Geezer-Chick

Recovery is a Never Ending Process

geezerchick@mail.com (geezer-chick) — Fri, 30 Jul 2010 14:10:00 +0000

This recovery stuff is getting old. It’s now over a year since I got hit by a car while biking. I’m still limping around.

I’ve gone to physical therapy. I’ve had surgery, twice. I do daily exercises specifically for my injury recovery, as well as for fun. Each person I see about recovery, adds to my exercise list and nobody ever takes anything away. I’ve made my own choices to remove some exercises, or reduced the repetitions, or cut them down to a few times a week instead of daily. But the list continues to grow.

I must be wearing a sign: Give this Woman More Exercises to Do. In the past two weeks, my massage therapist has had me enroll in a Feldenkrais class, and given me an exercise that involves lying on the floor and pushing the side of my foot up against a pulled-out desk drawer. My chiropractor has given me exercises with a foam roller. And my new Feldenkrais teacher gives me exercises too. Plus, I’ve become fascinated with flower sticks and I’ve added them to my exercise regime, but I consider it playtime, like jumping on my trampoline.

Then there’s the fact that my mom recently fell and cracked her wrist. So, I’ve been doing research on senior balance. More exercises to add to the list. Stand on one foot with your eyes closed. Once you master that, try doing it on a towel. Arm-leg opposite lifts from a hands-and-knees position, yoga tree pose – the list, like all the exercise liss, is endless. And since I don’t want to fall and crack my wrist, I’ve added some of them to my list. My mom exercises a lot, too. I think that’s why she didn’t crack her hip when she fell. She’s 87.

Now that my dog is dead, I imagined I’d have more time. I was planning to put my eye exercises back into my daily routine. In the year since the accident, my eyesight has gotten weaker and I need reading glasses sometimes. I may sneak the eye exercises back in anyway – and leave out what? If I go to the closer gym, I don’t have to bike there, and that will save me more than an hour a day. But then I won’t be biking, which I enjoy. I can skip exercise classes a couple of days a week. That might do it.

But there’s the fact that I’m trying to start a new business, and that takes time. Plus I’ve got the clients from my old business who didn’t leave while I was in no shape to work on their computers. They demand my time – and they pay me. Just because I’m in rehab doesn’t mean that I can spend all my time spending money, and doing exercises and no time earning money.

I’m getting grouchy about this never ending process – or more precisely, the never ending pain. The 2nd surgery got the metal out of my shoulder. I was able to wear a backpack on my recent trip to Kentucky. I am getting better. But I am impatient to get my life back. And my friends are grouching at me for being impatient. And that means I need to work on my thoughts.

I can see where being impatient is useless, like being angry. I need to find a new way of looking at the world. And maybe that is what this is all about.

Recovery is a Never Ending Process

geezerchick@mail.com (geezer-chick) — Fri, 30 Jul 2010 14:07:00 +0000

Cutting the End Off a Roast

geezerchick@mail.com (geezer-chick) — Tue, 27 Jul 2010 11:29:00 +0000

I mentioned to my massage therapist that I need to start thinking differently about what pictures to take now that I have a digital camera. I see things and remark on them but I don’t pull out my camera because if it was film, I wouldn’t waste it – but now it’s just electrons – the picture is stored in electrons. The battery is charged with electrons. I never have to pay for developing or printing. But I go home find myself wishing I’d taken more pictures because my brain is still thinking in terms of film.

My massage therapist said, “My mother told me about putting a roast in a pan...”

I interrupted her. “That story did not happen to your mother.”

“She said it did.”

“That story has been going around the internet for at least 20 years.”

“My mother told me this story over 20 years ago and I don’t think you’ve heard it.”

“That story has been going around the motivational talk circuits for over 40 years” (Okay I was making up that number – I honestly don’t remember the first time I heard it.) “And I don’t think it happened to anybody, anyway.”

By this point my massage therapist was looking at me as if I was either unbelievably rude or crazy. She dug her fingers into a particularly sore spot on my leg.

So, I said, “I know how big my pans are and I’d never buy a roast that was too big for my pans, or if I did, it would only happen once, and I’d be careful after that..”

“Oh, you do know this story.” She looked shocked.

For those of you who don’t know this story, it starts with a young husband who comes into the kitchen to see his new bride. She is in the process of cutting the end off a roast. He asks her why. She says she doesn’t know, but that’s what her mother always did. The young husband suggests they call her mom.

Mom says she doesn’t know why, but that’s what her mother did.

They call grandma. Grandma says she cuts the ends off her roasts so they’ll fit in her pan.

The point of this story is supposed to be that we do things that may have made sense once upon a time, but that are no longer useful.

I think it’s a story made up by someone who never cooked.

Roasts don’t come in one size and pans in another. Roasts are squishy. If the roast is marginally too big for the pan, you just have to squish it and maybe turn it on a diagonal to make it fit. The story presupposes that a roast is like a block of wood that must fit precisely into the pan.

Meat is expensive. If for some reason a cook did cut off the end of the roast, she’d put that piece up against the side of the roast to make sure it didn’t go to waste.

And if grandma ever did get a roast that was too big for her pan (unlikely given the price of meat) she, like me would be careful next time she bought a roast, or she’d buy a bigger pan. She would not make a lifetime habit of buying roasts too big for her pan and discarding the end piece.

“But my mom told this story as if it happened to her.”

“Call your mom and ask her if it really happened, or if she was just retelling a story she’d heard.”

My massage therapist looked at me with new respect. “I don’t think anybody ever thought about that story before. You’re right – it doesn’t make sense.” She found another sore spot on my leg.

What is a Bedspread?

geezerchick@mail.com (geezer-chick) — Sat, 24 Jul 2010 20:14:00 +0000

A guest blog by Jean Lorrah

Reminders of age occur in the most unlikely situations!

Yesterday I was doing my weekly shopping at Wal-Mart. I had just remodeled my guest room, but realized that the naked bed didn't look complete. So I put "bedspread" on my shopping list, my only concern being whether I could find one that would not clash with the antique quilt I have hung on the wall. I headed to the bedding department.

There were sheets. There were blankets. There were "beds in bags" (sheets, pillowcases, and a comfort). There were quilts. There were comforts. But I could not find the bedspreads.

So, I asked a Wal-Mart Associate for help. She was not exceptionally young, maybe early 30's, so we should have been able to communicate. The conversation went something like this:

Me: Can you please tell me where the bedspreads are?
Associate: The what?
Me: The bedspreads.
Associate: You mean sheets?
Me: No, bedspreads. Something to go over the sheets.
Associate: Oh--over here.
(She shows me the quilts and comforters.)
Me: No, I just want a bedspread.
Associate: Oh--you mean a blanket.
(She shows me the blankets.)
Me: You really don't know what a bedspread is? It goes on top of the sheets and blankets to cover the bed.
Associate: (Stares at me as if I were speaking Greek.)

