Geezer-Chick

A Maturing Web Artist

noreply@blogger.com (Geezer Chick) — Tue, 29 May 2012 17:26:00 +0000

About ten years ago I web-met (is that a verb?) A young children’s writer and artist, Valerie Melville. We were both nominees for awards in EPIC (Electronic Publishing Industry Coalition) http://www.epicorg.com

Valerie has social skills that I lack. It would never have occurred to me to write her. She was obviously friends with many other EPIC members and she was obviously young. In my experience young writers who have fans don’t socialize with geezers.

But since she wrote to me, I wrote back. During these 10 years, Valerie has married, become the mother of two girls, moved to Alaska and now Texas. And her art style has changed. When we met, she described her art as “ugly.” But she willingly donated digital downloads to a charity I support. Read A Good Story, Do a Good Deed http://www.simegen.com/simecenter/

Her art style has gone through several transitions. Most recently, she created a zazzle account under the name AbundanceLoveTrip. Her art used to be representational. Now it is abstract.

Her life questions used to be simple – will I meet someone I want to marry? Will I find work that I love? Now she is part of the general soap opera. She has taken care of her husband in illness and helped her children with their learning difficulties. These growth experiences show in her new art.

I have seen her perspectives change from thinking she was a grown-up in her early 20's to knowing that we’re never grown-ups but have to play the part, now that she’s in her 30's.

Web-meeting someone by intermittent correspondence is often more indepth than working with them daily. We don’t have to be on good behavior when we write emails. I find this kind of friendship works.

An Argument in an Old Marriage

noreply@blogger.com (Geezer Chick) — Tue, 22 May 2012 15:27:00 +0000

My husband, the alien, likes to carry things for me. It’s a hold-over from the way males used to be raised. And I admit, if it’s something heavy, I appreciate the help.

But he doesn’t only carry heavy things.

Recently, we were on vacation. Our hotel had a swimming pool. As we prepared to swim, I wanted to put my room key somewhere safe – not just wrapped in a towel. So, I put my room key and towel and goggles into my swim bag. Unfortunately, a bag is officially “something to carry.” We also carried our laundry sacks because we were going to the hotel laundry after our swim. On the way to the pool, we both had our hands full. My husband is okay with me carrying something if his hands are full, too.

We swam. The pool used a new form of sanitation – the water was salty. Afterwards we soaked for a while in the whirlpool, but I didn’t like it. The whirlpool reeked of chlorine. We got out. We dried off. We went to the laundry room. I put down my swim bag (now with damp towel, goggles and room key card) so I’d have two hands free to load up the washing machine. My husband was no longer holding a laundry bag. I still had my towel bag.

That’s when it happened. My husband grabbed my swim bag.

Normally, this is no big deal. I’m with him. He has a room key card. We’re not going to be locked out. But he was busy reading the instructions on the dryer. And the skin on my feet began to feel like it was going to crack open. I don’t know if it was the salt, the chlorine, or the combination. All I knew was that I needed to wash my feet with regular water and get hand lotion on them. FAST!

“Please give me my swim bag.”

He kept on reading the dryer instructions. Probably my request made no sense to him. We weren’t going back to the pool. He didn’t know my room key was in the bag. He didn’t know I wanted to go to the room. He was being a helpful male, holding my bag. And my feet were becoming more painful by the nano-second.

“Please I need my swim bag.”

He kept on reading the dryer instructions.

“My key card is under the towel in the bag. I need the key card. You can have the bag back. Please let me get the key card.” My feet felt like they were on fire.

Finally he turned to me. “Why?”

“I need to get to the room to put hand lotion on my feet.”
“Why?”

“My feet hurt! Please hurry! Please give me my key card.”

My husband thinks walking is hurrying. “I have a key card.”

He held it out. I reached for it. I didn’t care whose key card I used. I had to get that hand lotion on my feet before they cracked open and all my blood poured out.

“I’m hurrying.” My husband began to saunter towards our room.

I’m not supposed to run with my artificial hip. But I ran.

To his credit, my husband almost kept up with me.

Then he put his key card in the slot upside down. It didn’t work. He pulled it out and put it back again, still upside down.

“Let me try.”

He tried a few more times. My feet burned.

“You’ve got it upside down.”

He turned it over. It still didn’t work. A few more tries and the door was unlocked. I pushed past him to the bathroom.

“Why are you angry?” He looked at me totally puzzled.

As the hand lotion soothed into my feet, I couldn’t believe we were having this conversation.

“You took my swim bag. It had my key. I needed my key to get in the room to get the hand lotion because my feet hurt. You wouldn’t give me my bag. You wouldn’t give me a key. You had to be in charge and I was in pain.”

“I like to help you.”

“It wasn’t helping to take my bag.”

“Okay, I’ll never carry anything for you again.”

“You’ve promised that before.”

If he’d grabbed my bag on one our first dates, I’d have stopped seeing him. And I’d have missed out on a lot of good experiences.

But after more than 45 years, this is just one of the arguments we have over and over. I just bought one of those key pockets that goes on shoes. He has never taken my shoes. Maybe this time I’ve got the problem solved.

I Have no Nipple and I Must Squirt

noreply@blogger.com (Geezer Chick) — Fri, 18 May 2012 21:36:00 +0000

When I was nursing, my breasts were often full of milk. When my husband, the alien, said something off-the-wall in the privacy of our home, I would squirt him. I also appreciated the comfort of nursing.

After the mastectomy my breasts again filled with fluid. I knew it wasn’t milk. Not only did I not have a recent childbirth, all my milk ducts were gone. There are only two other bodily fluids that can be in breasts: blood and lymph. Blood tends to discolor the skin and it clots. My skin was blue from the dye to detect the sentinel lymph nodes, during the lumpectomy the week before. It’s a blue that might look good on a blouse – not a bruise blue with green and yellow borders.

The only other fluid I figured it could be was lymph. Lymph has its own circulation system that carries proteins, white blood cells, and fluids that move between cells. It’s a major part of the immune system. But since 8 of my lymph nodes had been removed, part of that system had been damaged and the excess lymph was pooling where my breast used to be.

The day after my mastectomy (this is an out-patient surgery unless you want reconstruction) a woman called from the hospital to ask how I was doing. I told her about the lymph building up in my breast area. She asked, “How do you know it’s lymph?” I had no desired to give this woman a course in biology. I wanted to know what to do about it and I wanted her off the phone. So, I said, “I don’t know that it’s lymph. For all I know it’s soup.”

That seemed to pacify her. She told me to wrap an elastic bandage around my chest when I’m not in the shower, and to show it to my surgeon at my one-week checkup.

The pressure built and built – like a breast that needs to nurse. By the time I saw my surgeon, my missing breast was a big as my remaining breast. It filled the cup on my bra. My surgeon took one look at it and got out a huge syringe with a thick needle. I freaked. She made no comment – just jabbed the thing into me below the incision line. All I felt was a little pressure. No pain.
“Did it go numb?”
“Of course it’s numb.”
Then I remembered – my shoulder is still numb in areas affected by the collar bone repair and my thigh is still numb near the hip replacement scar. While my self-image is that I’m one of the healthiest people on the planet, my insurance company would tell a different story.

