Iced coffee with Equal and a side of two doughnuts

Okay, I confess… today was a really bad day.  I am in the process of having my meds adjusted and as a result I felt like my skin was crawling.  Not only that but I could not concentrate on work despite the fact that I am already behind and the stress level is beginning to go into the red zone.  Top that off with a bad night of sleeping (or should I say not sleeping) and you have the recipe for Diet Disaster.

Finally giving up on sleep at 5:30 a.m. I quietly paddled downstairs to look over the cereal selection — my daughter had done the grocery shopping and as a result there was a giant box of Reese’s peanut butter puffs.  A portion size equals three quarters of a cup — I believe I consumed four portions.  Skim milk of course and artificial sweetener (yes you read this right I sweetened the cereal).  I was fine, if a bit cranky, until 10:30 a.m. when I had an enormous craving for a Dunkin’ Donuts iced coffee… I drove to Dunkin’ Donuts, got my iced coffee and a bagel/sausage/egg/and cheese sandwich.  I decided to be a good wife and pick up my husband a couple of doughnuts since I was there — unfortunately I somehow forgot to tell him that I had bought them for him and they remained at my side (for most of the day).

Oddly, I was not hungry at lunchtime.  Here it is dinner time and I am cooking since the chef is out playing tennis and the sous chef is that yoga class.  Shall I make a salad?  Or will I be making pork chops, beans, and rice?  The good thing about dieting is that there is always tomorrow.  I believe I will need to several tomorrows to undo the damage done today.

On a brighter note, I weighed myself at the gym yesterday and have not regained any of the 14 pounds I lost during my surgery and recuperation.  I am glad I weighed myself yesterday and not tomorrow.  I guess I will put lo-cal dressing on the salad tonight.

How do I offend thee? Let me count the ways…

This morning I had the thrill of trying to find a parking space in the indoor parking lot of a major city hospital. during rush hour.  Being an optimist I drove down what turned out to be a dead-end row designated for handicapped parking.  There were no empty spots, which meant that I had to back out along the long row and back into oncoming traffic at a hairpin turn.  So, I drove very cautiously.  I am not the world’s best driver especially when driving in reverse over a long distance into incoming traffic.  So, I drove very slowly.  You would think by the reaction of the drivers coming around the hairpin turn at 35 miles an hour that I was murdering puppies and kittens — or at minimum causing the dear drivers life-threatening inconvenience.  Did I construct the parking lot to have hairpin turns?  No.  Did I design the parking lot to have a dead-end row for the handicapped?  No.  Did I suggest to the drivers that it was quite alright go 35 miles an hour in a 5 mile zone?  No.  And so I rolled down my window and said a few things that perhaps I should not have said.  On the way home, as a stress reliever I composed the following (forgive me Elizabeth Barrett Browning).

How do I offend thee? Let me count the ways
I offend thee by driving in reverse and slow
My car can drive, but not without the light
Of an opening oft but called an exit space
I offend thee to the level of everyday’s
Most abusive driver, by honks and gesticulate
I offend thee readily, as men strive to Rush
I offend thee completely as I three point turn
In my old car and with disabled agility
I offend thee with a need to get out of the lot
With my appointment now late — I need your abuse
Smiles, tears, of all my attempts — and if I choose
I shall but offend thee better next time we meet

It would be nice if people could be just a tad bit more patient with each other, have a little generosity of spirit, give the other guy a break. Why are we mad at George W for dragging out the stay in Iraq when we can’t even be nice to a middle-aged lady in the handicapped row?

No credit cards

I made a New Year’s resolution not to use credit cards — Cash only.  If I don’t have the cash I don’t buy the stuff.  It is now January 23 and I have not used my credit cards.  This does not mean I have not spent money.  In fact I have gone to the ATM and withdrawn cash several times.  And I have written a couple of checks.  But I have not used credit cards!

My husband has tried to explain to me that it makes no difference whether I spend cash or credit — it is still spending money that we don’t have.  How a man with a Ph.D. can follow that line of logic, I don’t know.  Of course there is a big difference between cash and credit: Cash means you have the money and credit means you don’t.  It is picky and unreasonable to say that the cash was meant to buy groceries — we have other cash for groceries — the bank statement says we still have $83.00 See what I mean?

