Show N Tell

Hannah experienced the big toe reveal -- not the BIG toe but the BIG reveal. She's been bugging me to see my toes for awhile because they are beautiful  underneath the compression bandaging worn for primary lymphedema, she's thinking there might be candy or a present of some sort. Little does she know -- my toes look like more like chubby weebles or maybe a miniature version of Mount Rushmore.

Because I wear compression hose, my toes are almost always hidden under several layers, - those several layers are especially fun to wear in the months of July, August and September while visiting relatives in Georgia or maybe sight-seeing in NY, or when visiting tropical islands or experiencing a hot-flash, or while breathing. Shoes, socks, bandages, compression hose, toe caps, and pants worn on top of the whole conglomeration of medical necessities, my toes are buried much like the little candies and gifts deep down at the bottom of your Christmas stocking. I think that's more what Hannah had in mind.

Hannah spent the night at my junkhouse on Friday. When she knew we'd be getting ready for bed, the excitement was palpable. She declared with gusto, "This must be tomorrow because you are showing me your toes, and you said you would show me your toes tomorrow!" Love that logic! Nice to know that's how to figure out the schedule. Based on whatever day I finally decide to show you my toes. "Today must be when hell freezes over because that's when you said you'd show me your toes!"

Like a mummified Gypsy Rose Lee - with kankles, I removed my shoes, pants, then the bandaging, then compression stockings, backing out of my clothing, finally revealing -- my. left. foot. Upon seeing my foot, Hannah got a look on her face of sheer terror, as she held up her right hand in that "talk to the hand" pose, half covering her face, and exclaimed, "JAN!, your toes are really creeping me out!" Then she lay back in bed, desperate to gain back a smidgen of four-year-old little girl composure, back of her hand to her forehead. Then she immediately sat back up, looked at my toes again, slightly shielding her eyes from the horror, like driving by a train wreck with decapitated bodies. And with trepidation, she asked to see my other foot. Being the loving, sharing auntie that I am, I showed her my other foot. Once again, Hannah gasped in horror. Laying back in the bed again, trying feebly to regain composure. Sitting up again, a great idea came to her. She exclaimed with a joyous glee, "JAN!? You have to show your toes to my friends because they will be really creeped out!"

She wanted me to promise that my feet would stay far from hers throughout the night so with her permission I wore my Reid sleeves which I wear nightly, regardless (except on the nights that I "get lucky," and thankfully I have not been lucky in ages.) There has never been a case of spread through contact with creepy toes. You either have them or you don't. And I'm lucky! I got 'em!

None of this bandaging or compression hose for lymphedema is pretty though it's necessary for survival and necessary in maintaining lymphedema so the patient aka me, can walk -- like inhalers for asthma or braces for an enormous overbite or a wheelchair ramp for a wheelchair right smack in the front yard declaring to everyone driving by that someone inside that house has to use a wheelchair. Without compression, lymphedema worsens. Infections are likely and pain is a given. The only way I can describe the swelling would be to imagine your legs as a couple of 20 - 40 gallon aquariums. That heavy feeling is very painful. Some people with lymphedema have it way worse than I do. And some people hardly show sign or symptoms.

Long ago - back in the days of yore, I developed a theory (because I was born with creepy toes, my theory was part of a defense) that everyone on the planet has an issue - something that makes each one of them different though that difference is not always visible to the naked eye. I may have creepy toes but thankfully I can cover my toes with layers of bandages. Then when I go out to eat at swanky restaurants, the sweat can pour off my forehead into the soup and people can wonder why I sweat so much.

I asked Hannah if she loved me regardless of my creepy toes and of course, she said, "Yes!" I asked her if I should sleep outside because I had creepy toes and she said "No." Over time she'll discover that as humans, we all have our differences and sometimes those differences make us that much more lovable. Or at least that's the case with me.

Digging Up Dirt

You dropped the bomb right where we live
And just expect me to forgive...

Well that's a mighty big word for such a small man

And I'm not sure I can.

