  I must’ve known all along that it would be khaki since I have been slowly buying contemporary black office accessories.  Had I gone with yellow my office would have looked like a bumblebee, but with khaki my office will look sharp like a guy in well-ironed chinos and an oxford-cloth shirt — how hot is that! (Whoa, Lin, remember you are going for tranquil and orderly here…)

I have not shared the khaki idea with Nero Kitty yet but I have a feeling he will agree since his cat bed is khaki and he likes that a lot. Even the husband thought khaki would be a good choice. So it is off to the hardware store for painting supplies. I prepped the room about two years ago so all it will need is a good vacuuming before I can prime. I’ll need to order new blinds too but there is no discussion there — no matter what color I chose for the walls the blinds would have been white wide wood slats. And and it is off to Pottery Barn to get some of those wall-mounted shelves to hold my photos and objects de Buddha.

Spring, khaki, fresh paint. . .yep, that will cure just about anything.

At therapy today we were talking about how the language of mental illness changes with the times — Bipolar Disorder used to be called Manic Depressive illness but that became politically incorrect. Too many of us who are patients, er. . .clients, oh make that consumers of mental health care objected to the tone set by the term Manic Depressive. We are not Tasmanian Devils after all. So the Bureau of Medical Terminology sent out an email to all its agents requesting submission of ideas for a new term — one that had cache and perhaps a bit of intrigue.

A brilliant chap, who had recently moved to Wilkes Land to pursue his dream of ice fishing, came up with the winning entry. He devised a system of unipolar and bipolar disorders. Unipolar was to be the term to describe what was formerly known as Depressed as Hell. And Bipolar was to be the new term for Manic Depressive. As we patients, ah, forgive me, old habits die hard . . . as we Individuals know, no one wants to hang out with someone who is Depressed as Hell — but Unipolar sounds like a skill (”my friend is so accomplished — she is even Unipolar”) and everyone likes a buddy with prowess. Unipolar pales, however, in comparison with Bipolar — “Yeah, well my friend is Bipolar! So there!”

Bipolar Disorder (aka Mood Swings Gone Wild) is terminology already heading out the door to be replaced with the balletic Mood Fluctuation Arrhythmia or the manly Mood Regulatory Disturbance. Despite the trend to soften the language and be more warm and inclusive in our nomenclature there is a conservative reaction that is beginning to swell in opposition to making mental illness Nice. Even some therapists have joined the backlash. Do not be surprised if your psychiatrist soon opens the office door and says “Well, look who is here — another whackorama! Hold the calls Marge.”

Perhaps your therapist is a closet conservative, longing for the good old days when their patients (yes damn it, patients) were so afraid of discovery that they had panic attacks. Jolly good for business. Such an individual will bring about the return of stigmatizing terminology slowly, starting with referring to you as “mildly hypomanic”, then several weeks later calling your condition “a train wreck waiting to happen” and then, just before leaving for the summer, they will say “your insurance is no longer covering bipolar disorder, so I have to submit a new claim using code 447.” “What is code 447?”  you ask. “Sorry, our time is up. See you in September.”

You go to the front desk. “Marge, what is diagnostic code 447?” you politely inquire. Marge consults her computer screen. “Way Fucked Up.”

Someone asked me the other day whether I was a Buddhist. The question did not come out of the blue - I always wear a jade Buddha pendent, take moments out of my day to meditate and chant using prayer beads, and I am reading Buddhist sutras. I even have Buddha on my speed dial. So you would think that this was a fair question. But it is not. It is like asking someone if they are a  Mills Utilitarian or an Aristotelian or a Kantian. The answer is yes and no.

I try to live mindfully. I try to follow the spirit of the philosophy of Buddhism.  I believe in almost all of the tenets of  Buddhism. But I strongly disagree with some — I am far more liberal with regard to gender issues, for instance. I have failed at being a vegetarian. I do not believe in reincarnation — it would suck to keep coming back until I got it right. So where does that leave me?

I love that fact that Buddhism is without reference to God and has no gods nor goddesses. And yet it has those oh so comforting deities like Kwan Yin, Medicine Buddha, White Tara…one can practice Buddhism, one can pray, one can strive toward enlightenment and yet one is never bound by someone else’s conception of a Greater Being. I can visualize and personalize whatever higher order I need or don’t need. But most of all I love that Buddhism is peace loving. There is no long history of suffering following in its path.

No, I can’t say that I am a Buddhist. I am still on my spiritual journey. I am still learning about Buddhism and will not sign on the dotted line until I am more thoroughly educated. I am still a secular humanist. For me there is a God and God resides in every one and everything. No one has written a text for me or drawn a picture. As a secular humanist I am floating in space, which at times is a lovely feeling of freedom and at other times is a distressing sensation of isolation. Perhaps Buddhism will someday give me grounding when I need it. It is too early to say.

I have a great boss — he takes good care of me, he is dedicated to his work, he creates an environment which leads to success, but best of all he is totally 100% gullible. Ok, I’ll be generous and admit that when I played my annual April Fool’s joke on him this year it hit him when he was working on a massive sleep deficit following a difficult quarter-end in which all  hands were working 30 or 40 hours straight to get orders out the door. Ok, I’ll be extra honest and admit that my joke so closely paralleled his expectations of me that only the sharpest tack would have punctured my balloon.

If you follow my blog you already know that I have Parkinson’s. And you know that I have strengths and weaknesses and one of my weaknesses is that I am incompetent at using “online tools”  — online banking means financial ruin; online shopping means financial ruin; online travel arrangements means a botched trip and financial ruin. So, I was preparing for a business trip to Denver where my boss works. My company requires us to  use an online trip planning/ticket purchasing tool. I have never used it without something going awry and worse is the online expense reimbursement tool which I always mess up terribly. My boss has come to expect that every trip will have some unpleasant drama associated with it planning or reimbursement. So when he received my email he let out a small sigh of anguished resignation and said “Damn that woman.”

Hey, it was April Fool’s Day and I am Linshaolin. No way was I going to let my long history of boss abuse lapse at such an occassion. I sent him an email:

Hi Mike.  I was booking my trip to Denver using the online travel tool when because of my Parkinson’s tremor I accidentally purchased eight nonrefundable tickets. I am really sorry — I can’t think of anything to do to fix it. I will use the tickets eventually but we will have to pay a $200 change fee each time. I really apologize.

Regards,

Linshaolin

I pressed the send button and waited. About a half hour later I received an instant message from Mike: “How much were the tickets?” No “Hi Lin” or “Hahahaha” just a very defeated “How much were the tickets?” I laughed out loud — this was going to be good. I replied $4.01 (as in 4 = April and 01 = April 1st). Instant message back “You mean $401 x 8 as in $3208?” I began to feel sorry for the guy. I replied: “Ah, Mike? Hello. Should I stop torturing you?” No response. Now I was feeling guilty. I instant messaged “April Fool’s!” Mike replied “Lin, I have not slept in 33 hours. Are you telling me this is a joke.” Now I am feeling really guilty. “Yes, Mike, it is a joke. I am an evil person. I am sorry.”