Well, a thorough search of the bedding department turned up no bedspreads. Apparently this bedroom staple has disappeared from American culture, replaced by comforts and comfort covers. That I can believe.

What I find hard to believe is that the word "bedspread" has disappeared as well! Here was a thirty-something woman who had clearly never heard the word before. She was young enough to be my daughter, but not my granddaughter. How could such a common household word disappear in a single generation?

I'll put a comfort on the bed in the guest room and not worry about decor--but I do worry about communication between generations when not only do manufacturers stop making something, but even its name is forgotten within a single generation. Language is not supposed to change that fast--words are always being added, but the old words have always lingered in the past. When I was a kid we had a refrigerator, but I knew what an icebox was. We had a record player, but I knew what a victrola was.

Will today's kids not remember what videotape is? At age 30 will they pause to wonder where the phrase "caught on tape" could possibly come from, when video is actually caught on memory chips (or something generations newer by that time)?

When I was thirty-something, we talked about the "generation gap," complaining that parents and children did not understand one another socially or culturally. Have we actually reached the point at which they speak different languages?

Jean Lorrah's own blog is http://www.houseofkeon.blogspot.com/ , and she provides daily tips on writing at http://twitter.com/tipsonwriting .

Small Movements and Imagination

geezerchick@mail.com (geezer-chick) — Fri, 23 Jul 2010 16:58:00 +0000

Feldenkrais isn’t what I’d really call exercise. Yes I do it at the gym. But it’s more flexing and wiggling than exercise. Nobody sweats unless the room is warm. If a movement hurts, the instructions are to make the movement smaller.

I’m used to lifting free weights, stretching large muscles, using all my strength to pedal a bike or propel myself through water (swim). What’s with these tiny movements that require no strength at all?

When I first started lifting free weights (read soup cans) repetitively, I thought it was boring and difficult. I couldn’t believe how quickly my triceps got tired just moving a 1 lb soup can away from my body. Now I can heft 6 lb dumbbells with no trouble, and when I want a tougher workout, I pick up the 8 lb dumbbells.

Feldenkrais is complicated – not boring. There is no reward. There’s no progress to see. No weight to watch, no asana to feel the alignment improve. It’s just tiny movements. And you concentrate not only on the tiny movements, but also on not moving anything else. And not cheating by rotating a joint, or shifting weight to a different part of the body. Just follow simple instructions (eyes closed) and do NOTHING else.

So, I sat there with my eyes closed, trying to lift my right hip slightly off the chair. I can imagine what that might be like. I can feel some muscles that ought to be able to move it in the intended direction. My left foot tilts to the side. I correct that. I try again. I feel like I’m meeting my body for the first time and I have to learn to program it, like a computer that has developed glitches.

Moshe Feldenkrais developed his method after refusing surgery for a soccer injury. He calls his technique Awareness Through Movement. I can’t say after one class that I’m aware of anything more than knowing more precisely where I hurt and what I can’t do and how my body tries to compensate for what I can’t do. The premise here is that if I persistently work with what I can do, even my imagination of what it would be like if I could do it, that my body will gain ability and mobility.

Having just had the 2nd surgery on my collar bone (to remove the metal) I think it would be great if I can heal my hip with small movements and imagination.

Here’s a link for a basic book on the Feldenkrais method:

Awareness Heals: The Feldenkrais Method For Dynamic Health

Odd Conversations with my Massage Therapist

geezerchick@mail.com (geezer-chick) — Wed, 21 Jul 2010 14:07:00 +0000

My massage therapist has become bossy, as if she has the right to tell me how to live my life.

“Maybe you shouldn’t exercise so much.”

“I’m exercising an hour less per day now that my dog is dead and I can’t walk him.”

“Still, maybe you shouldn’t exercise so much at this stage in your recovery.”

She knows I bike all over town, to clients’ homes to work on their computers, to the gym for yoga and Pilates and swimming. And my living room is a mini-gym with my tramoline and free weights, and exercise video collection.

Then she happily told me about how she spent 4 hours the day before crawling around an the floor with her new ferret.

“That’s exercise,” I told he triumphantly.

“It’s not organized,” she said, as if she had me on a technical point.

“Who said exercise has to be organized?”

She gave up. Then she said, “I quit riding my bike because I can’t afford to be hurt.”

Okay, I thought. That’s one way to look at it. But before I could say anything, she started talking about the whiplash injury she got when her car was in an accident. She had a headache for 3 years. She had days when she couldn’t work. Even today, she has to be careful not to bounce or the headache will come back.

This time I decided there was no point in responding. If she can’t see that cars get in accidents too, I’m not going to tell her.

Her final bit of wisdom was to check out a Feldenkrais class at a gym near me. I called the gym and I'll be checking it out tomorrow.

Mystery House and Other Weird Stuff in Kentucky

geezerchick@mail.com (geezer-chick) — Mon, 19 Jul 2010 10:53:00 +0000

For this year’s vacation, we decided to see Kentucky. We got the book Weird Kentucky.

Weird Kentucky: Your Travel Guide to Kentucky's Local Legends and Best Kept Secrets

The weird book people have books for most states.

Mammoth Cave is beyond weird. It’s amazing. It’s gorgeous. I couldn’t see the whole thing if I had nothing else to do in my lifetime.

Near Mammoth Cave is a Mystery House. Dozens of these Optical Illusion Houses were built during the Great Depression. Most of them are on the west coast. I was delighted to find one in the midwest.

The first several rooms were art galleries, surreal posters by Escher, Dali and other geniuses of fooling the eye. One room was filled with paintings that glowed in ultra violet light.

In the room after that, nothing was straight or level. Water flowed up hill. Balls rolled up hill. And it took major concentration to walk what appeared to be a straight line. Corners aren’t square, vertical is not straight up and level is sloped. Here’s a picture of a man who appears to be leaning forward at an impossible angle, but he’s actually standing straight in a skewed room.

In another room, our guide directed a short person to go to the right side of the room and a tall person to go to the left.

Then she instructed them to trade places.

In the next room, one tiny section of floor appeared to be a steep slope, but our guide assured us that this floor was the only level section in the whole building. I couldn’t resist, and placed the towel I was carrying on the floor and stood on my head. It took several tries because I felt disoriented while attempting the inversion. Perhaps you can see why.

After that we entered a mirror fun house, and finally we had to choose from 3 doors to exit. Only one of them worked, and it wasn’t the one with the light seeping through.

The Mystery House is near Mammoth Cave.

Big Mike's Rock House
566 Old Mammoth Cave Road
Cave City, KY 42127
270-773-5144
Fax: 270-773-2923
E-mail: BigMike@scrtc.com

http://www.mammothcave.com/big_mikes.htm

You can get in free with a coupon.