I watched. The surgeon kept poking that syringe into me, filling it up and draining it. “Why are you watching?” asked the surgeon. “Why not?” I asked. “Men don’t look,” said my surgeon. “They always look away.” I looked away. When she finally finished, she’d removed at least a cup of fluid.

The same thing happened the next week. Another cup.

The third week it was down to half-a-cup.

Even if I can’t feel it, I don’t like needles going in instead of fluid squirting out.

I went for my vacation. About 2 weeks into it, my breast was huge again. I wasn’t sure I could make it 3 weeks. Then the fluid started to thicken and my former breast began to shrink.

I had expected to be flat where my breast was removed. Now it’s sticking out about an inch from my chest and the edges of it feel like scar tissue. I guess it’s time to go get fitted for a mastectomy bra.

Relay for Life--a Healing Experience, Part Two

noreply@blogger.com (jean) — Fri, 11 May 2012 01:35:00 +0000

I am Jean Lorrah, writing a guest post on the Geezer-Chick blog.

A few days ago I told you about my first experience with Relay for Life, experiencing it as a healing circle even when I didn't know anyone. Last week, though, I helped to introduce someone to Relay and to the Breast Cancer Support Group, and saw the healing take place anew.

I live in a neighborhood of single women, most widowed or divorced, some never married. One of my friends--I'll call her Elle--is legally blind, so I frequently drive her places, including sometimes to visit her friends.She and her other friends are deep into crafts, quilting, and all sorts of needlework, something I have no talent for and no interest in other than in obtaining the occasional beautiful finished product. A couple of times I drove her to visit a woman I'll call Pia, a recent widow who was withdrawing into her shell and her home.

Then, to make matters worse, Pia was diagnosed with colon cancer. At least she carried through with surgery and chemotherapy, but it gave her an even better excuse to retreat to her armchair and TV set. I didn't see her frequently, but any time I did she was sad and unwilling to do anything that might change her mood.

Elle comes with me to Relay every year because she was one of my caregivers when I had uterine cancer. This year she asked if we could invite Pia. I said sure, expecting exactly what happened: Pia didn't think she wanted to go, she probably wouldn't feel up to it, she didn't think it was for her. Elle kept after her, though--and to both our surprise, on Relay night Pia decided to go. She told me she didn't think she should go because she didn't know yet if she would be a survivor.

I explained that she became a survivor with her diagnosis. The point of surviving is to do it, day by day, and survivors support one another. So we got Pia registered, she put on her Survivor t-shirt, and we went over to the "campsite" of my Relay Team, The 8th Wonders. Our team is made up completely of breast cancer survivors, all members of our local Breast Cancer Support Group. The name, The 8th Wonders, comes from the fact that one in eight women will get breast cancer in her lifetime.

The team welcomed Pia with open arms, and she was amazed to discover that she already knew several of them. Then we took her to "Look Good, Feel Better," where a couple of makeup experts did a beautiful job of makeup on her. The neat thing about people called upon for Relay is that they know things like how to make a woman in her 70's look like a bright, natural, rested version of herself. By the time they were finished, Pia was smiling--and I realized it was the first time I had ever seen her smile!

We rejoined the 8th Wonders for the medal ceremony, the victory lap, and the family and caregivers lap. When the regular laps began, I had the first half-hour for our team, so I left Elle and Pia at the campsite, talking and laughing with the other members of the team and their families. Pia was quickly learning that Relay is not at all a sad experience. People of all ages, from babes in arms to very senior citizens, walk, dance, eat, and socialize. A member of every team is on the track at all times, while kids of all ages play games in the infield, and many of the teams sell hamburgers, barbecue, cupcakes, and old-fashioned beans and cornbread.

By the time I got back from my time on the track, Pia had been invited to join the support group. She was laughing and talking and coming right out of the shell she had been in since I first met her. By the way, although we are technically the Breast Cancer Support Group, because there are no local support groups for any other kind of cancer, we welcome anyone with cancer who needs us.

Pia's exuberance lasted all the way home. And Elle tells me it has continued since. Pia finishes her chemotherapy next week, after which tests will determine what further treatment she needs. The following week is the next support group meeting, and she has already arranged to go with one of her quilting friends who is part of the group.

So there it is again, the healing power of Relay for Life. It's a wonderful experience, and I encourage you to go to your local Relay and see it for yourself. You may be surprised to discover how many survivors you know: neighbors, teachers, members of your church, your clubs--we are everywhere. Chances are there is a cancer survivor in your family--so take him or her along. You both will have a better time than you ever expected--even a healing one.

If you would like to support Relay for Life and don't have a team of your own, you are welcome to support my team. Find my Relay Page here.

Relay for Life--a Healing Experience, Part One

noreply@blogger.com (jean) — Sun, 06 May 2012 22:27:00 +0000

I am Jean Lorrah, writing a guest post on the Geezer-Chick blog.

You have undoubtedly read about Geezer-Chick's recent experience with breast cancer. I had breast cancer eleven years ago, and uterine cancer five years ago--but I'm fine now and proceeding with my life.

Last Friday night was our local Relay for Life. I relay every year, because it is an incredibly healing experience.

I've been on a relay team for nine years now, but ten years ago, about three weeks short of a year after my own diagnosis, I went hesitantly to my first relay. Like most survivors, I didn't actually realize that I was one (survivorship begins at diagnosis). Still, I registered, purchased a luminarium in memory of my aunt who died of breast cancer in 1972 (having survived 20 years of recurrences through experimental treatments), donned the survivor t-shirt they gave me, and wandered around watching kids playing in the stadium infield and looking at all the sites run by the relay teams, selling food and trinkets and taking donations. That was the first surprise: everyone was having a good time--it was not the solemn occasion everyone expects the first time.

I picked up a flyer about a local breast cancer support group at the "campsite" of a group of exuberant women in pink t-shirts. I still wasn't quite sure what I was doing there or if I would ever attend again, but I joined the other survivors on the benches in the infield, and went forward to claim a medal when my name was called. It was heartening to see hundreds of survivors just from our county, and hear how long it was since their diagnoses: two years, five years, twenty years, even forty years! Cancer is no longer a death sentence.

The second surprise came next. After the medal ceremony came the survivor lap: all of us marched around the stadium track to the strains of "I Will Survive" and the cheers of onlookers. Suddenly I was in the midst of a healing circle. I can't really explain it. I am not religious and hardly even spiritual, but on a few occasions in my life I have felt something beyond the ordinary--and this was one of those occasions. I felt lifted, I felt connected, and I felt cured.

I stayed for the luminarium ceremony, the only solemn part of the relay, when the liminaria are lit, the lights are dimmed, and the names of those who have lost their battle with cancer are read out loud, while the names of those still surviving appear on a large screen--far outnumbering those being memorialized. After watching people walking the track, dancing, playing in the infield again, I left, still glad I had come.

When I later learned that the women in pink, who were having such a good time, were all breast cancer survivors representing the support group, I went to one of their meetings, joined up, and the rest is history.

That's my personal relay healing story, from ten years ago. Next time I will post the story of a woman who went to her first relay last Friday.

If you would like to support Relay for Life and don't have a team of your own, you are welcome to support my team. Find my Relay Page here.

