kellementology

life according to me

Tag: Life

  • Okay, I kind of like it here. Sometimes.

    A couple of weekends ago, we went downtown to see the Red Bull Air Races. It seemed too interesting to let pass by. Besides, it was free.

    We walked out past the Midway to the embarcadero to stand on the pier with everyone else and gape at eight tiny planes fly at amazing speeds pulling heavy g’s through huge inflatable pylons arranged in an obstacle course. Red Bull Air Race IV

    It was incredible. Go figure.

    The nicest thing about it was that it was a gorgeous day and it was relaxing to yet again remind myself that I am developing a sort of fondness for the place where I’ve lived for nearly four decades. A tiny one. Begrudgingly. But only once in a while.

    Sure, the city coffers are empty, the city attorney is a complete lunatic, the Padres lost again, the Chargers can’t remember how to play football, and local paper thinks publishing too-lengthy-for-what-it-is pieces on cracked sidewalks, potholes in the road, and exposed tree roots are news, but hell.

    The weather’s great.

    San Diego Bay Bridge The vistas are gorgeous.

    The public art is interesting Public Art even if it isn’t exactly perfect.

    Public Art: Carlsbad, CA And at least one person has a sense of humor, caught here by Tom Mallory, a reporter for the San Diego Union-Tribune. It seems the locals don’t exactly think this particular piece of public art accurately depicts the stance of a surfer.

    Dudes. Get over it.

  • Just another Friday

    His large feet shush across the carpet toward my bed in the dim rainy day light. I can hear his hesitancy as he approaches and know he must be wondering if I’m awake, or even alive. I’m tangled in and out of covers and sheets after another restless night. It must be time for him to leave for school and he’s come to check on me since I’m not downstairs. For a second I wonder if he thinks I’ve forgotten carpool duty on my one day off.

    “Morning, Doog,” I mumble to him before he turns around to leave, trying to sound more awake than I am.

    “G’ morning, Mom,” he responds in a voice with a Friday lilt. I can sense that he has drawn closer to the edge of the bed and is standing there, most likely trying to decide just how he might give me a hug. But I’m not perched on my usual edge. Instead, I am sprawled across the middle and not quite reachable for a 15-year-old who more and more seems to find the business of hugging awkward. I find myself wanting to erase his discomfort.

    “Are you ready for school? Do you have all your things together?” I ask even though I asked last night before bed, and even earlier after his homework was complete.

    “Yes.  I’m ready.”

    “Do well on your tests today, okay?”

    “‘Kay. And I just wanted to remind you that I won’t be there to pick up after school ’cause I’m going with W,” he tells me, already headed out of the room.

    “It’s not my day, Doog. Don’t forget your book for English so you can read today,” I add unnecessarily, as that, too had been discussed last night.

    “I won’t, Mom.”

    I hear the weight of his still growing body on the stairs as he heads down, and a few muffled words with his father as he clicks the lock on the front door to leave, his backpack banging against its frame. It’s 7am and his car pool is most likely waiting outside. “Bye, Mom,” he calls.

    “Bye, Doog,” I say, never quite loud enough.

    “See-yah-later.”

    “See you later, too,” I finish.

    I wait to hear the car pull away before I drag myself from bed and shuffle down stairs to take care of the animals.

    It only takes a second to notice that he has left the book I reminded him about. It’s on the floor right where he drops his backpack each day.

    I sigh and am glad that I have resisted learning how to text message. What good would it do to remind him of what he’s forgotten unless I plan to drive the book to him? It would just remind him that he just can’t seem to get the details of school right. Besides, when it’s time for him to need his book, he’ll remember that I reminded him, and that yet again, he has forgotten. He hates it. But he also seems fairly incapable of fixing the problem.

    I head into the kitchen and tell the MoH. Annoyed, he tells me it isn’t too late to call the RT to let him know he can’t go to his friend’s after school. I make a mental note to not tattle on the RT unless it’s important, because it doesn’t solve the problem. It just sends the MoH off to work on a Friday morning with a less than buoyant attitude about his son. It all feels a bit Ward and June-ish to me.

    It isn’t that important. What is important is that he takes the time to say good morning to me before he leaves for school on a Friday.