Some long seconds elapsed before Mike IMed back: “I remained calm.” Being a sweetheart I did not tell anyone about his reaction. But the next day during the steering committee meeting (which I attend by phone) the moderator said: “Hey Lin, you have got to book my next trip — how did you get a ticket to Colorado for $4.01 (followed by loud guffaws). So Mike had outed himself.

I must start planning now for next April 1st — he will be on the alert, so it will have to be a masterpiece.

For those of us with chronic insomnia and who watch a lot of wee hours of the morning TV, we see a lot of documentaries about space. I have become somewhat of an expert about black holes as a result. Last night, or should I say this morning, I had a bit of an epiphany while watching “Alien Galaxies”. It came to me in a flash — the Universe is a physical manifestation of the psyche — the id, the ego, and the super-ego. “What? you say. Linshaolin, you are running short on marbles.”

Well, let’s take a look at this hypothesis and measure its worth. We can start with a short recap of Psych 101. The id, the fully unconscious part of the psyche, is where our most basic drives reside. The ego is the part that deals with the world — the face to meet the faces that you meet. The super-ego judges — it is our moral center. The id is manifested by the galactic black hole, the remnants of an exploding star whose matter collapsed in on itself creating a mass so large that not even light can escape its pull. The ego is the gamma burst — the burst of light so bright that it can be seen by the naked eye despite the fact that it is on the other side of our galaxy. And the super-ego is that dark corridor of no matter inside the black hole — endless, bottomless — a grease slick of what were once stars, space dust, and dark matter.

OK, Lin, you say, just how is a grease slick like a moral core? Listen, all of us know right from wrong — it is only a matter of how creative we are in rationalizing the wrong that makes judgment a slippery business. (Oh, Lin, you are outstandingly good…) And now you are wondering, I am sure, how does a lint filter fit in with either the psychology or the physics of the universe? As you know, a lint filter is a device to trap the debris of washing laundry - metaphorically speaking we can view a lint filter as something that saves what would otherwise go down the drain. In psychology this is called a conscience and in space we call it gravitational pull.

So now we are faced with a question so awesome in its implications that it staggers the mind: Which came first the Psyche or the Universe? Clearly, from my opening paragraph, you can see that I believe the Psyche came first and was the architectural plan for the Universe and all its subsystems (for example, tennis and international finance are also modeled after the id, ego and super-ego (and don’t forget the lint filter). I base my belief on empirical evidence. Let’s take the big daddy, the Universe.

If it was created by God then there is no need for further discussion. God created man in his image and man has id, ego and super-ego (and lint filters) therefore so does God. And it follows that since God created the Universe then He preceded it. If the Universe was created spontaneously, without Divine intervention, we call that Science. Science is both the method of gaining knowledge and also the knowledge itself. How could there be a method of gaining knowledge or knowledge itself without the ego and super-ego? I rest my case… But wait, Lin, you say. What about the lint filter?

The lint filter (aka the Conscience) arose after the id, ego, and super-ego and acts kind of like a handicap in golf. It reins in the other parts of the Psyche ensuring accord and stability. In space we can see this played out in gravitational pull — the pull that keeps the entire Universe from being swallowed up by a super massive black hole (aka the Id).

Now that I have demonstrated the proof of my hypothesis a difficult question remains. From whence comes the Psyche?

The best thing about trekking out to Boulder for business is the opportunity to reconnect with my Colorado buddies — high on the list is my friend Kathy (see my post on Boulder trivia night) who I have known for at least 10 years.  Kathy is a geo CFO, drives a white Mercedes, and is downright gorgeous - so what she is doing hanging out with me is a big question.  And the answer is shopping and drinking blood orange cosmopolitans. On my friend-o-meter scale, just after loyalty and a sense of humor come shopping and recognizing a good cocktail when one is drinking it.  Kathy has all four qualities and then some.

It took extensive instant messaging for us to arrange our rendezvous. Decisiveness is not one of Kathy’s qualities — our exchange went something like this (over a four hour elapsed time): Me ”what time do you want to meet?” Kathy ”I know of a great Italian restaurant we can try.” “What time do want to meet?” “Do you have my cell number?” “What time do want to meet?” “What hotel you staying at?” “Kathy, I need you to answer this question — what time do you want to meet…” let’s meet at 4:30.” Kathy arrived at five.

So, I arrived first at our designated meeting spot, revving the engine of my pristine white Pontiac G5 with spoiler.  Kathy pulls up beside me in her white Mercedes — Thelma and Louise out for the night.  We exchanged kisses and “Hey Babes” and headed out for the 29th St Mall.  My goal was to buy a black jacket; Kathy was looking for stuff for her upcoming Hawaii vacation.  Our finely honed shopping radar took us directly to Coldwatercreek which was having a 70% off sale.  There is nothing more satisfying than shopping with a girlfriend who has the same shopping habits — fondle everything in a quick first pass then return to those areas of interest; make sure the dressing room is reserved and has room for at least 16 outfits.  Try on 16 outfits, keep two on the possible list and then go out and sweep the store one more time. 

The ladies fitting room is one of those mystery places for men — for those fellows unfortunate enough to accompany their females on a shopping trip, it is a place of dread. Good stores have seating areas for men just outside the fitting room. Wife (or girlfriend or whatever) goes into fitting room at 10:13 A.M. with a white blouse and emerges at 11:27 A.M. with a white blouse, a pair of bronze shoes, a pair of navy and white sports pants and matching zip front hoodie. Luckily Kathy and I were sans men so did not have anyone tapping their feet impatiently. We entered our reserved dressing rooms where our attentive sales associates had hung all the items we had selected to try on. “Wow, these sizes are all over the map” said I trying to squeeze into an 2X jacket. I tried a different 2X jacket which was too big. I tried on a pair of shoes that were half a size to small for me but at only $9.99 a woman will put up with some pain. Kathy modeled a blue shirt — a keeper which drove further purchases of necklace and earrings to match. An hour later we emerged from store #1’s fitting room. It was getting dark.

Once the outfits had been selected it was time to roam the store looking at shoes and accessories.  I ended up with a beige twin set, a cream colored longsleeved T-shirt with flowers, a beaded necklace and earrings (no black jacket).  Kathy fared even better (white blouse, blue blouse, pants and jacket — oh, and the necklace and earrings.  At the cash register, as I handed over my credit card, I asked the cashier if I could use the phone to call a divorce lawyer since I was sure I would need one. We headed off to Macy’s. Black sweater for me, jeans for Kathy.