Yay -- The Cancer is Gone

noreply@blogger.com (Geezer Chick) — Tue, 17 Apr 2012 17:11:00 +0000

Cancer raises many kinds of questions: the ones I have and the ones people ask me.

Mine:
Will I have to cancel my vacation?
How much medical stuff do I have to put up with?
What exactly is the pathology lab report and what does it mean?

People ask me:
Did you smoke? Anything?
Did you take hormone drugs during menopause?
Did you take Vitamin E?
Did you exercise?
Did you eat a healthy diet?
Do you meditate?
Do you have a high stress life?
Did you nurse your babies?
Basically – what did you do wrong?

In my case, I can go on my vacation. The pathology report from the lumpectomy meant that I had more than one site of DCIS, so I needed a mastectomy to get it all. The pathology report from the mastectomy meant that they did get it all and I don’t need radiation. One of my docs (you get a bunch in the cancer world) suggested I take anti-estrogen drugs. But the table she gave me showed that there is no survival advantage to taking them. There is a slight reduction in recurring tumors in women who take them, but the side effects are so awful, I’d rather risk another mastectomy. It’s 4% recurring without the drugs and 1% recurring with the drugs. Not a huge difference.

As for the questions from others – I really think the docs set the bar high because they think nobody can do it all, and then they can blame the victim. But in my case, I did nothing wrong. This blame the victim stuff is nonsense. There is nothing you can do to guarantee that you won’t get cancer. All anyone can do is self-checks every month and then if you do find a lump, see a doctor who can help.

I’m getting on with my life. I don’t yet know all the cancer checks I’m going to have to fit into my schedule. I know I have to go twice a year for the doctor’s hands-on boob check. I’m sure there will be more unpleasantries. From what I’ve read, I’m only considered high risk for 5 or 6 years.

I really hope the science wizards out there come up with a quick urine test kit for cancer like they have for pregnancy. Part of what makes cancer so scary is all the tests to figure out who has it where. It would be great if the test part could be simplified and pain free.

The Pathology Lab is Slooooowwwww

noreply@blogger.com (Geezer Chick) — Fri, 13 Apr 2012 20:29:00 +0000

The pathology lab is sloooowwwwww.

The more they drag things out, the more ornery I feel.

Meanwhile, the radiation doc is propagandizing me about anti-estrogen drugs. She wants me to take them. She says many women tolerate them well. And they reduce the chances of getting another tumor.

Okay, that’s one side of the story. But the paper she gave me about women who took just the anti-estrogen drug, just radiation, or both, showed that the survival rate is the same for all three groups. The women who took both did have slightly fewer tumors. Not enough fewer to make the side effects worth while.

Radiation doc didn’t mention that 35% of women who take anti-estrogen drugs experience short term memory loss, painful joints and brittle bones. That’s easy enough to find on the web. When I told her about them, she said, “If you get these side effects, you could switch to another drug or stop taking them.” I said, “There is no test for brittle bones, until you break one.” She agreed but thought the bone density test was helpful. I don’t see why. There is no connection between brittleness and density of bone. Women who took Fosamax to increase bone density also increased their bone brittleness.

I would way rather have my other breast removed if necessary than live with those side effects for a week, let alone the recommended 5 years. I went for a mastectomy to save my life. A life with those side effects would not be worth living. I couldn’t write. I couldn’t exercise. I couldn’t fix computers. I couldn’t do most of the things I enjoy.

Then there’s the question of radiation. My surgeon said the fascia was clean – no cancer cells. That means no cancer cells got outside of the breast. Since radiation is used to kill cancer cells, I don’t see why I’d need it. The entire breast is gone.

But Radiation doc says that there were some cancer cells near the margin of the breast. I don’t know why that matters. But she says the number of cells near the margin do matter. So, we’re waiting to find out what that number is.

The longer I have to wait, the more ornery I become.

Meanwhile Balance Guy gave me a great visualization to do:
Think about something that makes me smile. Then transfer that smile to my breast and to the area where my other breast used to be, to help heal.

Cancer is Chaos

noreply@blogger.com (Geezer Chick) — Fri, 30 Mar 2012 15:11:00 +0000

This cancer stuff is vicious.

I got the report on the lumpectomy. They didn’t get it all, so now I have to go back for a mastectomy. I asked the surgeon to schedule it soon so I could get it over with. She asked if I want reconstruction. I told her, no.

She insisted I make an appointment to talk to a plastic surgeon. I called. The man is on vacation. I couldn’t see him until next Tuesday and his receptionist said I could be waiting hours in his waiting room.

I read up on the options on the web. My surgeon is partial to saline implants. Picture a sandwich baggie full of salt water stuffed under the breast muscles. Now picture hugging somebody against that baggie. I have trouble thinking of something more repulsive. How to ruin a hug!

There are other options. There are silicone filled baggies. Same difference. Then there’s double surgery where they take tummy fat and transplant it to the breast location. Zow – for a word we weren’t even allowed to say when I was a kid, I have to use this word (breast) frequently now! Like I really want double surgery, or a tummy tuck? They can also take the fat from thighs or buttocks. This kind of surgery causes months of soreness and restricted activity levels, and the transplanted fat cells still might die. No thanks. I’d way rather stuff my bra.

The more I thought about it, the more repulsive it all became, so I cancelled the appointment with the plastic surgeon and again asked the breast surgeon to give me a quick appointment. I’ve got Passover next weekend, and a Film Festival shortly after that. I want to be in shape for that Festival. The sooner I get this over with, the better.

No word in my morning email from the breast surgeon. No word from pathology if I’ll need chemo. This is a stage 1 tumor. And it’s causing this much chaos with my body and my life.

It’s weird to have a potentially lethal disease and feel healthy. I want to stay feeling healthy.

I want to get on with my life. I'm doing EFT to try to stay calm.

Long Life Warranty

noreply@blogger.com (Geezer Chick) — Mon, 26 Mar 2012 14:35:00 +0000

I have known since I was 9 years old that I have a warranty. I will live to at least 96. I had been diagnosed with scoliosis and my family acted like this was a tragedy. The doctor wanted to fuse my spine and put a rod in my back. If I refused, he assured my family that I would grow up to be an ugly cripple. During some quiet time, alone in my room, I demanded that the universe tell me what was really going on.

I found myself in a black marble courtroom with a judge who loved me very much. The judge said I didn’t need to get the surgery I would not grow up to be an ugly cripple. Since this judge seemed to know (and control) my future, I asked for a long life. The judge warned me that a long life is not always a blessing. He made me promise not to forget to love life. Then he promised me at least 96 years.

Silly me. I thought that meant 96 healthy active years. I was 9. I was healthy. I didn’t then know anybody who had experienced anything worse than a broken arm or leg. The kids got a cast put on them and they healed. I refused the surgery and I did not grow up to be an ugly crippled adult.

I didn’t take this as license to abuse my body or take unnecessary risks. I eat whole foods. I exercise daily. I stay active mentally and physically.

For over 60 years, this paid off. Then I got hit by a car. Not lethal, but enough to let me know that no precautions in the world are the same as protection. That 96 years might mean many years in a wheelchair. But I got my collar bone repaired. I got a new hip. I went to PT and I got my life back.

Two weeks ago I found a lump in my breast. I’ve had friends and relatives die of cancer. And before they died, they had surgeries and chemo and radiation and a generally painful miserable existence.