I was expecting praise for my frugality and good financial judgment.  Despite my husband’s confused notions about finances I will continue with my resolve. He will thank me when the American Express statement arrives!  Speaking of which, every time the bill arrives my husband asked me what I bought at QVC — it is like he can not retain the concept Evil Pay (QVC sells certain items on an installment plan called Easy Pay — you buy it and get it now and the cost is spread over several months).  Of course there are charges showing on each statement but it’s not for anything new!  So I patiently explain, that it is for the faux mink throw and the other amount is for the faux mink bed jacket.  Hubby then exclaims “but you got those last year!”  Then I start again patiently explaining the concept.  I hate to see a man cry.

When we got married 40 years ago we agreed to pool our money regardless of who earned it.  We have always had only one account in the bank.  The theory is that we are a union, not a temporary my money/your money couple.  It has worked out well.  I have always worked full-time with the exception of a couple of years when our daughter was little and I work part-time.  And we have managed to buy a house, send our daughter to college, and travel a little bit.  So I am not unduly worried about the fact that my collection of over 100 handbags has damaged our future.  It’s not like I waste money on lottery tickets (oh, I do — let’s pick something else).  It’s not like I waste money on a lavish wardrobe (oh, I am in hot water…) well, perhaps my New Year’s resolution needs to be refined just a bit.  I hereby resolve not to use credit cards and not to spend the grocery money except on groceries.  Check in with me in a month or so to see how I’m doing.  I’m going to have to be very creative with accessories.

Parkinson’s versus the shopping mall

For those of us who love to shop it takes quite a lot to keep us from enjoying our hobby.  But some days going to the mall is like competing in a triathlon and today was such a day.  For one thing the escalators were out of order and all the good shops were on the second floor.  Having had lung surgery six weeks ago in which I lost 20% of my lung capacity, walking up a broken escalator was the first event and nearly was the last.  By the time I got to the top I was gaping like a fish and my mouth didn’t close for at least five minutes since I was sucking in air and trying to look nonchalant and normal.  The effect was ruined however by the fact that my gasping was audible at least two departments away.

But I did make it to the second floor and after five minutes was fully recovered or at least sufficiently to spend an hour and a half pawing through the 75% off racks at Macy’s.  At this point my legs began to give out on me — I had walked the length of the mall since I had parked my car near the money machines which were at the opposite end from Macy’s.  When I overuse my legs they begin to cramp up, stiffen so that I walk rigidly like a person on stilts.  And when I get overtired my right arm curls up in the typical neurological damage position — so I look quite stunning as I lurch and shake my way to the plus size dressing rooms to try on a leopard skin pattern vest and a pair of Ralph Lauren burgundy velvet trousers. (I rejected both — the vest made me look like Sigfried and Roy and the velvet trousers made me look like a large concord grape cluster).

I bought myself an orange juice and sat down on a bench for a bit of a rest.  I took my meds and drank the OJ and felt much restored.  I enjoyed people watching as I sat there.  There were a surprising number of people in the mall given that it was the Pats football game time (I have to admit that even though I am in New Englander I have no clue about football — go Pats!).  I fixed my attention on an older couple who were arguing about leather jackets… She: “but honey, short jackets are fashionable.” He: “it doesn’t cover your ass and it is 15° outside.  Fashion smashem.”  I ran into them later at Sears, still looking at leather jackets, she’s still trying to put on short ones and he vetoing.

Despite my break on the bench I was developing muscle spasms in my calves and knew my shopping was going to be cut short by my Parkinson’s.  Over my dead body, I thought to myself and gathered up my stuff and headed to the Brighton shop — home of the absolutely fabulous handbags and jewelry.  I was a bit taken aback when the clerk said “Nice to see you again Mrs. Shaolin..” Shop much?  Who me?  By this time I was hobbling and have a long walk back to the end of the mall where I had parked.

The walk back took me by Sears and I knew the Land’s End merchandise was on deep after Christmas discount.  It would be criminal for me to let such an opportunity pass.  An hour and a half later with fleece sweatshirt, black trousers, fleece jacket, snowflake pattern turtleneck, I headed for the car.

I always call my husband whenever I am on my way home so that he can put away the dancing girls. He answered the phone incredulously, “You have been gone for five hours!  How is it possible for anybody to be on their feet for five hour shopping?”  I patiently explained that it could not possibly have been five hours and then I looked at my watch.  As I was in the car driving home I knew that I was not going to be able to get out of the car when I got there — my legs were not speaking to the rest of my body.  But then I thought about my 92-year-old mother-in-law who can shop for eight hours no problem. ”No minor disability is going to make me a lesser woman than my mother in law!”  I arrived at home and called my husband “come help me get out of the car sweetie”.  Once inside and sitting in my comfy chair I had fun showing him my purchases.  A day well spent, another small victory for me and the shopping mall.