I highly recommend supporting the store. They have a good selection of postcards and fridge magnets, as well as a huge collection of unusual rocks. There’s also a tip jar at the exit to the Mystery House. The guide deserves a tip.

Between nature and imagination, KY definitely qualifies as a great weird vacation. We didn’t even get to all the weird spots we wanted to see.

Yoga with Props

geezerchick@mail.com (geezer-chick) — Sat, 17 Jul 2010 11:08:00 +0000

I’m just back from vacation in Kentucky. More about that in future blogs. My friend Jean (who sometimes blogs in this space) arranged for me to attend yoga classes at her wellness center.

The teacher asked if I’d done yoga before. I told her I go 2 or 3 times a week. She waved her arms at the assortment of props (blankets, soft bricks, straps) and said, “Then you won’t need these.”

“Yes I will,” I explained. “I’m in rehab yoga.”

Blank stares.

I took 4 blankets, 2 soft bricks and a strap, as well as a sticky mat.

The teacher’s eyes focused on the blankets.

“I need to sit on the blankets during sitting exercises. My hip got hurt when I was hit by a car. We call it the Princess on the Pea position.”

None of the other students used props. The teacher didn’t demonstrate how to use the props.

Suddenly I was a curiosity. I sat on blankets. I put a brick under one hip during pigeon. I use a strap when I can’t reach my feet.

When it came time for shivasana (final relaxation), the other students wanted blankets. I passed mine out to nearby students.

“You’re willing to share?”

“I only needed them for the sitting exercises.”

After the 2nd class, the teacher said, “I wish they’d send the yoga teachers for rehab training.”

A Clone by Any Other Name

geezerchick@mail.com (geezer-chick) — Tue, 13 Jul 2010 14:54:00 +0000

Lois is a fairly unusual name. In my high school of 4000 students, there was only one other Lois and I didn't seek her out. I hear about another Lois now and then, but I don't seem to run into them. These days they are mostly in their 60's and 90's. I guess it's a generational name.

I've come across the Lois Club on the web. Women named Lois travel together, eat together, and if their husbands come along (women named Lois tend to have long-term marriages) they wear nametags that say Husband of Lois. According to the website, women named Lois have a lot in common, and enjoy each other's company.

I'm on vacation in KY. Here, I finally met one! She's in her 70's. Her hair is cut in the same style as mine. She gardens, growing the same vegetables I grow. She has a rock collection -- bigger and better than mine. She also had a broken shoulder bone in an accident. She also enjoys crafts, and physical fitness.

Did our parents see something in us that inspired them to name us Lois? Or did being called Lois influence our lives?

There is no way to design an experiment to find out. But I feel like I've just met a clone.

Eggs - Genetic and Otherwise

geezerchick@mail.com (geezer-chick) — Tue, 06 Jul 2010 08:38:00 +0000

My grandtwins, fruit of the fruit of my womb, don’t like my magic. I had high hopes for the egg bag trick. One of them refused to watch, and the other one grabbed the pretty wooden box that I keep it in, and tried to break it. Okay, I admit it is a puzzle box. It is designed to prevent opening by the impatient. And my grandtwins are nothing if not impatient.

I’ve bought them simpler puzzle boxes. They know the art of gentle pushing and sliding will eventually open the box. But my grand daughter was not gentle. My daughter was not willing to stop her, so I had to stop the trick and take the box from her. Then I felt the need to apologize and promise never to bring anything breakable again. Then she tried to rip the egg bag.

I don’t just do the trick. I tell a story. I thought it was a good story about the woman who sewed the bag and her pet goose who wants any egg that goes into the bag. The goose even has magic words. “Oh-wah Ta-goo Siam” that make the egg disappear. The assistant must say her own magic words “honk honk” pretending she is a goose, to get the egg back.

It was a dud. I wondered if maybe I should give up on magic.

But on the way home, at the airport, I saw a screaming five-year-old. I offered to do magic with him. He was curious and cooperative. He needed a bit of cajoling to say “honk, honk,” but when he said it and the egg appeared, he was thrilled. “I didn’t even need a secret pocket! How did it work?”

“You did it,” I told him. “You did magic.”

He restored my faith in chidren.

More Muscles I Didn’t Know I Had in Yoga

geezerchick@mail.com (geezer-chick) — Sun, 04 Jul 2010 18:22:00 +0000

I got the screws out of my collar bone a month ago. My shoulder is still sore, but with careful positioning of the straps, I was able to wear my backpack (school book bag) on a trip to California to visit my grandchildren. I don’t check luggage. If it won’t fit into my back pack, it doesn’t come. That includes exercise equipment and magic tricks.

I can now rotate my arms to turn my palms upwards. My left shoulder (which had the screws and plates) has greater range of motion. The surgeon told me I can do anything that doesn’t hurt. He also said it will be a year until I feel normal. I’m supposed to avoid falling for a year because the bones are weak where the holes are.

Last year, when my yoga class when through the cycle of teaching the hand stand, my arm was in a sling. I couldn’t even try a modification. This year, I asked, “Where do I start?”

The teacher had me put my hands between her feet (which were about 18 inches apart), lift one leg and push off with the other. She guided my feet to the wall, and held me up. “I can’t do this!” I shouted. My left shoulder screamed and felt like it would give out. I was afraid of falling – not just because I’d hit my head, but because I could break that collar bone again and have to start over! “I can’t do this!” I repeated. “Please help me down!”

It was probably just seconds, but it felt like an eternity. “Please help me down! I can’t do this!” Everybody else in the class could do it. Even the women who can’t stand on their heads. Finally, I felt my teacher lower my feet to the floor. “I had surgery on my shoulder last month.”

“Oh,” she said. “I didn’t know.”

It can’t be that hard. All the other women in class could do it. Okay, so I’m older than they are – this pose must call for muscles I haven’t used in over a year. I need to find the exercises that will strengthen those muscles before I try it again.

I can do anything that doesn’t hurt. That’s the rule. That’s the guideline for the rest of my life. Now to convince the cars on the road not to hurt me!

As an aside – I get bragging rights. When I was sitting in the airport, a man across from me in the waiting lounge was regaling other passengers with the story of how he broke his collar bone when his bike slipped on some wet leaves. I kept my mouth shut, but I felt like I deserved bragging rights. It took a 2-ton car to break my collar bone!

Why Me? Why Not Me? Part 8

geezerchick@mail.com (geezer-chick) — Fri, 02 Jul 2010 11:34:00 +0000

This is the latest in Alison's adventures in treatment for bladder cancer.

WHY ME? WHY NOT ME?