Rebecca Lynn Howard 

I used to consider myself an angry person. Angry at my body for being my body. Angry at my parents for forcing me to be born. Angry at my sister for being prettier, delicate. Angry at my brothers because they were boys, preferred. Angry at myself for being damaged. Angry when I got cancer. Angry because life isn't fair. Angry for feeling angry.


I was one of those angry people who thought they were supposed to express their anger because I grew up in that generation that said expressing your anger was the best way to deal with anger. But being angry makes me angry. 


And then there was that fateful day in the summer when my former bf read a list of reasons he no longer wanted to be in a relationship; the idea of our relationship ending, at least for me, came out of left field. A few days later when I was gathering up the last few belongings we shared, he tried to give me one more reason saying, with real tears streaming down his face, "well, you are an angry person" and I was incredulous as he was saying these words, and I said, "don't you even start." He'd already offered a list of reasons when the main reason he wanted to end the relationship was his dick (see, I told you I'm not an angry person). And I wasn't in the mood to listen to more nonsense. He was the one who complained about his work, his life, his kids, his employees. I guess he ought to know anger when he feels it! I was guilty of listening and sometimes offering assistance. My advice/assistance for you is, don't offer advice. Just nod.


I was angry momentarily back then though I was more sad than angered. The interesting thing is regardless of a person's pain, suffering or anger, life goes on. You gotta deal. And it's your choice how you choose to deal.


I was checking out Speaking of Faith and found they have a list of songs of revenge and forgiveness. I could have used this list many times. SOF says they received more song suggestions on revenge than forgiveness which is kind of funny - probably have to dig back into the 1960s for forgiveness music or church hymms. So often when we're in pain, we move to revenge over forgiveness -- that's been my experience though I move to forgive myself first, and then maybe I'll offer some forgiveness to the other person if there's any left over.  


My favorite song on their list: For Jan by Dave Hagedorn. I don't think the song sounds revengeful or forgiving. SOF wanted listener suggestions by asking what music was evocative in expressing forgiveness or expressed the desire for revenge? The music does not have to contain lyrics. It can be instrumental (with the accent on mental.) 


I never put much thought into music whether it was about forgiveness or revenge because I'm really not an angry, revengeful person (except sometimes when I write and use the word "dick" -- I don't care who tries to tell me I'm angry, I'm over it and they are wrong. So shut up.


Got any suggestions for tunes you can offer? 

Spring Training

I'm still a bit sickly though I've been going to work. This past Saturday morning, I could not even speak. I had laryngitis though that didn't stop me from going to the coffee shop with Hannah who wondered who I was throughout the morning.

"What happened to Jan?"

Prior to leaving the house, because I live alone -- I was thinking (to myself) how is it I know I can't speak? The voices in my head run amok without my mouth supervising. I was curious if I did not speak aloud like some tottering old fool (or most of the librarians I've known) how long would it take to discover that I had no real voice?

Late Saturday afternoon I heard someone at my front-door, a rarity.You'd have to be a very determined Jehovah's witness or LDS to minister in this neighborhood. This guy claimed he was ringing the (non-functioning) doorbell for ten minutes -- it has never been worked. Finally the stranger hollered through the bathroom window "are you here?" and I arose from the toilet I went to the door and saw a friend I had not seen in many months and invited him inside, warning him through my barking, gravely voice that I was sick.

We talked and laughed awhile though I mostly barked, squealed and snortle-ed when sounds actually came out  -- sort of a Lauren Bacall mimicking a baby seal or Kathleen Turner playing with her Hot Wheels™ collection.

My friend stayed for about an hour. We made sure we had each others phone numbers -- he will "phone in advance" next time so I can make sure my car covers underwear are picked up off the kitchen floor.

The entire time this person was at my house, I could not recall his name. At one point in our conversation, I even recited his phone number back to him from memory. He was impressed with my memory for numbers (though my memory is selective). I didn't have the heart (or voice) to tell him that I had no idea his name. And it wasn't until late Saturday night that I remembered who he was. Not that there's anything spectacular about his name - last name Jones. I simply could not put a name to his face. Talk about making an impression. I'm hoping it's a side-effect of the current illness and not early onset death.

this is an actual wild animal -r u scared?
While I was at my home scratching my head trying to remember who I was, why there was a strange man who's name I did not know sitting in my living-room, and who was making that obnoxious barking sound (me), my sister, Hannah's "bam-mah" (yes, we're Oakies) told me that they'd had an crazy incident with a wild turkey (see -- I told you!) attacking them.