     

    I’m left wondering when the last time was that I told him I loved him. I pick up his forgotten book and place it near his calculator which he has also not taken to school today.

    the RT

  • Ahhh…moisture.

    Yes, another Nearly Wordless Wednesday has arrived. Where does time go? I can tell you it seriously left while I was “working” yesterday because I achieved very little and have now successfully blamed it on Bach and Brahms who were more for meditating and gardening, not grind-stoning. They contributed to my delinquency.

    Not today. It’s 8:42 am and I’m raring to go by celebrating something I’ve been waiting for. IMG_3870.JPG See it? You aren’t sure what it is? IMG_3871.JPG  Oh come on. How many clues do you need? Or is it just glasses? It’s condensation! IMG_3875.JPG

    Yes, that bit of atmospheric wonder that lets me know officially that the weather has changed. The plumeria that took so long to bloom will soon drop its last flowers, its leaves, and return to what the MoH refers to as “The Stick.”
    IMG_3876.JPG  Our windows will soon need to be closed during the night. The precious moisture in the air will help us breathe more easily, and keep me from feeling like a prune.

    Okay, so I’ll be a juicy prune. Plump and juicy.

    9:09

    Gotta go. But with no Bach or Brahms.

  • Work, Beethoven, and Bad Drivers

    I have a treat for you, but before I get to that, thanks to those of you who took the time to offer your suggestions about staying focused yesterday. I didn’t have a list as some of you mentioned, and which I’ve used in the past when work had me by the short hairs, but grabbed a few cds to keep me anchored to the monitor instead. Thanks to Essential Beethoven (especially the “Piano Concerto No. 5 in E-Flat Major’s Adagio un poco mosso“), and Rachmaninoff (“Rhapsody on a Theme of Paganini”), I managed to stay focused with little or no distraction.

    And today will be the same. Somehow, my iTunes playlist doesn’t quite work. It is distracting. And it’s not about my being able to sing along. I can actually “sing” to the classical music as well. I do a mean Beethoven’s 5th Symphony Allegro con brio nearly all the way through. You know, the Dat-Dat-Dat- Duhhhhhhhhhhh…Yes, that one. It’s quite entertaining without being distracting. The walkers outside my window now know I’m a complete goner, however.

    So, it’s 8:59 and I have to work. But I heard about LA CANT DRIVE on CNN this morning and thought I’d share if you haven’t seen it. This guy is totally my hero and I’m so sad he beat me to the punch on blogging about drivers who have their heads where the sun doesn’t shine. It seems that L.A. traffic is so bad (OH REALLY?) that one has a double chance of dying in a car crash there as opposed to New York City. The only place that one’s chances are higher? San Diego. True. Sheesh.

    And I’m sure it’s because of all those Urban Attack Vehicles that crowd the road each morning dropping off their future superior court justices and combinatorial chemistry specialists for school each day. The blonde and ponied Audi driver who cut me off THREE TIMES and then took on a school bus to situate herself before it at the red light wins the a**hole driver award for the day from my neck of the world. Too bad I don’t have more time, or I’d send in her photo. Wait. No, come to think of it, she probably has a few attorneys on retainer for her little problems in life. Come to think of it, I just might invite that blogger down to Paradise. His dislike for Mustangs and Escalades will immediately dissapate after he sees our UAV Babe-n-steins in action.

    Kay. Have a splendiferous day, but don’t put your nose too close to that grindstone or you’ll end up with a big scab on your nose.

    Disgusting.

  • Begging for tips on how to stay focused…

    There are things I’d like to write about today, but can’t…

    1.) Mahmoud Ahmadinejad at Columbia: Wow.

    2.) Ruben Navarette of the San Diego Union-Tribune & Clarence Page of the Chicago Tribune on the Jena 6: Interesting subtle differences of opinion — or are they?

    3.) Bush’s comment on Hilary having the Democratic nomination wrapped up: Um, could he just not say anything, please? Ever?

    4.) The UAW strike: They’re kidding, right?

    5.) The public’s skewed perspective on public education: I’m getting ready to just let it rip. But not quite yet.

    6.) People who are resistant to change (newspaper vs. Internet): Yes, Dorothy, there are these things called computers. And yes, you can actually “read” whatever you want and more with your coffee in the morning just like you do with the paper. And no, they’re not going to make the sports section smaller.  Get over it.