Double wedding ring quilt

On Thursday evening I am starting a class at my local quilt shop — we are going to learn how to make a double wedding ring quilt pattern.  This is highly ambitious as the pattern requires even more precision cutting and piecing than usual. And, of course, I plan to make a queen size bed quilt as my project, so I’ll be working on this for years.  As every quilter knows, there are stages to quilting: finding the inspiration fabric and building a color palette around it; washing and ironing the fabric in preparation for cutting; cutting the individual pieces; piecing; assembling the the layers quilt top, batting, and bottom; quilting the layers together; and binding the finished quilt.

It took me four trips to two different quilt shops to select fabric. My husband had requested hot vibrant colors such as oranges and reds and yellows.  These are not my colors at all — I like blues and greens.  My first pass was all about pleasing, but I was completely stymied — I just could not put together a palette of vibrance — the best I could do was somewhat muted.  After spending two hours and making two samples I jettisoned the color scheme.  Back to the quilt shop for another false start in which I tried to blend the oranges and reds with the blues and greens.  The key to successful fabric selection is decided by the inspiration fabric that has all of the colors that you want to bring into the quilt.  It was not until my third trip and this time to a different quilt shop that I found the inspiration fabric — it had a brown background with oranges, reds, yellows, teal blue, and purple.

Going to my favorite quilt shop is a social experience since I have known the owners and staff for years, having taken many classes and having spent many hours fondling the merchandise.  So what would be simple trip to pick up a spool of thread for instance ends up taking at least an hour — I have to admire the new baby, look at pictures of recent trip to China, ooh and awe over quilts in progress, and generally hang out having a good time. One of the joys of quilting is that it is a social experience.  And I’ll the sister quilters know what it means to be embarking on a double wedding ring quilt — there is no end to their quiet thoughts (” she is out of her mind!” or “I don’t think her color selection is going to work” or “wow, I wish I had the courage to tackle that.”)

I have now gathered together my tools and templates for the class.  This requires my largest tote bag since my cutting mat is as least 3 feet wide and some of my rulers are longer than that.  I have to set aside most of Wednesday for ironing — I have at least 15 yards of fabric.  But I have learned from past experience that students who do not properly prepare their fabric are looked upon as lesser beings by those that do.  And I don’t want to start my class off on a wrong foot!

Quilting is good for the soul — a connection with the past, a connection with others with the same interests, and a creative outlet.  I’m going to make this quilt my Personal Best.

Kiss and a band-aid

Sometimes, out of the blue, comes a memory as vivid and fresh as if it were happening. Yesterday I had such a memory — something unearthed after 50 years of lying dormant in the grey cells.  As a kid I was in love with band-aids — they used to make them with stars and angels and all kinds of nifty stuff. I would find any excuse to get one..

The scene generally went like this: “Ma, I have a terrible injury!” Mom would then say “Come over here and let me take a look.” She would gravely examine the microscopic wound and declare  “Oh my, that needs a kiss and a band-aid!” We woud then march to the kitchen medicine closet and  I would select a colorful bandage. Mom would kiss the boo and apply the cure. For the rest of the day I would happily sport my slash of Tinkerbell or Mickey Mouse. At bath time I would make every effort not to get my band-aid wet since that shortened its sticking time considerably.

My brother, who is 18 months older than I am, would come home and mutter “Again?” and toss his head in disgust at my childishness. But I could see that look of envy in his eyes — the longing for a Captain Hook Band-Aid. It was not long before I myself entered the age of being torn between thinking Band-Aids were cool and thinking they were juvenile.  I think I prolonged the cool stage for quite awhile, with each kiss I was assured of a little bit of mom’s attention and feeling special. I was not ready to give that up.

All to soon comes the age when what we want most is to avoid Mom’s attention and even major injuries are treated with scorn — “Oh, it’s just a flesh wound….” Why we feel it is necessary as part of growing up to deny ourselves the pleasure of a kiss and a band-aid remains a mystery. I am glad that I am old enough to remember the pleasure — next time I go to the grocery store I am stocking up on Indiana Jones band-aids (and while I am there I  will get a Hostess Snowball if they still make them)!  Yeah

January thawr

A “thawr” is a Massachusetts weather phenomenon that typically occurs in mid-January.  After weeks of bitter cold and snow there comes a short stretch of 60° weather, sunshine and a melt off. In other regions of the United States this event is less dramatic and therefore is called simply a thaw. The thawr reminds New Englanders that the Spring might actually be around the corner — and if we can hang on through one or two more blizzards we will be rewarded.  It is a tease, a respite from seasonal affective disorder, a lift from the gray blahs that always follow the holidays.  It is a time for wearing shorts for your daily jog along the Charles River.  It is always followed by chapped legs and an ungodly amount of snow.