Unfortunately Hannah witnessed much of the turkey attack though thankfully she was inside the house. Hearing her bam-mah's frantic screaming, witnessing the turkey clucking and gobbling, chasing  bam-mah round and round the car while she screamed for her life, fleeing in the opposite direction of the turkey who, innocently enough, only wished to make mad, passionate love to its reflection in the shiny rear bumper of the Prius (offering an even more valid excuse not to wash my car, ever). Upon hearing the commotion, Hannah's Grandpa dove out da house, grabbing a long-handle, car-wash scrub-brush, swinging like a caveman in spring training, landing a home-run upon the heart broken bird, causing this predator turkey to retreat post-haste.


Then in an effort to pretend things were back to normal, post turkey-attack, Hannah phoned, asking me to come for Sunday tea where we ate tiny (dammit!) pieces of cake on doll-sized plates and drank soothing cups of green tea. Later I stood guard, protecting bam-mah and Hannah from the vicious, wild forest animals while they luxuriated in the hot-tub.

Au Bon Pain

Dr. J knows how much I love food especially bakeries because he and I have kept an ongoing correspondence involving cinnamon rolls, belly jelly rolls, sugar, chocolate, cake, cookies, candies, sweet treats, cellulite and chins.


In this guest post, Dr J writes about the best part of a trip to California, eating and when not writing about food and eating, he writes about food and health at CalorieLab.


Take it away, Dr. J!


It’s not uncommon for food to be intertwined with our numerous memories of people and places, and no food has ever had that effect more for me than a good bread! Interestingly, the expression to break bread implies to bring people together, even as the term break itself means to separate.

It was a beautiful morning! Not that California mornings were ever any other way but beautiful, except to the locals who over time often got accustomed to living in paradise! We had been in the San Francisco area for a few days, visiting my mom’s relatives, a wonderful couple who had actually met at my parent’s wedding. They lived in Hillsborough, just a few blocks from a home owned by the Hearst family, descendants of William Randolph, and famous for among other things, their daughter Patty, who had been a neighborhood friend of their daughters.

Coming over the crest at  Half Moon Bay, We could see the whole of the blue Pacific through the window of the red rent-a-car, now christened the “Rice-A-Roni.”  The plan was to drive south along Highway 1 to the Monterey / Carmel area and do some sightseeing. For those who have never driven this outstanding road, it snakes along the edge of the ocean with small mountains on one side and sharp cliffs on the other. As inviting as the magnificent view can be, it is prudent to keep your eyes on the road, especially when driving south along the cliff’s edge! Having some wisdom, the planners of this highway put many scenic overlooks along the way for drivers to have their fill of the wonderful views without later needing some surgeon to have to repair their injuries for their inattentiveness to keeping the car between the lines. .

Having made numerous stops to soak in the scenery, We arrived in the mid afternoon to the lovely town of Santa Cruz. Highway 1 goes through the center of the town, with their mountains off to the east and the ocean off a bit to the west. We were getting a little hungry by this point and it was then we noticed a small sign for a bakery, “The Buttery,” just ahead. As I said, I’ve always liked bread so I didn’t have to think twice about stopping there.

A very good bread!

I pulled Rice-a-Roni off to the side of the road and we headed into the bakery. The mixture of all those wonderful smells from the multitude of baked goods filled the air. There were so many different breads to choose from, but I was drawn to one, not too dark, not too light, just right loaf. It was warm and moist, right from the oven. It tasted so good! I’ve long remembered some of the best breads I’ve ever had, and this bread went to that special part of my personal list. To this day, when I think about if I ever moved to California to live, Santa Cruz is my go to location, and I owe it all to that day when we found a very good bread!


*************
When Dr. J comes back to Santa Cruz, we'll hang out and have a tea party. This is a photo I took of a piece of cake I had over the weekend from The Buttery. It's their chocolate peanut butter cake and it weighs about 5 pounds in the box. Hannah and I used Hannah's tiny tea set and forks to eat our miniature slices.