Both of us were famished from all our hard work. Kathy knew of a nice Italian restaurant where we found a quiet table and the last two blood orange martinis (a today’s special). We ate seared romaine salad and gnocchi bolognese and talked and talked and talked. Kathy and I overlap in interests about 96% (HGTV and the practical application to our own homes, work, food, travel) and diverge enough to still have “discoveries” (Dancing with the Stars [Kathy] versus In Treatment [me]).

I exchanged instant messages with Kathy this morning: “Whatcha wearing?” “Blue blouse, jeans, and the necklace. You?” “Beige twin set and the necklace.” Looking good Thelma — Styl’n Louise!

Linshaolin is on the road again, back to Boulder for another business trip.  I forked over the extra $44 bucks to upgrade to Economy Plus thus assuring myself of as much comfort as is possible in the air.  Actually it was a great flight — the seat next to me was empty, I had leg room, the flight was on time, and I had four lovely hours uninterrupted to read and doze.  I had even remembered to bring an apple so I did not have to resort to spending five dollars for a box of cheese and crackers.

I had to be at the airport by 6 a.m., so at 3:30 a.m. I was in the shower mentally reviewing my packing list.  I had not slept at all so I was eager to get to the airport and through all the ordeal of check-in and security.  As usual my prosthetic knee set off the security alarm and I was cordoned off to await a female assist.  The lady assigned to wand me called me sweetie eight times, as in “sweetie, if you are uncomfortable being put on public display then we can use the next six hours escorting you to a private area where we will say ‘I’ll be right back’ and then I will go off for my coffee break and you will miss your plane.  So what do you say sweetie?”

Once through security I had a short wait at the gate during which I engaged in my favorite activity — people watching.  There was a grandmother, mother, and baby all of whom had shocking red hair and prominent chins — I marveled at the miracle of genetics.  Then I observed a group of Native American women who were returning from a conference for educators of the deaf. They too were strikingly similar looking.  I turned my attention to a family of long lean people and then decided to try to find a couple or a group who have nothing in common with each other at all. This was not so easy, but at last I spotted a husband and wife: she was carrying all the carry-ons and he was carrying a coffee.  She was no more than 5′2″ and he was at least 6′1″.  Despite the fact that it was 39° she was wearing flip-flops.  He was wearing an elaborately tooled western style boots. I wondered at the couple’s dynamics.  I saw them at the luggage carousel in Denver — he was minding the carry-ons and she was schlepping the luggage off the conveyor belt.  I can only assume, being a generous spirit, that he had a bad back.

At the Hertz car pickup I was delighted to find that I had been assigned a very sporty Pontiac G5 complete with a spoiler.  My posse would be proud!  I usually get a Ford Escort so this was validation that all my positive thinking is paying off.  I stowed my stuff, reviewed my driving directions to the hotel, made sure I knew where all the radio buttons were and headed off.  The tollway around Denver must have cost a couple of billion to build and has zero traffic — if I broke down I would be nothing but bleached bones before my body was discovered.  The speed limit is 75 — I love it!  Feeling sassy in my sporty car I accelerated slowing only enough to periodically pass two dollars to the toll keeper.  I made it to Longmont in record time. My luck held — I was given a room in the Executive Wing which means free wine and cheese from 5:00 P.M. on weeknights. But it was Sunday.

I did not unpack — I crashed and slept on and off until 2 A.M. Having thus totally screwed up my body clock, I got up, channel surfed a bit, then read some in my book Transformation & Healing by Hanh (who was nominated for the Nobel Peace Prize by Martin Luther King Jr.). Inspired, I practiced some of the exercises, counting off my repetitions on my prayer beads. My string of beads has about 111 stations. The most repetitions I have done is seven. I searched my book for a meditation exercise on being alert and awake in a high altitude but that one must be in volume two.

All this meditation stuff at 2:00 in the morning made me remember my first day at my new meditation class. The guru explained some Buddhist philosophy and told us she was going to chant while we sat in the Lotus position and meditated. I was expecting a quiet “OM”. Suddenly she yelled, filling the room with a volume that made my ears ring. I was so startled that I think I levitated. The second week of class corresponded to the beginning of my Spring allergies. My nose was clogged and my eyes constantly burned and teared. The guru began “class, today we are going to meditate on something dark and sad. Find your painful memory or feeling, bring it to the light, make it transparent.” We sat and meditated. Tears slowly rolled down my cheeks as my allergies chose that moment to peak. I prayed that everyone was meditating with their eyes closed. After the class the guru took me aside: “Linshaolin, you are such a good meditator!” Not wanting to disillusion her, I snuffled a thank you.

So, at 2 A.M. I chanted Gurudev (gu = darkness, ru = light, dev = transparency), blew my nose, and started to write in my blog. Tonight at 2 A.M. I will be sound asleep — I brought sleeping pills.

Even Linshaolin gets into a crappy mood sometimes. This has not been the greatest week. I have really been making an effort to pull myself together, dieting, exercising, meditating, thinking positive thoughts. And what is the result? Despite a total of four hours on the Exercycle, two tai chi classes and an hour and a half of doubles tennis, I lost zero, zip, nada. Meditating is going well, this week only the left side of my body became paralyzed after the thirteen minute practice — the meditation class teacher thinks I am a devoted student, staying for the second class. What she does not realize is that I have lost all sensation in my feet and can not get up.

Thinking positive thoughts has done a world of nothing. My eighteen dollars worth of lottery scratch tickets yielded only a six dollar return. That audio tape that told me that if I woke up each morning and said “Thank you for the $20,000 I will win today!” one hundred times is bogus trash. And despite my projecting positive energy and intense vibrations of charisma, my team meeting met with the usual fossilized response from my team mates. “OK, I’ll open up the meeting for general discussion. Are there any questions or comments?” “Yeah, say, listen Lin, are these meetings optional?”

I spent forty-five minutes trying to schedule a call with participants from different times zones separated by ten hours. The only time I could find in which all the team members were available was on May 16th, 2009. I did find one day in which all but one person could attend. I phoned the outlier to see if I could convince him to rearrange his schedule. “No. I willl be at the gym.” “Can you go to the gym at a different time just this once?” “No.” “Are you really going to make me escalate this?” “Suit yourself.” I tried to appeal to his heartstrings: “Wally, listen to your old friend Lin. I am getting older, you know, and I have not been too well. It would be a real favor to me.” “Maybe you should think about retiring.”

As I say at home, “carp!” I have not done my taxes yet. I have mail that has not been opened yet — postmarked November 2007. I was researching restless leg syndrome and inadvertently went to a porn site — now I have an oggle toolbar that has breasts. How does one uninstall tassel-flapping boob jpegs? My voice recognition software spontaneously types “yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah” whenever my cat sits in his cat-bed next to the computer. And I finally found that jelly donut that I swore I had not eaten.