Since then I’ve been on the medical test circuit with injections and withdrawals and scans that mean fasting and lying still for half an hour. (I HATE needles!)

I decided to meditate which keeps my body fairly still. Afterwards the technician asked if I’d taken a sedative. Hah! I rode my bike there.

These folks scanned my entire body, looking for cancer. All they could find was the lump that I could feel. Then the surgeon made an appointment and took it out. The preliminary lab report said it was cancer. She took a couple of lymph nodes. They did not have cancer.

The lump has been sent to another lab for further testing. Later this week I’ll find out if I need radiation and / or chemo.

I’ve had 4 surgeries in the past 3 years, and I’m looking at more painful treatments. This is not the quality of long life I was hoping for at age 9. I see why some people forget to love life. It surprises me that I do not doubt that warranty. I will live through this.

Ghosts from the Past

noreply@blogger.com (Geezer Chick) — Thu, 08 Mar 2012 15:45:00 +0000

My friend Jean had a parakeet that loved to ring its bell. That parakeet has been dead many years, but Jean and her houseguests often hear that bell.

I recently had a houseguest who asked me when we’d gotten a new dog, and how did we get one that looks just like Buffy? My houseguest assured me that this dog had run up to us as we opened the door.

I don’t have a dog at the moment, but I’d love to find one who looks just like Buffy, my all-time favorite dog on the planet.

Perhaps Jean and I are being haunted by pets who loved us.

There’s another kind of ghost I’d rather not encounter – the kind that I thought was a dim memory of an unpleasant encounter. Shortly after we moved into this house about 20 years ago, I hired a neighbor to fix the roof and put on new gutters. He gave me a 10-year warranty. The first rainstorm, which happened about a month after he did the work knocked the gutters down and showed that we still had a leak. I had asked this neighbor to come fix it, as he had promised in the warranty. He said if I wanted more work from him I’d have to give him more money. I hired somebody else, and the roof stayed good for about 15 years. The gutters are still on. This inept roofer no longer lives in the neighborhood. But, yesterday, as I was carrying my bike up the stairs to my living room, he came up to me. “I used to be your neighbor. Could you help me out?” I said no. Nancy Reagan was right – Just Say No. Why go into long explanations? Why prolong an unpleasant conversation?

And finally, another kind of ghost. A ghost that serves as a trigger to action.
When I logged into Facebook, George Takei had posted an appeal to make 2012 the year Joseph Kony stops terrorizing children in Uganda. Kony has been kidnapping children for 26 years. Takei had linked a YouTube video in which a young boy whose brother had been killed by Kony talked about his conversations with his dead brother. I shared that post on Facebook and Twitter. I made a STOP KONY 2012 sign and posted it in my window. Next, I’ll write to my representatives and try to get the UN involved.

No more ghosts.

Entertainment is Fragile

noreply@blogger.com (Geezer Chick) — Fri, 02 Mar 2012 18:38:00 +0000

I used to get upset when people talked during movies because it meant I was missing the dialogue. But now, I watch most of my movies at home. I can press the pause button on the remote. I can even rewind and see / hear something again if I’m unsure about what happened. I can even stop the movie if I want to go to the bathroom, or go for a walk, or answer the phone. It will be there when I get back.

So, when my husband, the alien, and I were watching Nancy Drew, and he became worried about her in the opening sequence when she’s slipping on the roof, I stopped the movie. “There’s no reason to worry about Nancy Drew. She always has something in her pocket that will save her.”

“But she might fall off the roof.”

“Look, the worst thing that ever happens to Nancy Drew is that the bad guys will knock her out with chloroform, and then Ned will come rescue her. It never seems to harm her lungs. And if you check out a calendar, time doesn’t work the same way for her as for everybody else she’s solved over 100 mysteries during her 18th year and each one takes more than a week of concentrated sleuthing.”

We started the movie again. Of course Nancy had the right tools in her pocket and was able to get them into play in plenty of time.

I remembered being a Nancy Drew newbie – worrying about her for several books – but then I caught on. She’s a franchise.

But being able to stop a movie makes other entertainment seem less fragile.

Yesterday we attended a play. No subtitles. No stop and start. If we didn’t understand a line of dialogue, we just had to continue with the show. It was a murder mystery. Members of the audience, including my husband, the alien, were constantly guessing who-done-it. I never responded to any of his comments. I didn’t have a clicker. And besides, it was an Agatha Christie. Anybody who knows Agatha, knows that the character who has the most lines is always the murderer. While in Earl Stanley Gardner mysteries, it’s the character with the least lines.

Newbies.

The next question is how to make live entertainment rewind or pause. Even Newbies want to see the whole thing. They’re not being rude. They don’t sense a difference between live entertainment and home entertainment. talking about it is part of the entertainment.

Every Other Day

noreply@blogger.com (Geezer Chick) — Fri, 24 Feb 2012 17:00:00 +0000

When I was in physical therapy, Young PT gave me a list of exercises, complete with pictures, and asked if I was willing to do them every day. He sounded bored, like he asks everybody this question and is ready for an argument.

“I will do more than you ask,” I said.

He freaked. “That’s a problem.”

“Why?” I asked. “I was working the elliptical next to a woman about my age. I had to get off at 12 minutes and she kept going for 20, which is the time limit at our gym.”

Then he told me a story that he discovered during his own rehab from a shoulder injury. Exercises work better when you do them every other day. Take a day off. Go for a walk.

I thought about asking him why he had told me I should do these exercises every day, but it wasn’t worth the argument. Did he usually compromise with people and act like they were getting away with a special favor if he agreed to every other day?

It sounded odd, but I decided to give it a try. I skipped a day on the elliptical. When I came back to it, I could do 15 minutes and I wasn’t tired. I got off because my replaced hip was feeling sore. That’s a 20% improvement just for taking one day off.

My insurance gives me $150 back after I complete 120 gym visits. I didn’t want to miss out on that, so I started alternating, elliptical and treadmill. And I switched from doing a steady pace to doing intervals. 2 minutes warm up, 30 seconds maxed out, whatever it takes for my heart rate to return to normal (2 - 2.5 minutes usually) Repeat for 4 intervals on the elliptical. For the treadmill, I put it on a slope of 15, warm up at 1.5 miles per hour for 2 minutes, then do 4.5 miles per hour for the intervals, and go back to 2 mph for another 2 minutes. Repeat for 4 reps. The heart rate monitor on the treadmill is insane, so I’m just guessing.

I didn’t get any more dramatic improvements. But I didn’t lose ground, either. Finally, I got my 120 visits and my $150 check. So, this week, I started taking every other day off – not going to the gym at all – going for a walk by the river.

When I returned to the elliptical, I didn’t see any major difference. I got up to 270 steps per minute instead of 260, but that’s not huge. On the treadmill, 4.5 mph started feeling easy. I put it up to 4.6 mph. I found I could recover at 2.5 mph, or even 3 mph.

Then I saw a woman who is at least 10 years older than I am running at 6 mph, 0 slope and I was jealous. So, I decided to look up METS on a treadmill. http://www.fedel.com/mets/ lets you put in the slope and the speed and it calculates the METS (metabolic equivalents). Hah! My 4.5 mph is twice the METS of my running companion. I’m not telling her. I’m still jealous that she can run and with my new hip, I can’t. But, I am getting the exercise I need and I'm getting lovely walks where I see geese.