More Recipes for Disaster

I really have nothing to say, mostly because I have a sore throat, am still recovering from this cold, and you know how much we use our throats when we write? I mean, all that hemming and hawing, the additional ole-lady noise-making that I wrote about in the previous post. Well, I'm still making noises. And today is Friday and that means tomorrow is Saturday and maybe I'll be running a GD fever by this time tomorrow.

I mentioned in my previous post that I had rushed to the library to find it closed. Well, after that experience I did something smart(er) I went online to find the library hours and discovered the library hours, and now I'm aware of the hours that all the librarians are working so I can go rob them while they're at work. If fewer libraries put their hours online, eventually they'd have to remain open to help all the people wandering in asking "what are your hours?" Libraries have defeated the purpose of the library by providing too much of their own information online. Dammit.

I went to the library during the fifteen minutes they were open this past Wednesday evening  when I was catching my cold so I made sure to spread the germ and give them something to do on their off hours. The place was packed with people trying to use the internet, read, find books, ask questions and me. All the homeless, the bereft and forlorn, the friendless, bookless, the great unwashed (as MH used to refer to them), the internet-less or those, like me, who have a satellite connection that's so slow it's much faster to walk to the library (10 miles to town) and wait for them to open than it is to surf the internet from home hoping the satellite connection will eventually connect.

While there I picked up three books, two of them on crock-pot recipes, one of those books on 5 ingredient recipes. A crock-pot recipe book that uses 5 ingredients, none of which ingredient calls for the actual crock-pot. I looked through the book and found numerous (duplicate) recipes for "Cream Chicken," "Creamy Chicken," "Creamier Chicken," "Creamiest Chicken." It appears that the three most common ingredients in these recipes is chicken, mushroom soup and salt. After you add those three items, you simply change the recipes around by adding garlic (Creamy Garlic Chicken), adding basil (Creamy Basil Chicken) or adding cherry jello (Creamy Fruity Chicken). Then you plug in the crock-pot and forget about it until later that week. If you're really in the mood to impress, having guests over, or meeting the in-laws for the first time, you can zip up your creamy chicken recipes by adding an envelope of onion soup mix, a can of green peas or a handful of razor blades. Yummy!  Cooking is just that simple.

I'm going back to the library tomorrow. They are open in the afternoon from 1pm to 1:12pm.  I will hurry so I don't raise any suspicion. My plan is to put the 5 ingredient crock-pot cookbook back on the shelf where no one can find it.

On a serious note, I cooked this dish this past week and it was really yummy.

That's about the extent of my excitement for today, being sick and whiny. I hope you didn't get this far in the post.

What's All that Racket?

I have not been sick in months (that I can recall other than sporadic mental-illness). No colds, runny noses, flu, cancer, nothing. I swear by probiotics. I take them daily - though I have no idea if probiotics are keeping me healthy - I just swear by them because I like to cuss. The big news today is I seem to have caught a cold.

When I am sick and even when I'm not sick  I make some pretty strange noises. I know this because I have ears, plus my first witness  sister says she can hear my weird noises. We both heard these noises last night while driving home from a brief trip to the library that was closed because libraries are no longer open. Silly me, I had forgotten - the librarians have all been laid off and can only get work as unemployed people.

On a recent trip to my doctor (not the cute doctor but the old knowledgeable one aka Old Knowledgeable One), I told him of my concern that I make throaty, gurgley noises when I am sickly (or becoming sickly). I mentioned this because I'm thinking I may never get a date again. I'm at the point where the mysterious, gurgley noises are becoming part of my personality, like a silly laugh, a quirky guffaw or (as I am aging), my nose becoming ultra-cute  like Karl Malden's. OKO laughed with at me. Then Old Knowledgeable One snorted, choked and sputtered.

When I'm out among them, I hear guys making weird noises, and they go out on dates - in fact some of them are even married - to people. I've also heard a fair share of men (along with an occasional "woman"), snort (with a hearty blast) mucus up their nose like that was the only meal they would eat that week - a despicable habit that practically makes me want to vomit which is another disgusting noise in the scheme of bodily noises.