    7.) The MoH and football season: Oh the hilarity of it all. Even if the Chargers suck.

    8.) Those little racing planes we saw Saturday on the bay: Unbelievable. What will they think of next?

    9.) Exercising at Oh-Dark-Thirty: When is the time change?

    10.) Brunch: food, champagne, and plenty o’ smack: How many people can talk all at once while changing the subject of discussion five times within a single minute?

    I know. You all work and are quite capable of writing as well. In fact, lots of you work, are raising young children AND write. Pat yourself on the back, smile and count yourself as special. Truly. In my next life, I will long to be just like you.

    But now, I’m just wondering how you manage to do both. Let me know, okay? Seriously. I’m already busted because I’ve written this much and I promised to not even read my e-mail. What a complete loser. Can someone please put me out of my unfocused misery?

    In the meantime, be very glad I didn’t bore you with most of what I wanted to write today since I’m full of piss and vinegar. Nothing pleasant would have come of it.

    Have a totally lovely day.

    Like, you know.

    Totally.

    And I’m waiting for your free tips on how to stay focused. 9:01 — gotta go.

  • Thoughts, Clouds, & Billy Collins

    I’m not very good at “Wordless Wednesday” because I’ve never been wordless at any point in my life. As an infant, I most likely had the noisiest brain, making observations and collecting ideas and opinions for a lifetime of blathering. Therefore, I propose Thoughtful Thursday instead, and offer a bit of Billy Collins on the English artist, John Constable and being a “Student of Clouds” from his book of poems Questions About Angels which I truly enjoy.
    IMG_3762.JPG

    The emotion is to be found in the clouds,

    not in the green solids of the sloping hills

    or even in the gray signatures of rivers,

    according to Constable, who was a student of clouds

    and filled shelves of sketchbooks with their motion,

    their lofty gesturing and sudden implication of weather.

    Morning Clouds

    Outdoors, he must have looked up thousands of times,

    his pencil trying to keep pace with their high voyaging

    and the silent commotion of their eddying and flow.

    Clouds would move beyond the outlines he would draw

    as they moved within themselves, tumbling into their centers

    and swirling off at the burning edges in vapors

    to dissipate into the universal blue of the sky.

    IMG_3763.JPG

    In photographs we can stop all this movement now

    long enough to tag them with their Latin names.

    Cirrus, nimbus, stratocumulus —

    dizzying, romantic, authoritarian —

    they bear their titles over the schoolhouses below

    where their shapes and meanings are memorized.

    IMG_3764.JPG

    High on the soft blue canvases of Constable

    they are stuck in pigment but his clouds appear

    to be moving still in the wind of his brush,

    inching out of England and the nineteenth century

    and sailing over these meadows where I am walking,

    bareheaded beneath this cupola of motion,

    my thoughts arranged like paint on a high blue ceiling.

    IMG_3768.JPG

    The photographs here were taken today at different points between 6am and noon.
    John Constable: Cloud Study — 1822

    Add a soundtrack of “Blue and White” by Beth Waters, “Storm” by Lifehouse, and “Ocean Size Love” by Leigh Nash, and I can’t think of a better way to spend a Thursday morning after working on my patio trimming and repotting. Nice.

  • On Quitting

    I QuitFor some reason I’ve had the concept of “quitting” on my mind. It’s most likely because it’s September and there was one very large goal I had set for myself to accomplish by now. Remember that song called Dust in the Wind by Kansas? That would be my theme song with the exception that my goal is now dust in the wind.

    So I’ve begun a tally of sorts, as calorie-less food for thought on just how much I’ve said kapoots to in my life. I’m more inclined to consider that it’s all about revision instead of quitting. That’s a more constructive way to think dupe myself about it. Regardless, once I’ve said I’m going to do something, and then decide not to do it, that’s quitting, isn’t it? At what point might I begin to consider that it’s a problem? And to whom? Does it matter? And if it does, what might the underlying reasons be? I know there are people out there who never quit anything because they believe it exhibits weakness. Who’s to say they’re correct and that people like me are in the wrong? Sticking with something you’d rather not is more of a problem than throwing in the towel, but it’s only my opinion.