We have been experiencing the thawr for the past 10 days or so.  I have not worn a coat or sweater.  My neighbors who were caught by an early snowstorm and never got their leaves picked up have been working in their yards to make things right. Christmas trees lie along the curb waiting to be picked up by the town, reminders that the festivities are over.  I’ll be glad when they have all been collected and that the only remnants of last season are the Christmas wreaths that are forgotten on doors until Easter.  Which reminds me, my wreath is still up — fetchingly decorated with tennis ball ornaments.

This afternoon we are going to take a car trip out to Concord so that my daughter can do some photography. She is trying out a new technique and Concord is very scenic.  And it gives us an opportunity for a family outing.  My favorite part of the trip is going over the Concord River and looking to see how high the water level is.  With the recent melt off it should be high and there will be a few sturdy rowers out in their canoes.  We usually stop near the river, sinking our shoes into the mud and getting some great photographs.

The January thawr is too good to waste staying indoors doing housework — that can wait for the gray return of winter.  Today I’ll put on my shorts and T-shirt and pretend it  is Spring.

OK, what’s with the vampires?

My daughter, age 23, college grad, sophisticated taste in literature, has been secret reading trash novels about vampires. I am not talking about Ann Rice novels — I am talking about pulp fiction aimed at preteens. “Delos’ breath on her delicate collarbone was like that slight breeze that rises just before a storm. He longed to possess her, to have her join him in a legacy as old as mankind.  He had but to break her lovely flesh, a small puncture, a lick of blood, and Susie would be his forever.”

I have to admit I have read almost all of the Ann Rice vampire novels along with her stories about witches and have thoroughly enjoyed them.  Rice created a new genre and introduced us to a fascinating other world.  The idea of being practically immortal is tantalizing, especially when the emphasis is on practically. The recipe for eradicating vampires includes the active ingredients: sunlight (for the younger vampires), stake through the heart, silver bullet, beheading (if done by another vampire), holy water, and being burned by touching a crucifix.  Unsuccessful techniques include internment, fire, poison, and starvation (of blood).

Teenage girls are particularly good vampire hunters — especially if they are on their high school gym team.  Semi-vampires like Blade are good too, but only with the aid of their posse.  Blade and the other vampires are part of the movie history starting with the 1922 silent film Nosferatu. And, of course, all these films owe their existence to Bram Stoker’s novel Dracula. Vampire movies featuring Dracula spawned all subsequent films in the genre including such cinematic greats as Vampire Hookers and Vampire Hunters.

So far in 2008, I have seen on television Blade, Buffy The Vampire Hunter, Underworld: Evolution, and The Lost Boys, which is why perhaps, when I found my daughters novel I felt that there were a few too many vampires in my life. Her book warns that there are vampires amongst us — colleagues, classmates, maybe even your boss… you won’t know until you were one of them.

The ideal time to become a vampire is when you were in your prime of life — since you will be frozen in time once you were turned.  I missed my chance and it would be really horrible to be a 58-year-old, fat female vampire with bad knees.  So bring on the garlic and holy water and a thick muffler to protect my neck.

Ciao Bella Miss Moneypenny

I have been out of touch with the ”real world” since October — tied up as I have been with getting ectomized and lobimized — and thus I missed the news that Lois Maxwell had died at the age of 80. Canadian born actress Maxwell was Miss Moneypenny in the first two decades of the James Bond films. With the exception of Q, she appeared in more Bond films than any other cast member, playing the role of M’s secretary.  There will never be another Miss Moneypenny — she wrote the book. Her Miss Moneypenny was attractive, intelligent, and humorous — she longed for and lusted after James but never enough to become one of his statistics. She was “the” strong, independent woman that I wanted to be. I am glad that I have Ms. Maxwell forever captured on DVD — but knowing that she has gone has made me sad.  Ciao Bella, Miss Moneypenny!  I hope that in Heaven you are promoted to be the Pearly Gates M!

The history of bathing (part 1)

Yesterday, as my daughter took her second shower of the day, I became fixated on informing myself about the history of bathing. I knew, of course, about Roman baths and the techniques of rubbing the body with fat and then scraping the skin clean. I knew that the middle ages were stinky and that indoor plumbing is a relatively recent development. But I wanted to know more. I googled “history of bathing” and was pleased to see that I am not the only person whose brain works in wondrous ways — there is a lot of info on the topic.