My Husband is on the Pill

noreply@blogger.com (Geezer Chick) — Fri, 17 Feb 2012 18:33:00 +0000

After my husband’s recent surgery, he came home with a catheter. When he went back to have it removed a week later, he couldn’t urinate on his own. The nice female nurse showed him how to catheterize himself and gave him a bag full of sterile packaged catheters to take home. I found myself thinking what an odd job it must be handling men’s penises to pull catheters out, and then teaching them to stick them in.

The doctor also gave my husband a prescription for Viagra. We’d tried Cialis years before when he had a different problem. I dislike the shape, texture and temperature of a Cialis erection. It is very definitely not my husband. I find it confusing to be kissing my husband, cuddling against his belly, and feeling something weird instead of his penis.

The Viagra didn’t work. And it gave him a headache. He called his physician. He got a prescription for 6 Levitra pills. Our insurance thinks a man only wants sex 6 times a month? My husband talked to the doctor. He got a prescription for pills that are 4 times the minimum dose. I bought him a pill cutter. Cut properly (don’t tell the insurance company), that’s 24 pills.

One you’ve got a pill that works, then you have to plan. He has to take it in advance so it has time to work. We have to hope we’ll both still be in the mood by the time it works. Figuring this out reminds me of talking about using diaphragms with my mother. But less gooey.

I spent about half an hour with the doctor trying learn how to put in a diaphragm and I couldn’t get it to stay put. I’m glad I live in a time when the pill and the IUD and tubal ligation have been invented.

But, back to the main topic. Even if I’m not in the mood by the time the pill works, I don’t want to waste it. Then there’s the head trip. My husband isn’t sure how long the pill will last, so he’s as nervous as he was when he was a teenager – yes, I’ve been with him this long. I miss the improvements that come with age.

The doctor assures us that this is just a temporary phase. He won’t need these pills forever.

Having to deal with these pills reminds me how lucky we are to still have each other, and enjoy each other. And it reminds me how much I resent having any kind of bureaucracy involved in my life. The insurance company really wants to dictate how often I can enjoy sex with my husband?

Passion is spontaneous by nature. Pills are counter-intuitive. Fortunately love is adaptable.

BeWithing

noreply@blogger.com (Geezer Chick) — Thu, 09 Feb 2012 15:23:00 +0000

My daughters tell me I’m high maintenance.

I don’t want gifts that can be bought at a store. I want time. I don’t care if the time is spent chatting in the living room, walking by the river, cooking in the kitchen, or reading aloud. I want what I call BeWithing.

I want it often. I resent it if I get the “it’s your birthday” or “it’s grandparents day” or “it’s valentines day.” I don’t want my bewithing to be scheduled, or feel like an obligation. I want a sense of randomness and spontaneity to my bewithing.

I bring this up because of all the talk I’m hearing and ads I’m seeing about Valentine’s Day, or VD for short. Once you call it VD, then you can claim it stands for Very Delicious, like the Japanese soda of the same name.

All the worry ahead of time and the discussion afterwards: was the day / date a success? Was the gift appropriate? Were the words spoken “romantic enough?” You’d think there was an absolute scale on which such things could be judged, but then why ask other people? Why compare notes as if it was a group quiz?

People who have set aside VD as a holy day, insist there are only a few admissible ways to celebrate: gifts of cards, candy, poetry, flowers and / or jewelry, and candlelight dinner. Men and women worry that they’ll do it wrong and their beloved may be disappointed.

VD leads to threats and fights. VD becomes more like a dentist appointment than an occasion for happiness.

Love isn’t about setting up expectations and then judging the success of the event.

Love is about enjoying the other person. If a lover feels like making or buying a gift for his or her beloved, that’s fine. But a specific date and a specific limited list of gifts is offensive to the very nature of love itself. Love is about appreciating the unique individual – not about trying to fit one’s self or one’s beloved into a mold.

A specific date is not an obligation, just an opportunity.

So, I say: Foo on Valentine’s Day.

Don’t wait. Enjoy your loved ones today. And if they show affection to you, enjoy that, too.

Spend time BeWithing.

At the Sales Pitch

noreply@blogger.com (Geezer Chick) — Sat, 04 Feb 2012 16:57:00 +0000

I went to a Toastmasters meeting that was supposed to showcase a skilled speaker from out-of-town. It turned out to be a sales pitch, but the speaker did use some interesting techniques, that felt lifted from religious services. Lots of stand-up and sit down, hand clapping, shouting, call-and-response.

It even included the I-was-a-sinner-but-now-I’m-found motif. The speaker had been cast in a big budget Hollywood movie (which shall remain nameless) but because he was into drugs and gambling, he didn’t show up for work. When he finally “found salvation” he was living in his car, with barely enough money for food. I’ve heard it all before – but he wasn’ selling religion – he was selling self-improvement.

The high point of the talk for me was when he went around the room asking people why they weren’t making as much money as they’d like. He wrote everything down on a white board at the front of the room. Then he asked, “You know what all this is?”

Someone in the room called out “Excuses.”

The speaker countered. “It’s all B. S.”

I thought that was crude.

Then he asked, “Do you know what B. S. is?”

I thought that was even cruder. This was a room full of polite, serious people who had given up their evenings to learn speaking skills. Was he really going to insist that somebody say something embarrassing?

Finally someone timidly said, “Bull...”

Before he could finish, the speaker said, “B. S. stands for Belief System.”

We all laughed.

Then he made the key point of the evening – our beliefs can empower us or hold us back. We can change our beliefs.

This isn’t as trivial as it sounds. It reminded me of the insight I had when I read the Myers-Briggs test. http://www.humanmetrics.com/cgi-win/jtypes2.asp

The first time I read it, I just went through and marked the answers that made sense to me. But when I read it again, later, I had the exciting thought – all these answers are equally good – it’s just that I prefer some to others. And the next question was Why?

That got me thinking about the NLP (Neuro Linguistic Programming) research. If you see someone doing something you want to do, you can copy them at a muscular and linguistic level. That has been demonstrated to speed the learning process.

Self-improvement courses are led by motivational speakers. Nobody needs to take a 4-day seminar to find out what motivational speakers believe. The real question is – is there value in believing something different from what they believe? In the details – yes. I don’t think there’s any sense in everybody going around giving motivational seminars. But at core – trust that everybody really wants the same things – health, happiness, love, security (however they define these things) – yes, I see value in that attitude.

I wish our politicians did, too. Why vilify the other political party, when all we’re doing is disagreeing about how to get a country we can all be proud of?

Tits Forward

noreply@blogger.com (Geezer Chick) — Sun, 29 Jan 2012 19:09:00 +0000

My gym is having a charity drive, but instead of donating money, we donate meters rowed on the rowing machine. The rowing machine company pays 2 cents for every 1000 meters our club rows. At first, rowing looked easy. Push with your legs, pull with your arms, take off your sweater because it gets caught in the machinery under the sliding seat.

I was building up a sweat and my arms were tired in less than 5 minutes. The woman next to me said, “Tits forward.”

“Huh?”

“Don’t lean back, and don’t hunch forward. Keep your tits pointing forward.”