VIII. Reprieve

I know it has been many a long week since I have added to this account. I found out the cancer had not been vanquished by the BCG treatments on April 1 (and wrote about it in installment VII); then I had day surgery on April 9 to remove the tumor (again) and look at my kidney. It was as before, the lying there, the IV insertion, the waiting, the wheeling, the waiting. I had spinal anaesthesia again so I could see what was going on but I was also very sleepy from a sedative, Versed probably. I was much more out of it than the time before.

Then, after the surgery, the resident told me that they had washed my bladder out with some chemotherapy. Real chemotherapy, the kind that makes your hair fall out and makes you throw up and get weak and all that. Except, putting it inside an intact bladder – “intravesically” – means that none of those awful side effects happen. That bladder is a tough little softball, that’s for sure. They put it in, let it slosh around for awhile, an hour maybe, then I guess the next time I went to the bathroom it came out. Or maybe they took it out with a tube, I don’t know.

I also didn’t know they were going to do this.

Odd. I didn’t like that they didn’t tell me this was going to happen. Looking back and reading over my account here, I think maybe my doctor thought I might argue with him (“Just take the sucker out,”) and he knew best, so he didn’t bother to tell me. Maybe he just didn’t want the agita, as the Italians and Spanish say. (Agita = literally heartburn, figuratively hassle, fuss; pronounced AH-jituh. A great word to have handy.)

I wonder if I would have instructed him NOT to give me chemotherapy? I don’t think I would have. I think I likely would have said, oh well, okay, maybe it’s worth a shot. I had read about it earlier and remembered the statistics weren’t so good (fewer than 20% respond, something like that), but I was an exception before with the BCG so maybe I would be on the good side of the statistics this time. I guess I understand why he didn’t tell me, maybe, but I still think he should have.

Thing is, I am not always a good patient. In fact, quite often I am not a “good patient.” I question, I research, I have opinions. I don’t always do what I’m told, or do it as fast as they want me to. It’s hard because I really want a doctor I like and am not afraid to go see, who won’t scold me if I don’t agree or don’t agree right away. Sometimes I think I know more than the average person; certainly when it comes to psych issues [my field] I know MUCH more than the average M.D. and some would say I know more than a lot of psychiatrists. Well I used to, anyway, back when I was working in the field. So I have a tendency to go through doctors until I find one I can stand who seems to be able to stand me. I have had no problems I know of with my cancer doc, but maybe he had a problem with me. He is a very charming sort of fellow and easily the kind of person who would sidestep conflict and rather beg forgiveness than ask permission.

Anyway. I had this chemotherapy, called mitomycin, actually a form of intense, toxic antibiotic. No reaction to it that I noticed. I went home catheter-free and was instructed to call with problems. In a few days I did have some burning sensations and bleeding, so they gave me an antibiotic to take for a few days, and it cleared up.

And then, dear reader, I had to wait for 8 weeks. Eight weeks! From April 9 to June 10! And THAT is why I have not been writing. There has been nothing to say. This cancer business involves a lot of waiting.

Oh, I got invited to this cancer support group for women – women because it started out a few years ago as a breast cancer group. It is very very nice. One of the things we talked about was if there comes a day when you feel safe from cancer. The consensus was no: “The day you know you are not going to die of cancer is the day the bus runs you over.” So the wait is life-long, if you decide to focus on it, which I mostly have not. People ask me solicitously how I am, and then I remember I have cancer. (If that sounds like denial, so be it!)

So June 10 finally came and I went in again for another cystoscopy in the office. And this time, THIS time, I had a nice clean white bladder all over. With veins and arteries visible in the white walls, but no flowers, no seaweed, no velvety rocks. It was quite a sight to see. My doctor did point out a small red bump at the top, kind of pinkish really, and I said, “What does that look like to you?” He said, “It looks like a flat tumor.” I had read enough to know that would not be good, but – meh. I had a nice clean bladder compared to before. He scheduled me for one more surgery, to take biopsies all over my bladder’s inner surface (top, bottom, right, left, front, back) and special attention to the pink bump, for the following week.

To be continued…..

Previous installments:

part one: http://www.geezer-chick.com/2010/01/first-time-i-knew-i-had-cancer.html

part two: http://www.geezer-chick.com/2010/01/why-me-why-not-me-part-two.html

part three: http://www.geezer-chick.com/2010/02/why-me-why-not-me-part-three.html

part four: http://www.geezer-chick.com/2010/02/why-me-why-not-me-part-four.html

part five: http://www.geezer-chick.com/2010/02/why-me-why-not-me-part-five.html

part six: http://www.blogger.com/goog_1498362405

part seven: http://www.geezer-chick.com/2010/04/why-me-why-not-me-part-seven.html

Your Grouchiness

geezerchick@mail.com (geezer-chick) — Thu, 01 Jul 2010 14:04:00 +0000

Recently my friend, the ferret owner, who has been married for ten years commented, “I’ve never heard a couple with as many pet names for each other as you and your husband use.”

“What do you and your husband call each other?” I asked?

“Honey pie, sugar, other foodstuffs.”

“Is that code for another kind of hunger?” I teased.

She laughed. “He’s sweet.”

I remembered that my parents used to sign notes to each other, H.B. As a child, I guessed the initials stood for Honey Bunny. After all, that’s what Dagwood and Blondie called each other in the Sunday comics.

My parents insisted it was a secret code and refused to tell me if I’d guessed correctly. In retrospect, considering how their marriage ended, the initials probably stood for something far less complimentary.

My nicknames for my husband, the alien, are no secret. Snoo and Snurg (both variations on snuggle.) Then there are the nicknames based on his skills. When I want him to find something, he’s Boy-tective. If he puts generous amounts of cayenne on his dinner, he’s Dragon. When he finds room in the refrigerator for extra veggies that just had to come home from the farmer’s market, he’s Space Wizard. (His mother was furious with me when we got married because I took her fridge organizer.)

These are all positive names and I was clearly boring Ferret Owner Friend. So, I told her what I call him when he’s in a bad mood: Your Grouchiness.

“I’m going to borrow that one,” FOF said.

Picking up a Hitch-hiker in Berkeley

geezerchick@mail.com (geezer-chick) — Tue, 29 Jun 2010 18:50:00 +0000

Hitch-hiking. Sticking your thumb out and miracle of miracles – a passing driver stops, asks you where you are going and if it matches with the driver’s destination you hop in. When you arrive, the driver lets you safely off and usually won’t even accept help with the gas money.

That’s what Berkeley was like in the late 60's and early 70's when I lived there. I was a have. My husband, the alien, and I had a car. We didn’t drive it every day. But, when we drove, we often had hitch-hikers on board. No, there wasn’t a yellow hang-tag for the window Hitch Hiker On Board. It just made sense. It was ecological and neighborly. We met interesting people that way. Sometimes we wound up with overnight guests.