What is clear is that throughout history people have had it all wrong vis a vis washing themselves. No concept of germs of course, but also remarkably off-course notions about the association between reeking rancid odors and personal hygiene. If people can figure out how to make blue cheese they should be able to deduce that long-term avoidance of soap and water smells like blue cheese.

We will quickly breeze through Early Man — they did not bathe. Occassionally they ran into a river in their enthusiastic pursuit of wildebeast, coming out clean, but their sparkling bodies were almost always consumed by large reptiles on the water’s edge and thus their fellows had no opportunity to sniff the results. The Romans had public baths and also public toilets with shared sponges. The average life-span of a Roman was 23.  The Middle Ages saw the advent of the annual bath (for the rich) in which the lucky bather immersed him or herself in a barrel of cold water. The family would line up — papa got the first dip, then oldest son, next son etc. and then the females. By the time baby Sally got to use the water it was crusted. Average life span for females was 16.

During the Elizabethan period bathing was replaced with the use of perfume (to cover up smells) and wigs (to hide lice). When folks said their prayers at night they asked for only one thing — nasal congestion. However, in the following decades bathing became a bit more popular.

Napoleon Bonaparte bathed a lot — it took his servants only one trip to the well to fill up his mini tub. A  tub of hot water was kept constantly since the Petit emperor loved his bath and enjoyed submersing himself and flopping about like a little walrus. To keep his hair from getting wet he wore a bandanna in a manner very like the boyz from the hood. Following his bath he used an ample supply of eau du cologne, a gift from his wife Josephine. Despite his strong leadership, Napoleon’s countrymen did not follow his habits quite so ardently, having no servants to fetch water nor spare change to spend on exotic oils and emollients.  They continued the long history of stink.

$.99 candy and other important stuff

My local pharmacy devotes a large section of its candy isle to cellophane packages of $.99 candy.  The packages hang from pegs on a pegboard — some with signs featuring “buy one get one free”.  The sale candy is never what I want; it is always something like Canada mints or hard candy.  What I want are the packages of Double Bubble bubble gum and sour gummy worms. Swiss chocolate has its place, Italian nougat has its place, glaced fruit dipped in dark chocolate has its place — they all line up after $.99 candy from the drugstore.

Which reminds me of the show I attended at the Museum of Fine Arts recently about the style of the Napoleonic Empire. It is quite clear that Napoleon was torn in terms of Interior decorating.  His philosophy was to reject the opulence of the previous decades, to return to the simplicity of the ancient Greeks and Romans.  But he also felt it was vitally important that France be seen as the best of the best… and that in Napoleon’s mind that was translated into gilding, ermine, and lavish finery. The execution of his philosophy missed the mark completely.  All I could think of was that Marie Antoinette looked like she shopped at the thrift shop in comparison. My favorite object in the exhibit was a cup made of silver that had been molded around Napoleon’s sisters breast (apparently it was quite the rage to have a set of boob cups).

I am reading two books about Marie Antoinette at the moment — Antonia Fraser’s biography of the Queen and Abundance, a fictionalized account of her life by Naslund. I became fascinated by the woman and the period while watching Kirstin Dunst portray Marie Antoinette in the movie.  She managed to convey qualities of both intelligence and bovineness mixed with a well trained duty and sweet disposition.  It is a strange movie with a background of contemporary music, little dialogue, and sumptuous sets and costumes.  Once I have had enough of the Queen I will move on to study Madame Du Barry — another fascinating woman of the court of Louis XVI.

In addition to my New Year’s resolution to read more, I have resolved to retire my credit cards and live on cash.  I am happy to report that it is January 5 and I have not use my credit cards once all year!  My immediate goal is to save enough money to go on holiday in March to some place warm.  I am thinking about Key Biscayne since they have a tennis tournament there and fine beaches.

I am making good progress with Dragon NaturallySpeaking.  I learned how to create macros to do important things like send love notes to my husband via e-mail, insert pictures of kittens in word processing documents, and how to open my web browser and go directly to my favorite site.  I got very confused last night because the voice recognition software would just not work at all unless I spoke very loudly.  It took me a while to realize I had put on the wrong headset(I use a headset for conference calls on the phone) and my Dragon headset was lying on the desk and only picking up those words I spoke sufficiently loudly that they were recorded in its microphone. Nero Kitty does not like all the headsets and wires that surround me at my desk — he prefers simplicity.  His new favorite toy being a mylar helium balloon with a long ribbon.