I’d been doing about 30 strokes per minute and not getting very many meters for it. In 10 minutes, I was lucky to have rowed 1000 meters. 2 cents for 10 minutes is not good wages, even if it’s going into somebody else’s pocket.

The woman next to me demonstrated. Push with your legs until they are straight. Pull with your arms until the bar is at your belly. Release slowly with your arms until they are straight. Relax your legs until they are comfortably bent. Repeat. It’s a four-part motion. And there’s no need to go 30 strokes per minutes.

The meters keep accumulating while you slowly return to the starting position. They keep accumulating if you take a short break. It’s like coasting in the water. 20 strokes per minute is plenty to easily row 1000 meters in about 6 minutes. Still lousy wages, but at least I’m not tired and it feels like a pleasant workout.

The rowing machine company will be donating about $40,000 as a result of folks rowing at gyms all over the country. Today I rowed 2000 meters. 4 cents for charity. And my body is getting more coordinated.

At the Liberal Potluck

noreply@blogger.com (Geezer Chick) — Mon, 23 Jan 2012 16:37:00 +0000

One of the first shows I remember watching on television as a teenager (my family was late to get technology) was one about a woman who infiltrated the Communist Party. This woman discovered that some of her neighbors were Communists. She reported them to the FBI and the FBI asked her to join so she could spy on them.

I’ve since read that at least half of the registered members of the Communist Party in the USA were FBI spies.

In the movie, this woman joined the Communists, went to their meetings and participated in their activities.

Boring.

They sat around drinking tea and addressing envelopes. They didn’t even get to hear speeches about what was so exciting about Communism that they should put up with these boring meetings.

At the end of the movie, there was a court trial and this bored woman named her neighbors who had drunk tea and addressed envelopes is if those activities were crimes.

When I joined the Democratic Party a few years later (you couldn’t vote until age 21 in those days) I told the folks at campaign headquarters that I wanted to participate in any activities that would help elect Democrats. So, I was invited to meetings where I drank tea and addressed envelopes. I got so bored, I addressed some envelopes in Cyrillic alphabet.

And when the election came around – here is real proof of my ancient origins – I went door to door in the ghetto offering to babysit children while their mothers went to vote.

They took me up on it. Free babysitting. I have no idea if they really voted. Some of the moms were gone a very long time and came back with groceries.

Last night I was invited to the neighborhood liberal potluck. I baked an extra loaf of whole wheat bread, special for the occasion, thinking that the group would be of mixed ages and young people these days don’t know how to make bread.

There were no young people at the meeting. And we didn’t address envelopes. We didn’t even get tea. Instead we were told about where to obtain forms to register voters and instructed on how to obtain signatures to get President Barack Hussein Obama on the ballot in Pennsylvania. This is kind of tricky. We’ll need to obtain voter registration sheets so people can make sure they sign the petition the same way they signed their voter registration forms. Most people forget if they used a middle initial or spelled out their middle names, but if you don’t sign the petition exactly the way you signed your voter registration, your signature will be disqualified. You also have to sign neatly or the whole page of 50 signatures can be disqualified. I don’t know what they do for folks who have had strokes and whose handwriting has changed.

The most interesting thing I learned at the meeting was that the woman from Obama for America had been to the White House and had her picture taken with the President. This was the highlight of her life. Her great grandmother had been born into slavery and now, she was in the White House with the President and his wife.

There were no talks about how exciting is to be a Democrat, or a liberal.

Soon I’ll be going door to door collecting signatures. Most of my neighbors will be happy to sign. Most voters in Philadelphia are Democrats. I won’t be offering to babysit.

Bicycle Conversations at the Grocery Store

noreply@blogger.com (Geezer Chick) — Sat, 21 Jan 2012 23:06:00 +0000

The cart corral at my local grocery is convenient to the parking lot, but out-of-the-way if you park a bicycle beside the store. Wearing my helmet, sunglasses with rear-view mirrors, and carrying my pannier (bike bags) I spied a cart near the door, and walked briskly towards it.

An employee came out the door and started pushing it toward the corral.

“May I have that cart?”

“Sure. If you’ll tell me where you got those glasses with mirrors.”

I took off my glasses, and showed him how the mirrors were friction fit to the earpieces. You can put them on any glasses. The company only makes the left side mirror, but you can put one on the right if you put it on upside down and sideways.

Bike Peddler Take A Look Cycling Eyeglass Mirror (Original)

I got through the store without many more questions. But when I tried to buy lake perch in the fish department, I learned that the store only gets them for about 6 weeks a year – in the spring. So why did I want them? Lake perch is a comfort food for me. My grandfather used to take me out in his boat on what we called Lake Grampie in Chetek Wisconsin. He’d catch a fish, come right home, clean and cook it. Sometimes my grandmother cooked it. Either way, fresh lake perch means time with my grandparents, morning glories on the laundry line, when the sun comes up, watching the neighborhood porcupine, boating on a freshwater lake, all is right with the world. I couldn’t even get a frozen perch. So, I bought some tuna, that the man behind the counter assured me was fresh caught.

At checkout, the saleswoman asked if my pannier were waterproof.

“That’s why I bought them. That and the fact that they have no zippers to break.” She’d been doing research on the web and come to the same conclusion I had that waterproof pannier are worth the extra cost. We discussed the merits of different sized bags. She wanted one that her laptop could fit inside. She concluded that the one I bought would do the job she needed. I told her if she needs something bigger, to check the Jandd brand. They’re available with waterproof covers, or completely waterproof models. They hold a grocery bag full of stuff, but they cost about twice the price of the one I bought.

I got the Axiom Monsoon model.

Axiom Monsoon LX Pannier Set (Yellow/Black)

Then she asked if I wanted to donate my bag refund.

“No,” I said. “I just bought these pannier. I want them to pay for themselves. They’ll last me about 20 years, and a nickel each time I use them will just about break even.”

Biorhythms and Interval Training

noreply@blogger.com (Geezer Chick) — Fri, 13 Jan 2012 15:15:00 +0000

I was feeling good about my interval training on the elliptical machine. I’d been doing 4 intervals of speed-up in 12 minutes and feeling energized when I got off the machine.

Then, a week ago, I did 3 intervals and I felt tired. My thoughts went into loops. Am I catching a cold? Am I getting weak? Is something seriously bad going on with my health? After all, a few days before, I’d gotten a slipped disc in yoga. Maybe my body was in a slump. Waaaah!

I’ve worked too hard, too long, in far too many ways, to let that happen. But it was happening anyway. I felt tired. Me. After only three 30-second speed-ups.

Then I remembered something from the 70s. Biorhythms. Everybody has a cycle of bad days and good days. Here’s a website with a free calculator: http://www.facade.com/biorhythm/

Sure enough – I was at the bottom of my physical cycle.

Okay. I could expect my body to be stronger in a few days.

And PostureDoc, a channel I subscribe to on YouTube, uploaded a video about interval training: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aKiVaJk4eYw

He made the point that I shouldn’t do a 2nd interval until my heart rate has returned to my normal range. That isn’t necessarily 2 minutes, like I’d been doing. The elliptical machines at my gym has a 50 second delay before displaying the heart rate. So, during the speed up, my heart rate may look like it’s staying at about 116 bpm. Then a minute later, it will jump up to 148 or higher. So, it may take 3 minutes to get back to my normal range. And even then, I may still have an oxygen debt.