When we moved to Boulder, Colorado, I picked up a hitch-hiker my first day. Wheee-oooo. A police car pulled me over. He gave me a warning – not a ticket. And he didn’t make me give up my passenger. “Picking up hitch-hikers is illegal here. And it’s not safe. I’m not criticizing your passenger, but I’ve picked up dead bodies that were abandoned by hitch-hikers who killed them and stole their cars.”

I didn’t pick up more hitch-hikers in Boulder.

On long cross-country drives, my husband and I picked up hitch-hikers. Some were friendly interesting people. Others were upset that we didn’t have drugs or smokes to give them and we had no interest in stopping to party. Once, when we stopped at a restaurant, a pair of drug-hungry passengers left us without a word. We were glad to be rid of them. But when we came out, a different pair of hitch-hikers was waiting beside our car.

The man said, “Your last passengers told us you’re going where we’re going.”

“Did they tell you we don’t have drugs and we don’t party?”

“I think we’ll get along fine,” the man said. And we did.

In Florida, we never saw a hitch-hiker going where we were going. We were on short trips and they had distant destinations on their cardboard signs. Hitch-hiking isn’t popular in Philly either and we got rid of our car 8 years ago. In short, we got out of the habit.

But last week, we visited Berkeley. A young woman came up to us, to ask if we knew the bus schedule. We didn’t. She said she was going to the Berkeley Campus. We were going near there. We picked her up and dropped her off safely.

You can go home again.

FIRE YOUR KIDS FROM THE FAMILY BUSINESS!

geezerchick@mail.com (geezer-chick) — Wed, 23 Jun 2010 23:43:00 +0000

Guest blog by Jean Lorrah

Do you have kids in college? Do you have them working in the family business? If you have a family business, of course you do--it only makes financial sense, and who can teach them a good work ethic better than you can? Why in the world would you fire them when they start college?

Let me tell you a cautionary tale:

When I was in college, there was nothing I wanted more than to get a summer job in the city where I went to college, work in air-conditioned comfort, and spend evenings and weekends with my friends who were doing the same thing. However, my parents, who were paying my tuition, insisted that I come home every summer and work in the family grocery store, which was open 12 hours a day, 364 days a year.

And I do mean WORK. I had to cart pop bottles down into the cellar and bring up full bottles and canned goods from storage there. I had to stock shelves, wait on customers, sweep the floor, clean the counters, and reconcile the cash register at the end of the day. The last two summers I also had to take inventory and do the ordering, as my mother thought such experience would look good on my resume. All this in an unventilated box with no air conditioning but a ceiling fan.

Because I was the first person in my family to graduate from high school, let alone college, even I thought my yearning to have more comfortable working conditions and work more appropriate to my future plans was simple selfishness. The only argument I could offer was if my parents would allow me to get an office job, I would hand over every penny of my paycheck for them to put in my college fund. The answer was a consistent, resounding NO

The family business was a little mom-and-pop grocery store, run by my grandparents, my parents, and me. I was an only child. No outside help was ever hired. Having since dealt with hired employees, I now understand why my family didn't want not only to pay someone outside the family, but to try to make that person do the actual backbreaking work of running an old-fashioned neighborhood grocery, and then do the endless government paperwork connected with having an "employee."

But you know what? Had they but known, although they probably would not have hired anyone else (they ran the place without me all the time I was away at college), I'm sure they would have let me take a job with some business that did not have the family name on it.

Here is what we DIDN'T KNOW (the sort of thing school counselors never seem to know and ought to): work experience in the family business counts as NO WORK EXPERIENCE AT ALL. I graduated with honors and COULD NOT GET A JOB. My academic recommendations were just fine, but I had NO recommendations from acceptable employers. What my family said was dismissed as meaningless.

The assumption when only the family business is listed as work experience is this: the kid wastes the summer lolling in the family pool (we hardly had a yard, let alone a pool), while Dad puts him or her on the payroll. My experience is probably far closer to that of most kids who work in the family business, but prospective employers will not allow themselves to believe it.

Way back when I graduated, prospective employers instantly knew I had worked for the family because the family name was on the grocery store. I couldn't fool anyone. Today, if you own a franchise or a business with a brand name rather than family name, and think a prospective employer won't find out who owns it, think again: you will be investigated and not only will your son or daughter have no work experience, but a reputation as a liar as well.

What could I have done? IF I HAD KNOWN, I could have not taken overloads every semester, and gotten a part-time job near college, something my parents could not have prevented. But I didn't know, so I helped them sabotage me as they encouraged me to take every hour my tuition would allow (make college a bargain, six courses for the price of five, and both B.A. and M.A. in only one extra semester). The point is, I didn't know--and if you were never in this situation yourself, you may not know, either.

What should you do? Fire your kids! While they are in college they need to work someplace other than the family business. They may find at first that the only jobs they can get are flipping burgers or stocking shelves, but it will still be work experience for their NEXT application. As they proceed through college, they should keep trying to find jobs closer to their future plans--even take an unpaid internship if it is in their field. Encourage them to get to know the professors in their major. Often they will know of available jobs that will look good on a resume.

Yes, I eventually got work, but it was a long haul, with two temporary office jobs before I finally got the teaching job I was qualified for--in a reform school where no one in their right mind wanted to teach. As I was as penned in as the students, and room and board were provided, I saved up money to go for my PhD so I could teach college, and from then on things got better. But I would not have had to walk that rocky road for three difficult years, and neither will your children if you just make sure they get some acceptable work experience on their resumes before they graduate.

Read Jean's weekly blog here.

The Real Reason You Can't Bring Water on an Airplane

geezerchick@mail.com (geezer-chick) — Sun, 20 Jun 2010 17:45:00 +0000

My husband, the alien, figured it out:

The real reason you can't bring water on an airplane.

The TSA employees are really wicked witches of the west and they are afraid they'll dissolve if we throw water on them.

Petruccio is Buried

geezerchick@mail.com (geezer-chick) — Fri, 18 Jun 2010 18:55:00 +0000

This morning when I called Comcast to talk to their billing department, I reached Granada. My phone representative was an eager vuvuzela player who tried to recruit me as a tourist to his home island. I told him, this year, we’re going to Kentucky.

Then he asked how my morning went. I gave him the vague answer. “Okay.”

His computer system was in slow-poke mode, so he pressed me for details while we waited for it to find my account.

“I took my dog to the vet and had him put to sleep,” I told him.

The young man was horrified. “Why would you do that?” he demanded.

My dog was 19 years old. He hadn’t eaten or drunk water in 3 days. He didn’t even want treats. He wasn’t going for walks. He was miserable and I didn’t want him to suffer.

“Oh,” said my representative. “I apologize for being insensitive.”

I didn’t take his comment as insensitive. This was new to him. He had no idea why anybody would have a pet put to sleep. I wanted to say euthanized, but I had the sense that this man’s English didn’t include that word.

Making the decision was easier than actually getting it done.