If truth be told, I am angry with everyone. My mood is so foul that I am not fit to be with anyone. Reminds me of what my dear old dad used to say to me: “Lin, I defend you all the time. Why just the other day someone said that you were not fit to eat with pigs, but I said oh no, that is just not true!” And my husband had the audacity to complain to me “Lin, when we were young and lived in a coldwater flat and slept on an old air mattress at least you were young and hot. Now you are a middle-aged matron.” I told him that he should feel free to go find a young, hot girl and I would make sure he got to live in a coldwater flat on an old air mattress once again too.

I looked hot (as in awesomely good, not as in sweaty) adorned as I was in my new bright orange jacket with the mod purple and orange print lining on the cuffs and collar. I was waiting for the Amtrak to New York, standing amidst the never-ending construction of the Boston Terminal. I was only half paying attention to my surroundings but I overheard one of the construction workers yell over to his foreman “Where d’ya want the cones put Eddie? Oh, never mind, I see.” He then approached me an began placing the orange construction cones in a nice line starting at my feet.  I moved to step out of the way and startled him. “Jeeze, lady!”

Not being one to suffer from paranoia, the idea that he had mistaken me for one of those cones used to mark off construction sites barely lingered in my brain. A train was pulling in so I went out to stand in line. Immediately a young lady handed me her suitcase and a quarter. “I am in Premier Class,” she informed me. “And I am in Coach Class,” I informed her. I handed her back her bag. She snorted as she said “excuse me, I thought….”and then turned away abruptly. I began to feel hot and quietly slid my jacket off my shoulders, folding it into a nice orange bundle and shoving it into my tote bag.

As soon as we reached New York City I purchased a green jacket. A bright green jacket — I am drawn to bright green jackets and already had three in my closet, two of which I had never worn. But this one was stunning — a safari style jacket with pockets and a half-belt at the back — Marlin Perkins does Manhattan. I slipped into my new jacket and headed over to a taxi stand near the Plaza. After the third person asked me for directions and a map of Central Park I began to have a slightly sick feeling. Perhaps my jacket was too authentic looking — Park Ranger Linshaolin reporting for duty!

I decided to see if distance between me and any national monuments would change the situation, so I cabbed it over to Greenwich Village for a sangria and lunch. Disembarking, I noticed that I was at the doorway of a local Enterprise car rental outlet. Inside, a crew of customer service reps, all donned in green blazers, were helping customers. I quickly crossed the street where my attention was immediately taken by a row of quaint shops, including Grafton Street Arts and Crafts. Now, I love arts and crafts and remember Grafton Street fondly from my many trips to Dublin, so I was drawn inside.

I had only been poking through the hand-knit sweaters for about a minute when a young woman came up to me. “Do you have this in an extra-large?” she said pointing to a particularly fine cardigan. I removed the green safari jacket and was about to put on my bright orange one when I thought better of it. It was a nice day — no need for an additional layer.

I have never been good at expressing anger — I keep it bottled up and then about twice a year some poor soul (usually my husband) gets to witness a Mt. Vesuvius of wrath. I am really good at the language of rage and vindictive and have left many bloody verbal battlegrounds in my life. At age almost fifty-nine I am hoping to change this pattern. I will start by no longer pursuing my hobby of studying the thesaurus for synonyms for “ignoramus,” “bastard,” “slattern,” and “buffoon.” However, if you are ever stuck for just the right word, I do plan on continuing my consulting service.

Appropriately processing and expressing anger requires that one is able to quickly identify that one is angry and why — not so easy. How many times has something happened to you and only hours later you recognize that there is so much bile in your body that you could power a nuclear sub? Take, for example, the time in which you did the dishes when it was not your turn, spent two hours folding your husband’s tee shirts, and re-seeded the lawn. But you left a sock on the floor. . . and someone makes the mistake of pointing this out to you: “How hard is it to pick up your socks?” WHAM! Thar she blows!!

Through extensive therapy I am learning that the appropriate behavior is a) never do the dishes when it is not your turn, b) your husband is an adult and can fold his own tee-shirts, c) paving the lawn with asphalt creates a clean, contemporary hardscape, and d) if you want to have fifteen pairs of old socks on your floor that is your right. This is really liberating! However, it does not end with proper perspective, no, one must learn how to verbalize one’s anger in a timely and constructive manner:

“How hard is it to pick up your socks?” “Yes, you are right, I am a flawed individual. You might go as far as to say that I am lazy and slovenly. Yes, those are good descriptors don’t you think? But it makes me angry at you when you point this out.” “Why?” “Well, sweetie, while you were watching the X-Men cartoon marathon, I did the taxes, planted an arbor, resanded the floors, and hand-wove a shawl for your mother. I would have liked it if you acknowledged these accomplishments.” “My mother hates shawls.” WHAM.

Well, it is a start. My therapist says that being able to express one’s anger is the first step.

My Husband and I both work from home, and keep odd hours and find that we are often on different shifts.  Some days the only time we spend together is when we go out for coffee.  Going out for coffee to our local Starbucks is a ritual we practice every day.  We are regulars known by name — we don’t even have to place the order.  “Grande caramel macchiato and a tall vanilla latte.”  Sometimes we indulge ourselves by splitting an Apple fritter.

We are not the only regulars at Starbucks — there is a lady who comes in with her laptop sets up shop, takes off her coat revealing a low-cut dress and enough cleavage to draw a crowd.  I am so tempted to ask her about herself — I need to know more about this woman’s self-image.  She is closer to 50 than 40 and even though she sports a nice rack she is advertising in the wrong market.  There is also a bicycle club that meets at Starbucks, decked out in their compression clothes in green and purple.  There is the daycare worker who we have known for 25 years and the elderly lady who wears bright red lipstick, false eyelashes, and a blond hair piece from the 1960s.  It looks like mice have made their home there.

I try not to think about the amount of money we spend on fancy coffee drinks.  Every financial advisor article in magazines mentions how much you would save if you gave up your daily coffee.  We are spending our retirement money — but we are spending it on quality time together, time for just the two of us.  It is worth it.

Sometimes I try to remember what it was like before the large chain coffee emporiums became a part of every block in every city.  There was always Dunkin’ Donuts and there have always been local coffee shops.  What did they lack that Starbucks has?  Actually I don’t think it is so much that they lacked anything, I think that they offer something different.  I still go to Dunkin’ Donuts for my iced coffee from March to November.  I stand in line with the cops, the working-class people, those of us who have to start work at 6 a.m. rather than 9 a.m. I buy Dunkin’ Donuts coffee in bulk — only on special occasions do I fork over by $13-$15 for a pound of Starbucks blend.  But for my special time with hubby I like the atmosphere at Starbucks.  I like the fact that they have a bookshelf where people drop off books after they have read them — freebies for anyone who wants them.  I like the little Starbucks bears and collect them.  I like the beautiful coffee mugs and collect those too.

Our half-hour coffee break is worth a whole lot more than the $7.42 we spend sipping lattes. It is our quiet time, our time to say “yup” all is still right with the world, the old crowd is still here. And besides, right next door to Starbucks is Trader Joes. . . another $20 flies out of my pocket for trail mix, Boursin cheese, and sharing a shopping cart with hubby.