I noticed that after each subsequent interval, it takes a bit longer to return to my normal heart rate. But if I wait for it, I can do 4 intervals even at the bottom of my biorhythm cycle. It may take longer that 12 minutes, but what’s a few minutes when the goal is a lifetime of an active body?

Good Deeds?

noreply@blogger.com (Geezer Chick) — Fri, 06 Jan 2012 16:44:00 +0000

When possible, I like to connect people I think could help each other. Often it works out. I recommended Young PT to a computer client who damaged her rotator cuff. I share recipes and baking samples with neighbors.

And I thought it would be helpful when one of my computer clients had outgrown her computer, to suggest she donate it to another client who runs a non-profit and could use another computer.
Used computers aren’t worth much on the resale market, so freedom from the hassle of selling the old machine plus a tax write-off can be a good deal.

First the non-profit client had health problems and had to put off picking up the old computer. Then she decided she wanted some program that can be downloaded from the web installed before picked it up. I donated that. Eventually, the transfer took place.

My client contacted me. The non-profit hadn’t sent her a donor letter to use for her tax write-off.

I contacted the non-profit. The non-profit woman was having problems with the used computer and thought it wasn’t worth much. She said she would write the donor letter for a $50 value machine. I sent her links to the tax revenue websites showing that it is not up to her to place a value on the donated item. She only needs to write a letter thanking the donor for a computer.

This turned into a heated argument in which I wound up telling her that if she did not write the donor letter without an estimated value for the computer, I would never suggest anybody donate anything to her again.

She agreed to write the letter.

Months went by. No letter.

She said she writes all the letters for the year in January. Weird, but okay – the letter will arrive before tax time.

The first week of January, my client contacted me. Where was her donor letter?

This time I sent an email to both of them, reminding the non-profit woman that she had promised to send the letter and because of the promise I expect her to do it.

A few days later, the non-profit woman emailed me back that she had written the letter.

Whew!

No Leverage in Yoga

noreply@blogger.com (Geezer Chick) — Tue, 27 Dec 2011 23:09:00 +0000

I’ve done spine twists, sitting sideways on a chair, using the back of the chair for leverage to increase the twist for over 30 years. For over 30 years, I’ve enjoyed the warmth along my spine after a good twist. Until my last yoga class.

We sat in our chairs. We twisted. Then it was time to put the chairs away and do floor work. I couldn’t lift the chair. I couldn’t even stand straight. I spent the rest of the class time, doing every relaxation (there really is no such thing as stretching – muscles don’t stretch, but they do elongate when relaxed) I could remember, trying to straighten my spine.

The teacher offered to call the fire department to carry me downstairs. I was afraid that being lifted would hurt worse than anything I could do to myself. So, I continued to try relaxing my muscles in different positions.

Eventually, I was able to stand, and walk slowly, leaning to one side. Two hands on the banister, and I got down the stairs, thinking NOT AGAIN. This has be the worst year yet for accidents.

When I got home, I looked up yoga twists, hoping to find healing instructions. Instead, I found this on Yoga Journal.

A couple of tips for any twisting pose:

Elongate your spine by lengthening your torso as much as possible before coming into a twist. Think of reaching the crown of your head to the sky. Depending upon the twist, you may be able to press your hand into the ground to help with this action. A slumped over position limits your rotation.

Initiate the twist from the abdominal muscles rather than forcing a twist by using leverage. This will ensure you reach your edge safely.

Leverage is supposed to be useful in all areas of life. But NOT in Yoga. NOW they tell me! Okay, maybe yoga teachers have mentioned this throughout the years and maybe I didn’t hear it because I was having too much fun. But, now I know, and I will protect myself in the future.

And on YouTube, I found http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_wYM64_1heo which teaches two good exercises to do for injured discs. And I found instructions for how to use ice. I didn’t know that ice works best if you leave it on for 15 minutes or until the area is numb.

Small Exercise is Wonderful

noreply@blogger.com (Geezer Chick) — Wed, 14 Dec 2011 16:19:00 +0000

I’ve been taking Feldenkrais classes at my gym for about a year now. The teacher is always telling us, you don’t have to make the biggest motion you can. You can make it small. You can even imagine yourself doing it.

I thought this was for the less fit students, so they would at least try. It never occurred to me, that these minimizations could help me. I’m strong. I’m able to relax my muscles. I’m working on becoming more fit. Why go small?

This morning, I woke up with an ouchy low back ache. I decided to try meditating with body relaxation. Translation – meditate lying on my back. Breathe into parts of my body, starting with my toes, then the bottoms of my feet, then the tops of my feet, then my ankles, working all the way up to the top of my head. I did this for about an hour. I still hurt.

My husband woke, and he wanted to meditate lying in our bed. I did not want to get out of bed. My low back still hurt, and it was only 5 AM. I wanted to exercises my low back, but not disturb my husband’s meditation.

I decided to try very small motions with my low back, side to side, tilt and reverse. I decided to try making them smaller and smaller. The pain increased each time I tilted to the left. I decided to play with that. Smaller and smaller.

Suddenly, something went *pop* – just a very small adjustment. The pain level went way down. I continued doing small repeated movements, the kind that bore me in Feldenkrais class. But this time I was curious – what was moving more easily? Where was I still stuck?

I didn’t find anything, but when my husband finished meditating, I was able to get up with very little pain and by the time I’d gone for a walk, I was almost comfortable. Small is powerful!

Men Think They Know Everything

noreply@blogger.com (Geezer Chick) — Thu, 08 Dec 2011 15:42:00 +0000

Men think they know everything.

Boys, too.

I read once that a man will think he’s qualified for a job if he has 40% of the required skills. A woman will think she’s not qualified if she has 90% of the required skills.

I wondered how young this discrepancy started. Certainly the few boys who still talked to me in junior high and high school didn’t have that attitude.

But that’s the key – most men were boys who wouldn’t talk to me.

A next door neighbor boy had a major case of braggadocio when I was in elementary school. He had blue eyes and he insisted loudly that I was an inferior being because I have brown eyes. Only people like him were worthwhile. He was better at aiming a snowball than I was, and that was proof.

Somebody gave him litmus paper. That’s the pale pink paper that turns pale purple when you touch it to a bar of wet soap or wet baking soda. And it turns pink again if you pour vinegar on it. He insisted it was dangerous. He, the brave superior being, went into a room all by himself and made the paper change color. I was so disgusted with him that I figured he had some purple paper in that little room and he had just walked in with the pink paper and walked out with the purple one.

I didn’t think of this neighbor boy as a typical boy. I thought of him as an irritating brat.

Then I had a conversation with my 6-year-old grandson. I’d brought my jump rope to give to him and his sister. My grandson greeted me, “I know all about jump rope.”

This sounded odd. I’ve been jumping rope for years, I’ve witnessed jump rope competitions. I can do a few tricks (okay – not with my new hip) – correction, I could do a few tricks when I had my original equipment. Anyway, I would not say that I know all about jump rope. And here was a 6-year-old boy claiming that he knows all about jump rope.

I handed him the rope and asked him to show me what he could do.