I called the vet for an appointment. I seemed to have bad timing. For several days, all I got was the answering machine. They called back when I wasn’t in. Finally they said, just bring him in. They take 10 pets in the morning without appointments. The first 10 pets to arrive get seen. The clinic opens at 8 AM. They suggested we arrive by 7:15. We did. We were the 5th to arrive.

Petruccio has been with us for 11 years. He was 8 years old when we got him at the animal shelter. Buffy, our poodle mutt, picked him out. She was lonely after our older dog, Dante, died. We’d have done anything for Buffy. Buffy always ran to greet us when we came home. Buffy snuggled in our laps. Buffy smiled. Buffy taught other dogs to smile. Buffy exemplified why people have dogs.

We took Buffy to the animal shelter and let her pick out her favorite dog. Okay, it had to be a male dog, because my husband likes male dogs, and this dog was going to fit into Dante’s niche – the male dog, top dog position.

As soon as Buffy picked out Petruccio, he tried to mount her. She growled him off. Immediately, we knew what his name had to be: Petruccio, the most famous rejected suitor in literature. Before he came to live with us, his name was Cappuccino. This dog was nobody’s cup of coffee.

When we walked them, Buffy smiled at everybody we passed. Other dogs sniffed her, and she sniffed them. She sniffed children. She sniffed plants. She loved going for walks. Petruccio barked at every dog we passed. He tried to attack them. The only dog on the entire planet he liked was Buffy. And she did not want him the way he wanted her.

Petruccio did his job. He played with Buffy. But he did not run to greet us when we came home. He did not snuggle us. If we picked him up and put him in our laps, he’d sit there a while and then move on. After Buffy died, he had very little interest in us, But he did not ask us for another dog to play with. We walked him. We protected him from the other dogs when he barked at them. He did learn to let children pet him when we took him for his daily walks.

A couple of years ago, he lost the ability to climb stairs safely. We put up a baby gate that we had to climb over to go upstairs to bed at night and downstairs to the world in the morning. Several months ago he became so clumsy, walking up behind us in the kitchen, tripping us when we stepped backwards, that we put him in the playpen, and only took him out for walks and laps.

We carried him home from the vet, and buried him in the garden where Buffy and Dante and several neighbors’ cats are buried. That was less than an hour ago.

I’m basically a selfish person. I only get pets because I want a happy creature in the house who is always glad to see me. I don’t know why Petruccio wanted humans. Petruccio wasn’t happy to see me come home. He wasn’t happy to snuggle in my lap. It was as if he was a prostitute dog, going through the motions in order to get fed.

When we got him from the shelter, we made the agreement to take care of him until the end. We did that.

The end.

The representative’s computer still hadn’t found my account. I decided to call a local number and talk to the President’s office.

A Technical Support Victory

geezerchick@mail.com (geezer-chick) — Fri, 18 Jun 2010 00:56:00 +0000

Last month, I bought a new computer, with a Windows 7 operating system. I downloaded RealPlayer. It worked well with youtube. But I like to download the free magic tricks from www.sankeymagic.com It played the audio but not the video on these downloads. That’s not much use when I’m trying to learn a magic trick.

I emailed RealPlayer. They told me to do a complete uninstall, redownload the program and start over.

The problem persisted.

They told me to do another complete uninstall, download an earlier version of the program, put it into administrator mode, and try again.

The problem persisted.

They told me to go to the online chat and let one of their technicians take over my computer to try to fix it. I did so. I waited in the queue for half an hour. My queue got cancelled. I tried again the next morning. I reached a chat person who told me I had to try again in 3 hours because none of the level 2 technicians were available. He then told me it was a pleasure to serve me and he hoped I was fully satisfied with the help I’d received.

I told him he had to be kidding. My problem wasn’t solved and there was nobody there who was going to help me. He apologized.

4 hours later, I got hold of a technician who took over my computer. But the software he had didn’t give him full control. Other windows kept getting in front of our chat box. I had to keep taking control and handling dialogue boxes that came up, and then bringing the chat box to the front again.

Plus, my technician had an XP computer so he couldn’t duplicate my problem.

Suddenly during our chat, a box from Adobe popped onto the screen announcing a new version of Adobe Flash was available. Did I want it? I clicked YES. After the download and install, suddenly RealPlayer worked. I could see the magic videos.

Of course I was fully satisfied. That lucky technician will probably get a glowing report at the end of his shift.

We're the humans. We get to win.

At the Grocery Store Checkout

geezerchick@mail.com (geezer-chick) — Thu, 17 Jun 2010 01:26:00 +0000

At the grocery store checkout, the cashier saw my bike helmet.

“I fell and broke my elbow about a year ago. I haven’t ridden since,” she said. This woman looks about 1/3 my age.

“About a year ago I got hit by a car and woke up in the hospital. My nose was broken, my jaw cracked, my collar bone broke, and I had a concussion.” I kept the list short on purpose. I didn’t want to compete with her broken elbow.

“They don’t put casts on elbows so I had to wear a sling. You don’t know what it’s like to only have full use of one arm,” she said.

“They don’t put casts on collar bones either,” I said. “I had to wear a sling for weeks after the surgery.”

“Where did you get the courage to ride again?” she asked.

“It’s my car,” I said. People don’t stop driving because they get in an accident.

“I only rode for pleasure,” she said.

She stared at me like I’m a lunatic, while I packed my groceries into my saddle bags.

A New Trick for My Grandchildren

geezerchick@mail.com (geezer-chick) — Tue, 15 Jun 2010 10:30:00 +0000

My son-in-law glares and growls when his daughters ask me to do magic. “Magic isn’t real,” he insists. And dutifully, his children repeat. “Magic isn’t real.” But they want me to do magic anyway. I’m always on the lookout for ways to make the magic happen in their hands. Usually, this means I’m teaching science, not doing magic. Science looks often like magic. In fact, I think a major appeal of science for many scientists is the fact that they are doing what was formerly impossible.

Think about it. A microwave oven is a scientific gadget. You put food in. You push a button. The box does NOT get hot, but the food inside does. That has to be magic.

Or put smelly dirty clothes in water with a little slimy liquid made from fat and lye. Slosh them all around for a while. Soon the clothes are clean again. Magic.

Hit two pieces of flint together. You get sparks. Magic.

I could continue this list for hundreds of pages.

I want something that looks like magic, but does not lend itself to scientific method for examination. That means something from the magic shop.

I was poking around on YouTube and saw a video with an Egg Bag in which the assistant holds an empty bag. She checks the bag. It is empty to her satisfaction. Then she clucks like a chicken, and an egg appears in the no-longer-empty bag.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RouUn8jDs2k

Perfect.

I bought an egg bag. I can’t wait to hear my grandchildren cluck like chickens. My son-in-law is going to have a lot of explaining to do. I’ll visit them next week.