Wikipedia needs to do a better job of vetting its articles — whoever wrote about the origins of catapults got it all wrong.  Those of us with a keen interest in military history know that catapults were more a discovery than an invention and that the discovery is inextricably tied to the rise in acid reflux amongst the officer class.  Battle leads to stress, stress leads to acid reflux, acid reflux leads to searching for a cure.

Sometimes historical insight is not gained through academic research or field study but rather through experience of everyday life.  Such is the case with our family’s attempts to elevate the head of our bed as a means to help control my husband’s acid reflux.  Paralleling great historical events, it was actually a slow process culminating in a dramatic finale rather than a single action.  My husband got the needed bed risers (extra tall) at the bed and bath shop six months ago and they have adorned my bureau ever since.  I waited patiently for hubby to install them, giving up only after I realized that sitting next to them was a boxed humidifier which we bought a year ago.

I enlisted our daughter to help elevate the bed — she was in charge of mattress wrestling while I was on my stomach trying to slip the cone shaped risers  under the bed’s wheeled legs. We started out with the lazy woman’s approach (leaving the mattress and box spring on the bed) but Alli was not strong enough to lift the queen-sized bed high enough. Nero Wolfe Kitty tried to be helpful by sitting on the bed and bapping me on the head as I tried to jam the cones in. Like all good soldiers, when we accepted defeat we retreated to ponder our alternatives.

We took off the mattress and box spring thus leaving only the bed frame which was easy to lift by myself — which is a good thing since Alli, holding up the mattress, lost her balance and was pinned behind the door. Nero inspected the situation and decided this was a ploy to evade him and spent the next few minutes with his paws under the door trying to find his playpal. While the troops were on furlough I placed the 11″ risers under the legs at the head of the bed. It looked alarmingly sloped.

Alli and I replaced the box spring and mattress and decided to try out the results of our labors. We lay side by side. Alli immediately slid to the foot of the bed while I was catapulted across the room. After brushing myself off I was about to disassemble the bed when I thought to myself, “This is for my husband’s health. I will try to get used to it.” That night hubby slept like a stone. After two hours of keeping a death grip on the headboard so that I would not be catapulted across the room again, I gave up and I slept on the couch.

I tried again the next night. I waited until my husband was in bed, thus weighing down his side. This tactic worked — I did not become airborne. But I did slide to the bottom and the only way to get back to the top was to fall out of bed and get back in again. Finally I went to sleep. Unfortunately my husband got up in the night to use the bathroom. I awoke in mid-air. The next morning we returned to the bed and bath shop and bought the shortest bed risers we could find (6″).

This time hubby installed them himself. The incline was dramatically reduced — laying in the bed I felt like Dracula rising from his coffin. I slowly began to slide down the bed. I grabbed my pillow and headed for the couch. The elevated bed had won the battle, but it was a Pyrrhic victory — this weekend I am going to saw down the risers to a mere two inches.

v intr. To rush headlong into things

I live with hypomania which is a milder form of bipolar manic depression. This very blog is a manifestation of hypomania — words pour through my head and need to find a way out. Sleep is the enemy, a waste of time, a robber of productivity. Hypomania is good — it means a clean house, completed projects, creativity, a sense of well-being. Hypomania is bad too –when a manic period ends it leaves you crushed, missing the old better you. You worry that you will never get the old you back. You are flat, worse than flat. You are depressed. Rapid cycling hypomania is a state in which you careen from manic to depressed, in my case, hour to hour. As much as I like the hypomanic state, being depressed is a drag. And so there is medication and therapy. I take both.

In a recent suppport group session one of the other participants was talking about someone she knew and said “well, she has Parkinson’s” — she then turned to me quickly and said “No offense” as if to assure me that even though I too have Parkinson’s I did not fall into the same category as her acquaintance. “No offense?” I have an illness not a deficit of morals or character.  Do I move to another chair when she sits down next to me and say ”Eww, you  have bunions!”

Intellectually I know that it is fear that causes people to look at seriously ill or disabled people as bad different. I can even empathize with their fear and discomfort. What do you say to someone who is going to end up bed-ridden and drooling? Well, first you look at yourself and realize that most likely you too will drool or be incontinent and then you get over it and talk to me like you would to anyone else.  Illness and disability are not defining — they are faceting. Like a well-cut jewel, the more facets a person has the more valuable they are. My god,  I must be priceless by now!

To say that mental and physical challenges are gifts is mostly crap — but without hypomania I doubt that I would write. Without Parkinson’s I doubt that I would play the tambourine nearly as well.

I was 10 lb. 6 oz. at birth. The force of being delivered caused both my eyes to hemorrhage so I looked like baby Satan, which is probably why my eighteen month old brother toddled over to my bassinet and carried me gently over to a step stool, climbed to the top and dropped me on the radiator. Babies’ heads are soft so the fracture healed quickly. The gaping tear in my forehead did not and so I had Frankenstein stitches added to my blood red eyes — there are no baby photos of me until I was almost two. I still have a scar. My brother swears to this day that he was just trying to test DaVinci’s hypothesis that if you drop a feather and a baby off the Leaning Tower of Pisa they will hit the ground at the same time.

Despite my injuries, my folks decided to embark on a cross-country road trip in the 1936 Buick. My brother and his entire toy collection got the back seat. I was put in a box on the floor of the back seat, strategically placed so that my brother could drop toy lead soldiers on me whenever Mom was busy navigating. My periodic fussing was dealt with by having a bottle stuck in my mouth. “Be a hun, sweetie, and hold this bottle in your sister’s mouth.” My brother would comply by using his smelly stocking feet to make sure the bottle was jammed securely in my throat. Whenever Mom would turn around to check on things in the back seat he would point out the window “Look Mom!” “Look at what sweetie?” “A car! A black car!”

The Buick would break down every seventy miles or so. My Dad, who was an avid driver, could sense the changes in the car that would lead up to a smokey, sputtering end. At the first sign of impending disaster he would get off the main road and seek out the security of a liquor store parking lot. Mom and Dad would get out of the car — he to examine the engine and she to change diapers. Brother first and then baby frankensatan. While I was being changed my brother, clad in a fresh diaper and tee shirt, would toddle off to inspect pigeon droppings. While Dad tinkered, Mom with kids in tow would visit the liquor store.  Cold beers for now, gin for later, plus a Slim Jim for baby brother and chocolate milk for me.

Dad preferred “scenic” routes over highways, so we got to stay at lots of very Bates-like motels. One of them was the “last hotel before Death Valley”. The innkeeper lady was horrified when she learned that the plan was to drive through Death Valley with the kids. In the morning as we prepared to load up the car for the trek, she came out with a large watermelon. “You will want to give the kids something cool mid-morning” she advised. My Dad thanked her profusely, sliced the watermelon in half, scooped out the melon, cut off the end of the top half, stuck me inside, closed the lid, and declared “Perfect!” Baby Lin would be as cool as a spring day. He then took the water hose from behind the motel’s gas station and hosed down the car’s interior until it was saturated and water dripped through the floor onto the baked tarmac below. He then hosed the family and we set off.