He didn’t know how to spin it. He moved his arms from the shoulders, instead of using his wrists and forearms. He couldn’t jump the rope even once.

He gave his sister a turn. She quietly took the rope, spun it and jumped successfully. No bragging. No talking. Just jumping.

I asked my husband, the alien, what would have happened to him as a child if he’d bragged about something he couldn’t do. He said the other kids would have teased him mercilessly, the coach would have lectured him. His father would have insisted that he speak modestly, rather than brag. But then, my husband is the sort of male who is willing to talk to me.

Something else is going on in our culture. Somehow – very young – boys are getting the idea that they know more than they do, and are more competent than they really are. While girls are learning to do things, boys are learning to brag.

Now if girls can learn that boys are just bragging, maybe true communication can start.

Learning About Time

noreply@blogger.com (Geezer Chick) — Thu, 01 Dec 2011 22:01:00 +0000

One of my grand twins lost her shoe in a pile of leaves. The shoe hunt, accompanied by much arguing and complaining lasted about two minutes.

“That took at least an hour,” said one of the twins.

“Do you have a watch?” I asked.

“I don’t want people to ask me what time it is,” she replied.

At this point I almost changed the subject from the value of estimating time to the value of helping others. But my grand twins are experts at changing the subject, so I didn’t play along.

Her mother cut in, “She has one. She just doesn’t wear it.”

“If you wear it, and look at it frequently, you’ll get a feel for time,” I said. “Time does have a feel.”

“Time goes slower when you’re bored,” said my grand daughter.

“It may feel like it,” I said. “But it’s useful to have a feel for how much time is really passing.”

“It felt like more than an hour.”

“Do you think it was really more than an hour?”

“You just don’t get it!” insisted my 10-year-old grand daughter.

Where have I heard that before? From my children. From my own mouth. But never about time.

I used that line when I felt I was being treated like a younger child than I really was. In this situation, I was treating my grand daughter as if she was more mature than she wants to be. I wanted the responsibilities and freedoms of maturity from an early age. I don’t know what she wants.

Having a sense of how much time is really required for a job, how much time is really passing when we’re bored and when we’re enjoying is one of the key tricks to getting work accomplished. This is the gift I’d like to give my grand children – the ability to accomplish their projects.

I surfed the web and found this website:

http://www.education.com/magazine/article/Teaching_Kids_Time/

The authors have several well-thought-out activities for helping children learn to estimate time passing and time anticipated.

• Make a list of favorite activities and then place them in the appropriate category: one second, one minute, or one hour.

• Compare lengths of time to driving distances: "We will stay at the party for one hour. That’s about as long as it takes us to drive to the zoo."

• Make a chart with daily schedules: "At 12:00 we will have lunch. At 3:00 we’ll leave for baseball practice."

• Challenge your child to pick up his room within a certain amount of time. Get him thinking about time by asking him how many minutes he needs to get the blocks on the shelf. "Could you fold all the shirts and put them in the drawer in ten seconds?"

• Make paper chains to count down the days until an upcoming vacation or holiday. Try to remove the link at the same time each day to illustrate the notion of a 24 hour day.

This is one of the problems with long-distance grandparenting. Somebody told my daughter about this blog. It is anonymous for several reasons. One of them was to be able to rant about my family without getting my family angry. My daughter may read this. I don’t know if she’ll try these suggestions because they look useful or if she’ll ignore them because I suggested them.

I know my daughter is good at organizing her time. I’d like to think she learned it from her dad and me. We both accomplish a great deal with our time. People frequently ask us how we get so much done, manage to show up at agreed times, and finish our projects ahead of schedule.

I think having a feel for how much time various activities take is key to effective use of time. Neither of us can multi-task (unless you count running the washing machine, while writing my blog.)

I hate feeling like the stereotypical senior – worrying that today’s young people aren’t living up to my standards. I live on the opposite coast from my grand twins. I have no say in how they are raised. I may as well worry about life on Mars. It is not a good use of my time to worry about them. But that’s what my blog is for – a place to rant and get it out of my system.

Exercises in telling time for grandparents:

Make a list of favorite activities and schedule them into the week. Mean it – really make time for them, and really do them.
Compare lengths of time for various activities – shopping on the web, vs going to the mall. Do I want to get out of the house, or do I want a specific item?

Make a chart of the day’s activities, and how long they will take. Make sure to include time to exercise and to read, or do something I enjoy.

Challenge myself to get a chore I dislike done quickly.

Include doing something new in my schedule – trying a new recipe, a new exercise, visiting a new local exhibit. Doing something different is a proven way to help keep track of time.

And cut time-wasters out of my life – time wasters like worrying. If I can do something, great. If I can’t then worrying accomplishes nothing.

Teaching Science to the Unbelievers

noreply@blogger.com (Geezer Chick) — Mon, 28 Nov 2011 16:04:00 +0000

I was sitting here thinking about how to write about my cousin who thinks infrared light is as unlikely as levitation, when my friend Miriam sent me this link:

http://motherjones.com/politics/2011/03/denial-science-chris-mooney

I teach science and as part of my ongoing propaganda to lure my grandchildren to the science side of the political debates in this country, I prepare simple scientific demonstrations for each of my visits. For Thanksgiving, we had two nights of celebration, so I prepared two demonstrations.

The first night, we made icosahedrons (20-sided rounded shapes) using 20 construction paper circles and glue sticks. My cousin wasn’t there that night or perhaps he’d have thrown the paper circles in the air and insisted that there is no point in making spheres because the world is flat.

But he was there the second night, when I demonstrated that he human body makes infrared heat.

The Mother Jones article says, “we have other important goals besides accuracy—including identity affirmation and protecting one's sense of self—and often those make us highly resistant to changing our beliefs when the facts say we should.”

I’m not sure what sense of self my cousin has about infrared heat. I once tried to teach a young woman that when she got into the bathtub, her body took up space and makes the water rise, just like when she puts dishes in the sink to wash them. She insisted that the water does not rise when she gets in the tub. She was a slender young woman, but nobody is that skinny. My cousin’s handshake is cool, but it’s not room temperature.

This youtube video shows how useful infrared light can be and detected as heat:

http://youtu.be/2--0q0XlQJ0

My demonstration asked my grandchildren (and anyone else who wanted to participate) to shake their hands until they feel puffy. When they put their warmed hands about ½ an inch apart, each hand can feel the heat of the other hand, without touching.

My cousin refused to participate and insisted we were all imagining things. I asked him to put out one of his hands and put my hands about ½ an inch away from his on both sides. He insisted he couldn’t feel anything and then pretended I was levitating him and stood up.

Then he told my grandchildren that they go to a science emphasis school and they shouldn’t believe anything I tell them.

The Mother Jones article quotes Leon Festinger, "A MAN WITH A CONVICTION is a hard man to change. Tell him you disagree and he turns away. Show him facts or figures and he questions your sources. Appeal to logic and he fails to see your point."

No wonder we have debates about vaccines and global warming whether the Earth is a sphere.

Most of the issues of scientific debate don’t affect our daily lives. No decisions I make would vary if the Earth were flat, or if life as we know it is a result evolution or creationism. But the mindset of experiment and discovery has inherent value. I’d like to pass that on to my grandchildren. The question is – how do I interest my cousin, and in parallel, the adult population?