Speaking of bodily noises, Hannah shrieked in total fear for the first twenty minutes while on our surrey bike ride last Saturday, adding much to my enjoyment.  A small surrey would have had the four of us (especially Hannah) bulging out of the sides of the bike like the Keystone Kops. We rented the bike for an hour which was plenty - the weather was cold and sunny - probably when I caught the cold germ, riding out on that trail wearing only a bikini. The peddling looked exhausting and would have been if I had actually contributed (don't tell anyone). Riding a surrey bike is unusual so people stare and laugh at/with you. You forget you look ridiculous on this bike - and thankfully forgetting is half the fun - I think - because if I had remembered, I probably would not have done it. While the surrey ride wasn't exactly high on my bucket list, taking this little trip was something different, the views of the back of Hannah's head were great while all our collective grunts, screams and assorted bodily noises flew by in the wind.

When I am an Old Woman

I took yesterday off of work to have the dermatologist look at a melanoma mole which turned out not to be a melanoma though the mole looked very melanoma-y to my google image untrained eye.

Dr. Doogie Howser is 17 years old and cute as a bug. Each time I see him, he gets noticeably younger unless it's my eyeballs playing tricks on me. When I saw Dr. Kildare yesterday, I said, "You got younger!" to which he replied, "So did you!" I said, "I just had a birthday so I think you're wrong." Then he told me his birthday is next week and he's celebrating with a trip to Waikikiblahblahblah, my listening capabilities fading with each word. I sit here with a melanoma mole the size of a SUV, you have fun on your Hawaiian vacation, Dr. Bragger. Don't worry about me. John boy here and me, we'll do just  fine.

Dr. Doogie Kilhowser-boywonder and I got down to business (no, not THAT kind of business). He eyeballed my mole. This mole was black with a nice saturn-planet-y-type red ring around it. For the past week I'd look up melanoma on the internet and each time, all the images looked exactly like photos of my mole. The doctor said, "This doesn't look good. To be on the safe side, we better get a biopsy." I concurred because I am a junior associate doctor trained on the finest websites on the internet. He said, "You have a 1 in 500 chance of this being bad." I concurred again, "Let's be on the safe side, cut John Boy off my leg and let's do a biopsy." What are the chances that the uterine cancer has spread to my mole already? I suppose it could happen. The doctor did not think so though. What do they know!? They are so young and good looking and young and innocent in a youngish way with beautiful blue eyes and fine features and a big paycheck.

He stabbed John Boy with a needle of lidocaine in preparation for hacking the mole off along with a chunk of my left knee. The mole immediately started bleeding. Come to fine out (which is a medical phrase), this non-cancer-y mole was more of a blood blister on top of a mole. I had irritated the mole using compression bandaging for my lymphedema. I'd rather have compressed lymphedema (because compression is far more comfortable than walking around with aquariums for legs especially without a few of the prettier cichlids) than an red-ringed black mole. Cindy Crawford has the patent on moles as beauty marks. My mole cannot compare to Cindy Crawford except in size.

The doctor told me that once he poked a hole in my mole and it bled, my chances of croaking from yucky mole went from 1 in 500 to 1 in 1,000,000 (paraphrase). We decided against surgery with the careful application of a tiny round Band-Aid (.02 cents for me to purchase from my local drugstore, and $102.20 from the clinic, not including the needle and surgery kit at $565.00). I paid my $20 copay and left. I swear I'd pay $20 to have a cup of coffee with this doctor and I'd buy (whatever he wanted).

Afterward I stopped at Trader Joe's where instead of using my ATM credit card or cash, I tried swiping my driver's license when it came time to pay for some brown rice and spinach.

I swear I'm losing my mind and at least I have you as a witness. I keep doing things that I'd make fun of an older person for doing if I saw an older person doing these things. At least I'm still young enough to be aware that I'm doing these things. I think. I doubt that people (store clerks and both of my sons) who notice me doing absent-minded things with which I'd make fun of old people are thinking I'm too young to be doing these things. They are thinking, if at all, "Wow, that is one funny old woman trying to use her drivers license to buy food. I hope someone else is driving."