Not a praying family, we all prayed that the car would not break down leaving us to be picked over by vultures. We made it to the other side, finally coming to a stop at another motel. The parched, dusty, haggard family piled into the motel’s coffee shop, me still in my watermelon tote. The locals stared at us like we were from outerspace.  The next morning when we came out to the car we found a cheap plastic baby carrier on the hood with a note scrawled on paper — “For your kid.” I spent the rest of the trip stuck to hot plastic. I had peed in the watermelon so it had been thrown out.

Thursday was the last class for the double wedding ring quilt at my local quilt shop. Amazingly, my quilt is coming together — what had been a pile of squares is now a pile of melon-shaped units all neatly pressed and measured against the template to ensure uniformity. A few melons have even made it to the next step — circles! I can begin to visualize the finished product.

Class consisted of six women including myself, plus Amy the teacher. Five of the women were clearly professional quilt class takers. They arrived for day one with all their fabric washed, ironed, and cut into precision half yards all stacked with compulsive regularity.  My fabrics were washed and jammed into my L.L. Bean tote bag in a frenzy just before class.  Their tools were all housed neatly in specially designed quilt toolboxes — mine were in baggies.  (I had serious box envy and ended up buying an ArtBin tote box.) They sipped their water out of pastel tinted water bottles.  My water bottle has a men’s underwear logo — a freebie when I boought my husband a dozen pair of jockey shorts.  I began to feel inferiority creep in.

The only area in which I was confident was in fabric selection.  The four hours I had spent at this effort was paying off.  One of my classmates had selected eight shades of brown.  I must say that if I were to spend the next year sewing a brown quilt the doctor would have to up my Prozac considerably.  I was quite surprised to see her quilt progress into something quite sharp and sophisticated. On the other hand another lady had selected eight startlingly vibrant batiks which were bound to make a gorgeous quilt. But my fabrics were the true stars — in my own mind at least — my spirits began to lift.

The Double Wedding Ring quilt pattern requires that the quilter think “upside down” — sewing darts in arcs from the back — I managed to incorrectly reverse my arc direction about every three attempts. A quality seam rippper is a quilter’s best friend. No, let me correct that, a glass of chablis is a quilter’s best friend. I finally discovered that if I taped a finished, correct arc to the sewing machine to act as a guide that I made fewer mistakes. Unfortunately sewing the melons to the background requires even more anti-geometric thinking and the finished unit is too large to taped to my machine — so I have one laid out on my ironing board.  I have to stare at a long time before my brain even understands what I need to do.

The quilt class was two hours long and I usually needed a break halfway through.  This was a bad thing because it allowed me time to wander through the store checking out what’s new.  I discovered yo-yo kits — little plastic discs that help you make puffed circles which can be used to make stuffed animals, quilts, and all manner of things that require huge consumption of fat quarters.  I bought one in each size from extra small to extra-large, I bought a yo-yo bunny pattern, and then I headed for the fat quarters bins.  My a new stash of fat quarters, neatly housed in my new plastic tote box, went inside my enormous canvas tote practically screaming for me to leave now, go home, and start my bunny project.

But I am a disciplined quilter and returned to my quilt class to resume sewing my squares into strips, my strips into arcs, my arcs into melons, my melons into circle units.  As we sewed we chatted about our jobs, our at-home sewing setup, about our families. We also had long stretches of quiet focus — 2 hours of communal quilting, sharing a bond.  Amy, our teacher, brought in some of her quilts for show and tell.  Needless to say they were outstanding, the workmanship incredibly precise. I peeked at my work in comparison and was not displeased — my first attempt was not too bad.

None of us actually finished our quilt during class — that would be a ridiculous expectation even for the student who was making a table runner.  But we will all have a chance to see each other’s finished product at a future class since more than one of the ladies had taken this class before and needed a second go round.  Since I am making a queen-size quilt I will probably need the lifetime learning class discount.

The annual quilt Shop Hop is just around the corner.  I hope some of my new buddies will be on the bus for that great adventure.

This week mark’s the one year anniversary of Breakdown in the Fastlane. A year ago I never would have dreamed that there would be over 10,000 views of my blog – that it would entertain, that readers would come back.  And, having never written before except for job-related stuff, I never dreamed that writing would be such a satisfying outlet. It started as a lark and I could not stop.

Becoming a blogger opened up the world of blogs to me. I have spent way too many hours on blog hunts — endlessly fascinating glimpses into other people’s lives. I have met some great people, tried out lots of receipes, read books, learned about poetry, space, ancient Roman fortifications . . .I have learned that there are all sorts of folks loving all sorts of interesting things. They all share passion. Some are funny, some bizarre, some touching. Blogging is enriching.

Thank you all for readership, your comments, and your own blogs. I’ve cooked up a wonderful virtual birthday cake and hope you will sit down with me and have a big slice!

Except for medical leave following surgeries, I have almost never taken a sick day. It is not because I am extraordinarily healthy — not by any means. It is because I always get sick on Friday afternoons, thus ruining my weekend. My body and certainly my psyche clearly were shaped by the Protestant Ethic — hard work = virtuous life = worldly success. Damn I am virtuous! Putting in fifty hours on the job and getting up early to do housework are signs to the world that I am one of those blessed by God for a better hereafter. And my germs are well instructed not to mess with me and God. My work week is sacrosanct. They wait respectfully for my “down” time.

Even my efforts to be a Buddhist have done nothing to shake The Max Weber syndrome. And so, on Friday afternoon I wait for the headache, the sore throat, the rash. Today it is the sore throat and that hot feeling that precedes a fever. I think I will go change the sheets now so I have a fresh bed in which to be miserable for the next two days. The really crummy thing about being sick is that one is too sick to enjoy staying in bed. All those books that are calling my name will remain unopened or be dropped on the floor after a paragraph or two of listless attention. Even Blade will fail to hold me in its grasp — I will spend the weekend channel surfing, drifting off occasionally while watching Animal Planet.

My husband is keen on our going to the gym together this evening and then trying out a new restaurant. Will I drag myself out of bed and be a good companion? Yes I probably will. I have been traveling a lot lately and we have had no time together — a date will either have a curative effect or will ensure my husband gets sick too. That would be very, very bad…he would hog the remote.

I do not know Abi personally but have long been a fan of her blog Snippets and Blabbery (http://moxyideas.com/). There are zillions of book and craft blogs out there and most of those that I encounter I gloss over — what makes me linger at S&B? Intelligence wrapped in warmth and commitment — that is what it is. Abi is a marvel at entrepreneurship and technology but these qualities enhance rather than dominate what is a truly inspiring site.

