Anger

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.

Starbuck$

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.

The invention of the catapult

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.

Careen, no offense, prejudice against the ill

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.

Road Trip: 1949

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.

Double Wedding Ring Quilt Class Report

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.

Breakdown’s first anniversary

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!

It is Friday afternoon…time to get sick

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.

Snippets and Blabbery

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.

Here’s a really bad idea: faking it in tai chi class

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.”

Travels with Roda: Man whores, Filipino Norwegians, and Bailey’s

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.   

Law and Disorder

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.