Conversations in Yoga

geezerchick@mail.com (geezer-chick) — Sat, 12 Jun 2010 23:27:00 +0000

I’ve been going to yoga classes with these people for almost two years now. We know each other as woman with the leopard spotted shorts, man who runs the email list, woman from New York, woman with the same name as Gorbachev’s wife, man who goes to California. I’m woman who rides a bike. There are about 20 of us. Some of the students have formed clusters and know each other’s names. I’m still a newbie after 2 years.

Today, I got the courage to ask leopard shorts (whose first name I do know because she sometimes teaches the class), “What do you do in the real world?” Turns out she teaches about the influence of art on health. She is particularly fascinated by the role metaphor plays in healing.

I pointed out that the contrary is true, too. If you listen to the metaphors people use in their daily speech – “He’s a pain in the neck” “She gives me a head ache.” I think people would experience less pain if they stopped talking like that and used more accurate language. “She would be easier to work with if she arrived on time for her meetings.” “I could work with him more easily if I didn’t take his yelling seriously.”

She agreed. Her emphasis is on finding art in all varieties (poems, music, plays, stories, dance paintings) from a variety of cultures that encourages healing both emotional and physical. I didn’t even know you could take a class like that in college.

I recently came across a website about a medical conference in which the healing powers of poetry were being introduced to doctors: http://www.duke.edu/web/lifelines/

Yoga is only one way in which we can heal our bodies. Our thoughts, our beautiful thoughts, can be strong along with our muscles.

What did Esau sell?

geezerchick@mail.com (geezer-chick) — Thu, 10 Jun 2010 16:34:00 +0000

I recently got involved in a strange conversation on Facebook. My joining AARP to get the discounts was compared to Esau selling his birthright for a bowl of soup.

This got me thinking – what exactly did Esau sell?

Genesis 12:1-3 (New International Version)

1. The LORD had said to Abram, "Leave your country, your people and your father's household and go to the land I will show you.

2. "I will make you into a great nation

and I will bless you;

I will make your name great,

and you will be a blessing.

3. I will bless those who bless you,

and whoever curses you I will curse;

and all peoples on earth

will be blessed through you."

Even before he had any children, Abraham was promised:

Genesis 22:17

indeed I will greatly bless you, and I will greatly multiply your seed as the stars of the heavens and as the sand which is on the seashore; and your seed shall possess the gate of their enemies.

I think these blessings can be best summarized as “being born Jewish” even though that word is based on Judah, Abraham’s great-grandson, who had not been born yet. And many would say that being born Jewish is not a great blessing. It means being born into the most hated religion in the history of the world. I am a descendant of Jacob. I am allowed to say this.

To me, this looks like the entire line of Abraham’s descendants was to receive these blessings, if you can call them blessings.

You get to go on a long trip and never come home and never see your family again.

Your descendants will grow to be a great nation – all great nations wind up in wars.

Your name will be great – all great people have enemies and people who are jealous of them – and lots of problems, and no privacy.

People will curse you.

You will have enemies. You may own their gates, but they will still be out to get you.

All the peoples of the world will be blessed through you – nothing about being appreciated or loved.

Yes, I think that about nails what it is to be Jewish – the most hated group on the planet.

Two of Abraham’s lineage escaped this “blessing.” Abraham’s first born, Ishmael, by his wife’s servant Hagar, was sent away with a different set of blessings. His son Isaac, who was born to his wife Sarah, got them all to himself.

Abraham may have valued the blessings, but he didn’t value his children. He sent Ishmael out out into the desert where he nearly died. Then he took Isaac up on a mountain and raised a knife to slice his throat. It’s a miracle this bad dad has any descendants at all.

Isaac had two children by the same mother. I’d have expected both these children to inherit the blessings. Why only one? They were twins. Why deny the blessings to one? How are you going to get this uncountable line of descendants if you keep limiting the promises to one child in each generation?

Yet, as the story is told, only the firstborn was to inherit the blessings. And Rebecca, their mother, much preferred Jacob, her younger twin. She plotted to get the blessings for her favorite child.

When the twins were about 15 years old, Esau came home empty handed from hunting. He was hungry. Rebecca and Jacob got Esau trade the promised blessings, which at this point in the story look like a family folktale, and not such great blessings anyway, for a bowl of soup.

Later, when it was time for blind old Isaac to bless his children and officially pass on Abraham’s blessings, Rebecca dressed up Jacob to make him feel and smell like Esau. Esau was much more hirsute than Jacob. She cooked her husband’s favorite meat dish and had Jacob bring it in as if he’d just gone hunting. In other words, Jacob obtained these dubious blessings by trickery.

And when Jacob figured out that he’d been tricked, he did not take away the blessings he had given. Maybe he didn’t mind being tricked.

So, what did Esau give up, when he sold his birthright? He gave up the right to have his children born Jewish. Being Jewish didn’t mean then what it means now. Judah hadn’t been born yet. The exodus hadn’t happened. Nobody knew what it would mean to be Jewish. If you were to ask a no-Jew today – which would you rather have – your children be born Jewish or a bowl of soup? I think a lot of them would pick the soup.

Being Jewish isn’t a bad way to live your life, but it’s no great honor, either. I’m Jewish. I can get away with saying this. Maybe this trickery put a jinx on the blessings.

There is no reason the blessings could not have gone equally to the grandsons of Abraham, as was seemingly implied in the promises themselves. All of Jacob’s children were counted as inheritors of the promises. And so it has been in every subsequent generation.

I’m also sure that Esau’s descendants had an interesting heritage. They, too, were promised to become a great nation. According to Wikipedia, they became Romans who converted to Christianity.

I fail to see how that relates to getting discounts by joining AARP. But if joining AARP turns out to be a mistake, I can undo it by not renewing my membership. I only joined to get the discounts.

Stitches are Out

geezerchick@mail.com (geezer-chick) — Tue, 08 Jun 2010 17:55:00 +0000

Stitches are Out

As my husband and I walked our 19-year-old dog in the morning one of our neighbors asked how I’m doing. “I get my stitches out today!”

She looked at my husband and said, “You’d better watch out. The doctor is probably handsome.”

He is actually. He’s also a child. Jock-doc is younger than my children. I don’t like him. I don’t really dislike him. I don’t think he gives me straight answers. He’s curt and defensive when I talk to him. I told our neighbor the truth, “I’m hoping I get to see his female resident.”

Jock-Doc was busy. The clinic was running late. They had me stowed in a room with medical certificates for a doctor I’ve never met. In walked a young male Resident. “Your wondering where your regular doctor is. I can usually read facial expressions”

“Not particularly. I’m wondering if I get to see my x-ray.”

Very young resident got my x-ray up on the screen. NO METAL anywhere! Yay!

Then he got an embarrassed look on his face. “I need to take the bandage off. How are we going to do this?”