I feel a lot of affinity with Abi — we both love quilting and crafts of all sorts. We both love books (and through her blog I have been introduced to some wonderful books and authors). We are both interested in politics and families. And yet we are very different. Snippets and Blabbery opens up new ideas and new choices for me. Visting her site is like opening a plain brown box to find a delectable apple pie.

Abi is a blogger, crafter, mom, entrepreneur who has made a difference in my life and has made my travels through cyberspace a richer journey.

I think you have probably all seen those TV documentary clips of scores of elderly Chinese folks doing tai chi  en masse in the village square. They look serene and effortless as they glide from one move to the next — soundless as they do a deep knee bend into the horse stance. The “F” word rarely accompanies their gentle exercise.

I missed a whole month of tai chi class when I had my surgery and now I have missed three more weeks because of business travel. I am hopelessly behind — looking confident and graceful through Form 42’s first series of blocks and strikes — then floundering in a choreography that looks more like Shemp than Shaolin. Master Ben is not pleased.

Since I missed my regular Saturday class I went to last night’s advanced class. I arrived about five minutes early to find that at least three quarters of the class was already there, engaged in in solitary “warming up” — a dozen or so bodies stretched and twisted into grotesque forms with periodic little eruptions of bodily gas as they pushed themselves into ever deeper bends. I found a spot near the window and took off my shoes and socks.

Having spent thirteen hours in a plane and running between terminals all day Saturday, my right knee was already excruciatingly inflamed. It refused to bend into the horse stance. My prosthetic left knee, feeling no pain, bent easily with the result that I looked like I was about to bolt for the door in a desperate attempt to escape. Ben came by and gently whacked my right knee. “Lower!” He took my right elbow which was supposed to be in line with my praying hands and pulled it back so that my shoulder blades could have pinched a piece of paper. “Better.” As soon as he turned away I unsprung.

“Begin at the beginning,” instructed Master Ben as the signal for the class to begin Form 42. Except for my right knee not bending I was golden for the first seventeen seconds — I gracefully swayed and blocked and breathed deep from my qigong. Just as soon as we entered new territory Master Ben turned to follow my progress. I kept my eyes focused on Tony who was a class show off and actually knew what he was doing. I mimiced Tony. When he broke off to get a drink of water from the fountain I did not realize what he was doing at first — I flapped my arms and did a bit of an Irish gig step heading toward the bubbler before I figured out that this was not part of the form. It was too late to turn back so I got water and made exaggerated movements to bend down to tie my sneakers only to realize I was barefoot. I got back in line and resumed pretending that I had a clue.

We entered a nice part of the form that reminded me of medieval maidens may-pole dancing and scattering flowers. I lept and scattered caught up in the mind-body connection. The class had stopped and all eyes were on me. I gave a final flourish of my  hands and pretended I had something in my eye. Master Ben made a very un-Tao gesture, the universal slit throat sign, and made everyone do the same series of steps over and over until we got them right. Through this means I nailed down another eleven seconds of Form 42.

As the class broke up, my husband pretended not to know me and two elderly Chinese women in United Colors of Benetton active wear took me aside. “Next time, Lin, you stand at the back so you can follow…yes, very good idea. You no good at tai chi now.”

My Boulder colleague, let us call her Mrs. Ottosen, was staying at the same hotel as I during our workshop in Copenhagen. Roda is a diminutive Filipino woman who took her husband’s Norwegian name as her own upon their marriage. Despite being a college educated professional, well integrated into American society, Roda’s cultural heritage has shaped her demeanor — she bows slightly as she says “I would defer to your greater knowledge…if you had any.” Then like a meerkat toying with a King Cobra, she shreds you before consuming you whole. “Oh, I am so sorry,” she bows again, “ I did not mean to suggest that you were an ignorant slut…English is not my native language…you are not ignorant at all.”

The airline lost Roda’s bag and so we had to go emergency shopping as soon as we arrived. The hotel’s concierge told us that no stores were open on Sundays but I refused to believe him. So we walked down to the Stroget, Copenhagen’s long pedestrian shopping district. A few stores were open — most featuring hooker outfits — little girl sailor suits with mini skirts and matching stiletto heels. We finally found a store with merchandise worth fondling. The store owner hovered around us. The longer we lingered over an item the cheaper it became. “Oh that is now on sale for 150 kroner.” “Oh, if you buy two things they are 125 kroner.” Roda is a good shopper and ended up having the store owner pay her to take three items.

I don’t think the Danes wear underwear. We had a hard time finding anything that was not a thong and for a piece of string with a sequin tacked on they were asking the equivalent of $20. Roda does wear  underwear so she broke down and got a butterfly pair and a pair with intertwining champagne glasses.  The next morning we met in the lobby at 6:30 AM and I found her squirming uncomfortably, her realizing too late that European and American sizes were not the same. Her size 6 thong was a bit binding.

We were soon diverted from the thong crisis by a bit of drama in the lobby. A hotel guest came in trailed by two transvestite prostitutes — the three of them bee-lining toward the elevator. The hotel desk man confronted them. The john bolted into the elevator not to be seen again, his party ruined. The ladies began an irate fussing about how they had been invited by the gentleman. Roda watched in fascination and finally said “Those girls are so unattractive. That guy looked like he could find a better date than  that.” I broke it to her that those ladies were men. “NO! Men? What do you mean men?” I patiently explained that the dark-haired lady who looked like 3 miles of hard road was in fact a boy, and his blond companion was a boy as well and that this behavior was not unique to Denmark.  Roda shook her head over this excitement all day long.  She pretended she knew all along that they were men, it was just that her glasses were dirty and she could not be sure.

Over the course of the week I witnessed my friend as she tried out drinking red wine, beer, and finally Baileys.  The red wine accompanied our meal at an Italian restaurant and it made her very tipsy.  When Roda is tipsy she is quite charming — giggling and sitting with the buzzed grin. She tried to explain how she used to think that to get buzzed meant that you would hear buzzing noises. Govert and Rick took the opportunity to convince her that in Denmark it was considered very rude behavior to leave any food on your plate — and guilted her into consuming enough food for three people. She smiled happily as she complained that the pork was dry. Govert smothered it with gravy and made her eat. Somehow Roda failed to notice that the rest of us left at least half our meal.

Beer appeared to be even more intoxicating. As we walked back to the car after several beers with dinner Roda held onto my arm solicitously as if to help me walk.  It was I in fact, who had to steer her and keep her from veering into the bike path. She grinned happily while misnegotiating the curb and laughed in delight as she almost fell. But it was not until Roda was introduced (I am afraid by me) to Bailey’s that she achieved  alcoholic drink nirvana.

When in Denmark one does not order a pina colada nor a margherita. Such requests are met with a questioning stare. Roda looked at me plaintively — “I want a froo-froo drink.” “No,” I replied, “what  you want is a Bailey’s.” Of course I was right in that matter. Mrs. Ottosen was like a kitten with milk. “Ooooh, this is good.” She called home that night to report that at last she had found the perfect drink. I had never received a text message from Roda’s husband before. .