After the mole incident I met a friend for lunch. We ate at Jia Tella in Scotts Valley. Yummy Cambodian food, and my wonderful friend - she will never kick me off the island unlike someone I knew way back when whom I won't mention though not because I'm being nice, it's because I forgot his name.

We paid cash for lunch to avoid using my drivers license to pay for food twice in one day. I don't have much money in that account.

Growth

Today is my birthday, and as a friend pointed out, as old as I am I'm still not mature.



On Sunday, Hannah came over to my junkhouse and announced upon entering that "it is kind of clean in here." What a disappointment! Then Hannah and I played mess up the junkhouse, a fun game, so now there's crap all over the house and I am once again, redeemed.


Hannah's imagination is remarkable. Boxes become kitchen appliances, yard-art becomes a soup tureen, a fishnet is a spoon, and I have to eat the "soup." Because she's not my kid, I let her use her imagination which involves using whatever I own to help with her kid creations. But I'm beginning to think it's Hannah's who's the junkie.


After the day got too cold to be outside, we went inside the house. I sat down on the couch to rest because it's exhausting being alive watching kids play. Hannah came over to where I was seated, and put her head in my lap. She said, "I missed you." And I said, "What did you say?" She said, "I missed you." Then I asked her if she knew that that [phrase] meant? 


We all grow up saying "I miss you" to people  though I'm not sure I ever remember knowing exactly what that phrase meant before I first said it. So when Hannah said it, it got me thinking. It's more of a phrase we'd say based on a feeling we're experiencing. Similar to the phrase "I love you" comes from a bundle of feelings. We don't analyze the meaning beneath the phrase very often. We feel the feelings, and then we say "I love you" and sometimes after we've said it awhile, it begins not to mean that much at all -- sort of like white noise. It's something we take for granted, something in the background, and in some cases, something that means nothing to the person saying it or the person receiving it.


 "I miss you..." was incredibly sweet coming from Hannah. I knew she meant it. When a four year old says "I miss you" does their heart ache when you aren't there in front of them? Based on my own feelings about Hannah, I would venture that "I miss you" means something along the lines of "I have so much fun with you that when I'm not with you, it's like I cannot find a piece of the puzzle. I know you're not with me; you're missing. And I'm very happy when I finally find you. The puzzle is complete." 


For me, it's been two years (almost to the day) post-chemotherapy. I'm happy to have this time to watch this precious little girl grow, and to experience all the big girl growth for myself. I wouldn't trade this time for anything, not the aches and pains of aging, the breakups or the letdowns because there is so much good in between bad, so much pleasure between pain, and incredible joy between sorrow. 


So far my birthday plans involve a bit of tequila and a lemon poppyseed cake from The Buttery because both are mandatory (for me). I can't drink much so this tequila is more ceremony than celebratory though since it's my birthday there is celebration in that fact, regardless. I have made it this far! Next Saturday I'm going riding in a surrey bicycle in Pacific Grove with some of my favorite people on the planet -- though not all of my favorite people or you'd be going with us too!

Well Travelled Roads

On the way to work one day this week, I came upon a road closed sign that was placed across the entire width of the road. This placement of a sign is indicative of significant road closure ahead. Typically, a road closed sign would be placed to one side of the road which translates to some people (me) as proceed at your own risk. But I hit the big time with this road block. I had to back my car up in the thick mud, turn around among fallen branches and more mud, and find another way around the mess. I swear I thought the only way around (any situation) was through. But I was wrong. You can't go through a landslide. It's dirty. Muddy. Wet. Slippery. Difficult.

I found a way around the mess, sigh
I took a road more traveled by.


This has been an interesting, though tough week. Recent conversations with close friends and family have me feeling sadness -- though I realize that their problems are not my problems. On the horizon are some big decisions these people have to make. Their situations got me thinking about my own experience with heartache. It's so inconvenient when things happen that cause me to connect with my own suffering. It means a wound is still open.

Connecting with other people's difficulties when those feelings bring up pangs of sorrow inside of me is the sting that reminds that I am experiencing my life. Not everything can be laughs and giggles. Dammit.