I’d worn a t-shirt with a v-neck so I could easily pull it off one shoulder without undressing. I did so. He still looked puzzled. I moved my bra strap off my shoulder. “That’s better.”

He began pulling one strip at a time. “It’s kind of like pulling off bandaids,” he said.

“I’m okay.” I didn’t tell him, but Jock-Doc got the whole bandage mess off quickly and almost painlessly after the 1st surgery. Very Young Resident was neither quick nor painless.

Then Very Young Resident got out some scissors and cut something in the middle of where the bandages had been. Last time there were a bunch of short stitches that Jock-Doc was able to pull out quickly and almost painlessly. This time the stitches were all attached. And Very Young Resident had just cut the 6-inch long strip of stitches in half, creating two 3-inch double sections.

“Take a deep breath.” Before I could finish inhaling, “Now exhale.” Yipes! He pulled out one of the 3-inch sections. “Take another deep breath.” Again, he didn’t let me finish inhaling. “Now exhale.” He started pulling and pulling and pulling and it hurt and really hurt and beyond hurt. I kept exhaling and exhaling and he kept pulling and pulling and it kept beyond hurting. Finally he stopped and went to the cabinet.

I pulling my shirt back up and went to my bike bag for my bottle of comfrey oil. He returned from the cabinet with a bandaid. “I don’t want a bandaid. Do you have a mirror so I can put on my comfrey oil.” Then I looked at my shirt. A spot of blood had already soaked through my shirt. “I want the doctor to look at this. Don’t put the oil on yet.” Very Young Resident left the room.

Jock-Doc eventually showed up. I pulled my shirt and bra strap down over my shoulder again. “Looks good,” he said.

I got a sudden inspiration to check a theory I had about Jock-Doc and Shoulder PT. When I told Shoulder PT that my surgeon was Jock-Doc, Shoulder PT said “The Shoulder Guy” in a voice tone that I interpreted as hostile. “He used to work here. That’s a name I didn’t expect to hear again.” Since I liked Shoulder PT, I didn’t push it.

Jock-Doc asked me to demonstrate my range of motion. I showed Jock-Doc that I can do cow arms, a yoga posture in which I reach one arm up my back from underneath, and the other down from over the shoulder, and clasp hands behind m back. “Shoulder PT says I’m the first person in 20 years to be able to do this after collar bone surgery.” Jock-Doc made a face that I interpreted as anger and distaste. Very Young PT asked who my yoga teacher is, and was thrilled to find out that my teacher’s studio is only about a block and a half from his apartment.

I again asked, “Where’s a mirror? I want to put comfrey oil on my shoulder.” Jock-Doc got all officious. “Let me see it.” I handed him the bottle. This is home made comfrey oil. It has a home-made label. I told him, you can buy it commercially. But I grow my own comfrey, so I made my own. All you do is extract comfrey in olive oil and then strain it through a coffee filter.”

Finally, he made a resigned expression, like he knew he couldn’t stop me from using it and directed me to the Unisex Restroom.

He was done with me. He didn’t care that I had questions. He had places to, things to do and I was no longer a customer. “If you break anything else, come back here.”

“I’m done with that for the rest of my life.”

Recovery Notes

geezerchick@mail.com (geezer-chick) — Wed, 02 Jun 2010 18:12:00 +0000

1) I can taste chocolate again. After the surgery, my husband, the alien, tried to cheer me up with a piece of chocolate and I couldn’t taste it. Anesthetics change your sense of taste.

2) I can taste horseradish again. I never imagined horseradish could taste mild. It’s no fun that way.

3) My chiropractor finally noticed that the accident knocked my pelvis out of alignment – now he’s working to straighten it. This process hurts, but in the long run, I expect to be in less pain.

4) The narcotics I took for 36 hours after the surgery gave me a short vacation from the pain in my hip. Now I know why my docs kept offering me pain meds. And I was reminded why I refused them. I much prefer having my brain. For me: no pain = no brain.

5) I was feeling better this morning, so I took off the sling that is “for my comfort” not my health, and did a belly dancing exercise lesson. I put that sling back on again right away. I needed it for my comfort.

6) I wore that sling to the gym to ride the stationery bicycle. I’m not allowed to ride mine for several weeks after the surgery. I suspect lifting it would tear the stitches over my collar bone. I also used the inner and outer thigh machine. I can still do 30 reps with 80 lbs, even after a week away from the machine.

7) My massage therapist and I agreed not to meet this week. I can’t lie on my belly. She suggested that I take arnica montana 30c. I like it a lot better than narcotics.

8) As soon as I felt free of narcotics, I felt a desire to cook. I made Chicken India with Peaches, chicken soup, lasagne with walnuts (no meat), and stir-fried veggies with tofu. My freezer is now stocked for a while. It was fun to have my kitchen serve as a three-ring circus. Chopping here, stirring there, baking the other place.

9) I can’t lift my old dog down the stairs, so he can’t have walks except when my husband, the alien, is home. I also can’t buy groceries because I can’t carry them home even with a cart because I can’t lift the cart onto a bus.

10) I’m taking the bus everywhere – the so-called every-15-minutes bus that runs near my house took 45 minutes to arrive this morning. It didn’t get me to the gym on time for my early morning Pilates class. I really want to be on my bike again so I can get places quickly.

My mail man saw me wearing the sling and asked, “Did you get in another accident?”

I answered, “No. This is a good thing. I got the metal screws and plates out of my shoulder. I’m getting my life back.”

Memorial Day Thoughts

geezerchick@mail.com (geezer-chick) — Mon, 31 May 2010 15:51:00 +0000

I’m feeling curmudgeonly today. It seems to me that Memorial Day glorifies dying for one’s country. It makes heroes of the men and women who have done so, and encourages the next generation to follow their examples.

I’m all in favor of celebrating and / or mourning the life of anyone who lived however briefly on this planet. That celebration and / or mourning makes sense for people who knew and cared about the deceased. If the deceased was a public person, then people who knew about her or him may feel inclined to celebrate or mourn.

But this public celebration in which new generations are taught to mourn for dead they never knew, and to celebrate their deaths, not their lives, makes no sense to me.

War results from a failure of communication, from greed, from disagreements over anything from religion to profits. It does not result from heroic men and women who are willing to sacrifice their lives. I don’t think we need to encourage our future generations to look forward to war. If a war becomes necessary, people will know it, without a childhood of propaganda.

It is often said that it is easier to die for a cause than to live for it. On Memorial Day, I would like people to resolve to make peace in their own lives with our own family and neighbors. If everybody could do that, I doubt we’d have wars. If we have learned not to hate our friends and families for the ways in which they have disappointed us or thwarted us or betrayed us, we will not be so quick to hate strangers for the same mistakes.

If we can start learning to make peace on a personal level, we will be preparing for a war-free future.