We had been dining at the hotel restaurant and signed our checks to our hotel rooms. As we walked into the lobby the waiter came running out and accosted Roda. “Your room is assigned to a Mrs. Ottosen!” he said accusingly. Roda pivoted her lovely Filipino head exactly the way Linda Blair did in the Exorcist. “Yes,” she said, “that is my married name.” The waiter, now aware of his racist question, reddened and slunk back into the restaurant. I was appalled, but Roda shook it off. “It happens all the time. I am only angry because I had given him a decent tip.” I said, “Yeah, I wondered why you gave him twenty bucks.” “Twenty dollars? I did not give him twenty dollars — I gave him 100 kroner.” She looked at me…you mean I gave the cab driver a forty dollar tip?” I wrote down the URL for a nice currency converter site. “Are you travelling back home alone, Roda, or will you have a guardian, er, a companion with you?” When she told me she was on the same flight as Govert and Rick I begged her to change her plans but to no avail.   

I am safely home from my trip to Denmark where I had been participating in a week-long workshop, despite my colleagues’ efforts to do me in. Having already described Govert’s (and remember to really stir up some flem when saying the “G”) attempts to drive, I will now tell you about his fellow workshop leader, Rick. Rick is from Kansas and has recently had a stroke, which explains most of his behavior.

Now, before all you Jayhawk fans get your knickers in a brisket, I will tell you that my mother’s side of the family are from Kansas and go back to the earliest settlers days (which I  guess goes without saying since I don’t think many people say “Gee, where do I want to live? Oh, of course, Kansas!”). So when I insult you I insult myself. Fair play. Except, my folks come from eastern Kansas and Rick hails from western Kansas — so if he falls into a chisler hole full of rattlers it is his own fault.

Let’s talk about chislers a bit since Rick felt that revealing his love of chisler fishing was an appropriate “let’s get to know each other” topic. Chisler fishing is when you stand on top of a prairie dog hole with a fishing rood and reel and when an unfortunate prairie dog emerges you loop your line around his neck and as he reverses back into his hole you reel him in and then shoot him. Nice Rick, really nice.

Rick can’t eat salad or anything green because green food contains natural blood thinners and he is on blood thinning medicine on account of his stroke. He was forever poking through his food looking for evidence of green. Unfortunately his doctor (Doc Holiday), failed to explain to him the long-term effects of going without veggies — the most extreme of which is navigational impairment. Rick could walk in circles for hours and if we weren’t there to guide him he would still be in front of the t-shirt shop at Tivoli Gardens saying “wow, they sure have a lot of t-shirt shops in Copenhagen!”

Rick has spent a lot of time in Copenhagen working on various projects and he was extremely pleased to be able to be our host and show us some great dinner spots that were “close by”. While on the surface, Rick’s stroke left hardly any noticable deficits, it has affected his memory. After walking eight miles to a  place just around the corner, Rick took a short side journey down a street thinking it might be the one with the restaurant but came back quickly saying “No, the cars are parked in the wrong direction.” We walked on another few miles until Roda was so hungry and I was  in so much knee pain that we headed back wanting to find a McDonalds. Govert, intrepid traveller that he his, decided to check out that street again as we passed it and indeed, voila, there was the restaurant. Rick talked for a long time about how odd it was that the city would change the parking orientation after so many years of it being the other way. One has to be sensitive to the handicapped, especially if it is mental, and so the rest of us said nothing about “false memories” or being completely whacko.

Rick is a true gentleman and fine conversationalist. He kept us roaring with his description of the one stoplight in his home town and mesmerized by his explanation of homestead farming. He was even nice to Govert. And every time I struggled to get out of the car he was there to haul me out and he even would get my briefcase out of the trunk for me. And every time before we would embark on a short excursion he would ask whether I was up for a walk. They don’t make guys like Rick much anymore. No one batted an eye when the restaurant he recommended for great Italian food gave Roda food poisoning or when he had us circle by the Tivoli Gardens one more time on our quest for some local Danish fare.

My colleague Govert (guide to pronunciation: start hacking up a lung and then say “overt”) is leading a workshop in Copenhagen to which I invited myself. Perhaps this is why he is trying to ensure I meet an untimely end on the roadways. Apart from inviting myself I have done nothing to offend him — in fact I brought candy to the meeting and have been showering him with praise. Indeed, I have been such a good “guest” that I even offered him first dibs at purchasing the notes I was taking listing the date, time, and subject matter of all the managers and fellow workers he was bad-mouthing during the workshop.

Under the guise of gentlemanly behavior, Govert offered to allow myself and my companion to share his car for the daily commute to the office. He even was gracious enough to drive us to dinner and park 3.7 kilometres from the restaurant because he knew I had bad knees. We first became alarmed at his driving persona as he approached the hotel to pick us up. We saw his rental vehicle (not a sporty car by any means) approach from the distance. The sound barrier broke just as he screeched into the small indentation in the road designed to drop off passengers. Another of our workshop participants was with him in the car. The rapid deceleration flung him against the windscreen and it took us a good eleven minutes to scrape him off.

Roda and I exchanged a silent look of alarm and fastened our seat belts. Govert put the Peddle to the Metal and took a careening right hand turn and then braked hard to a stop in the middle of the intersection — Govert had seen a red light somewhere and was keen on obeying the local traffic light laws. Drivers swerved around us, honking and speaking in Danish. Some spoke English for I am sure I heard the word “You!” several times.

Once Govert felt it was appropriate to proceed he did zero to sixty in 1.2 seconds into a Left Lane Must Go Straight Ahead lane and took a sharp left. Only three  bicyclists were dispensed with. I craned my neck around and was relieved to see them all pick themselves up and dust off. I tried to pretend there was a police car after him by making siren noises but he did not hear me. Roda was screaming too loudly.

Govert was now barrelling down a one-way street — the wrong way. When we pointed this out he corrected the situation immediately by turning onto another street. Unfortunately it was also a one-way street going in the other direction. It was a long street flanked on both sides by parked cars — no room for a three-point turn. Three voices in unison alternated chanting prayers and curses. At last we made it onto a street going in the right direction and began looking for a parking spot. Several fine opportunities alluded us because Govert is very law abiding and would not dream of parking in front of a strip of sidewalk that had been painted with what had probably been yellow stripes 700 years ago. Several miles later he found a space that was only a little too short for his car and executed that 90 degree reverse for parallel parking. He backed in a good 73 degrees, aligned his wheels for a quick get away and got out of the car.

I drank heavily at dinner so the return trip was less acid reflux provoking. Upon dropping us off at the hotel Govert kindly suggested that he return at 7:15 AM to pick us up. Neither Roda nor I think quickly on our feet and could not come up with a suitable excuse for taking the train. That night I tried to break my ankle by falling