Natural Disasters

Friday evening I arrived home from work to an overflowing "creek" on the opposite side of the road from my house. I spent an hour shoveling thick mud to divert a disaster and found muscles I didn't know I had. My neighbor who's clear cut his little part of the forest doesn't realize it but every time it rains, kind of like the song says (paraphrasing) his land becomes my land.
Racoons visited later that evening. They came unannounced through the dog door that my one cat uses when she can be bothered. I don't have a dog (yet) though if I did, it would be a corgi I'm seriously considering a coon hound. The raccoons ate all the cat food, wet and dry, and then weighed themselves on my scale; their dirty foot prints (not mine) visible on the clear glass. While raccoons are breaking and entering, uninvited, they *are* also watching their weight which is a trait I admire.


Saturday brought the horrific earthquake in Chile and the tsunami in Hawaii and elsewhere though my son lives in Waikiki so we spent time "together" online watching and waiting. Really nothing happened. Muddy water in Hilo bay. All the Waikikians spent their days holed up in their high-rise apartments. My son said the biggest excitement was that someone peed off the balcony above their apartment - No tsunami, a golden shower.


I am painting a night stand and almost have it finished. The most difficult part of the process was deciding on the paint color, a sort of beige-brown, the color of boredom.

I started reading a new book The End of the World as We Know it recommended by Sherry of niteswimming. I love a good memoir and this is killer.

I cancelled a get-together with my good friend, PK.

I went out to dinner with my sister, her husband and Hannah. While at the restaurant I allowed Hannah to stand on her chair (oh, the horrors!) with my huge camera and take photos of the strolling Mariachi singers. Only a 4 year old can get away with this kind of behavior in a restaurant and then, only for a few moments. She's been taking photos for awhile now,  developing a discerning eye and adult-like criticisms fly while shooting photos. "Move in closer!" "Keep your eyes open!" "Do this!" All these demands! She looks oddly adult with a huge camera slung around her neck, and has a sassy assuredness while snapping away. When the Mariachi singers came to our table, they sung to her and she buried her head in her hands.

I got a manicure and immediately went out to dig in the mud and plant more seeds. Got a lot of gardening accomplished though most of the dirt is still mud.

I exercised every day this past week; watched what I ate following WW guidelines and gained a pound at the meeting on Sunday. But as I heard Oprah say to Kirstie last Thursday, "It's not the number, it's how you feel." I feel like smacking someone.

I talked to my young-ish buddy at TJ's. I was not very authentic when I rounded a corner and saw him standing with his usual shoulder length dark brown hair dyed a minty bluish-green. I was taken aback but said, "I like your hair!" What a phony! Even though I'm nearing 100 years of age, I like to appear open-minded and younger. His hair looked more like a mistake. He said "I don't think this color will get me a date but I felt like I needed a change." Blue hair is definitely a change, and yeah, you're probably right about the date. He mentioned that he always liked the punk rock era of Johnny Rotten and Sid Vicious even though he's young enough to be Sid Vicious' grandchild.

Late yesterday I got a tick. I'm not referrring to a tick where your eye twitches or you have a mild facial spasm. I'm talking about the kind of tick that crawls across your neck while you are gardening. Busy, mud up to elbows, mud to the tops of your shoes, stuck in weeds and blackberries. Nonchalantly you brush at this quasi-creepy something or other feeling on your neck with the back of your hand, thinking it's probably a sweat ball, and hours later, you find some thing embedded in your shoulder flesh under your bra strap. You don't even stop to think about what that feeling is as you pull the foreign object out - who cares about it's head getting stuck!? You can always set the head on fire later while it's still inside your flesh. This is a very tiny tick, they are always tiny at first until they're filled with your blood and guts. You swore you would not kill anymore bugs because you never know if it's a long lost cousin or a dead buddha. Typically you scoop up those huge spiders letting them loose outsider rather than smashing them with the latest Oprah magazine. But in this case, you immediately flush the tick down the toilet. And worry about karma later unless karma was the entire weekend of floods, raccoons, earthquakes, tsunamis, gaining weight and blue hair on your fantasy date if only you could be eighteen again.