    The Business of Quitting:

    1. The Phoodplan: This was doomed from the start. My buddy bailed almost immediately, and I set too lofty a goal. I must not think I’m all that fat, or I’d do something about it. I’ve been lulled into thinking that all those women painted in impressionistic art are not thin, so there must be some degree of beauty in adipose tissue, right? Actually, health would be the central issue here. Weight loss was to have been a perk on the side. It hasn’t left my mind. So did I quit?
    2. My commitment to not purchase new books: You’ve forgotten and/or it doesn’t matter to you, correct? Just the same, I’m confessing that I have read some books on my list, left others I have around the house off the list, and have purchased new books I’ve not quite added to that list. Is quitting and not keeping a commitment the same?
    3. My job: More than once. It’s not funny, but it’s truly a relief I think about every single day first thing in the morning. Other people may think that this is not a big deal. In my profession, it rarely happens. It’s all about making it to the magic retirement date. I didn’t make that date which will cost me quite a bit o’ moolah (50%) when I begin to draw my retirement in 10 years. I savor the idea of all the great things I can learn and do in those 10 years that I wouldn’t have been able to do had I kept that job.
    4. A boy I was engaged to: I knew him six years and I can’t imagine not having the life I now have which wouldn’t exist if I’d married him. My children.  My husband.  Our shared experiences.  No thanks.
    5. A different marriage: No comment.
    6. Drinking white zinfandel: Thankfully. What was I thinking outside of “where’s my straw?”
    7. Once upon a time good friends: They’ve sort of disappeared into their own lives and I into mine. When I’ve tried to get back in touch, it hasn’t worked. I always feel like this is my fault. I deserve to be talked about at their parties.
    8. Piano Lessons and all those songs I learned to play half way through: At some point, I was done. I hadn’t set out to be famous, so…what does that mean? It brings new meaning to “plays a little.”
    9. Rowing: I liked the idea of this sport, but it was too time consuming and difficult. Yes, I quit after about two months. With my tongue hanging out and a lot of respect for those who do it.
    10. A Business: It never got off the ground because the timing wasn’t right, it was scary, and others were uncomfortable about the effect it would have on them. What a bunch of excuses.
    11. Drinking Light Beer: How do you spell swill?
    12. Using Margarine: How can people eat “partially hydrogenated” anything and not know it’s seriously bad for their bodies?
    13. Drinking Diet Soda: “Formaldehyde is formed in the body from the methanol released during aspartame digestion. It is a poison that has been proved to cause gradual neurological damage, immunological damage, and irreversible genetic damage at extremely low-dose, long-term exposure. Internal damage and changes occur long before poisoning symptoms become clinically evident.” If that’s not disgusting, I don’t know what is. Go ahead. Do a Google search yourself.
    14. Network Television: Is there really anything on? I dislike the commercials, the phony audience laughter they insist in retaining, the commitment it takes to watch whether it’s DVR’d or not. It just isn’t any good.
    15. Countless projects I was enthused about when I began them: This is the bane of my existence. I don’t understand it. Truly. Projects I’d love to dig back into. They’re like sad little reminders of change.

    As far as going out of my way to quit something I truly enjoy as Edgar Albert Guest advocates in his poem “On Quitting,” that hasn’t happened yet.

    And it’s not on my calendar.

    What about you?

  • You, too, can own brown hair.

    You, too, can own brown hair.

    I’ve never been able to understand people’s fears about their hair. Truly. In some cases, it seems the individual believes she is her hair — that without it, she wouldn’t be the same person. That she wouldn’t look attractive, or worse, that others wouldn’t find her so. In particular, their husbands. It’s interesting. And to be the ever present fair individual that is the bane of my existence, I’ll admit that it would concern me if the MoH showed up with purple hair and his head shaved on one side and sporting curls on the other. It isn’t that I would no longer find him to be the crazy intelligent and enticing person he is. It’d be more that I’d expect him to be fired, and then I’d have to get a real job. Okay?

    I can remember being very anxious when I was young if my hair wasn’t symmetrically curled. It’s a wonder my mother didn’t whack me upside the head with the hair brush while admonishing me to get a grip. (Perhaps she did, and because I sustained brain damage, I lack the memory to recall the event…) God forbid that someone notice that things weren’t perfectly aligned. You know.  Things.  I can remember being being obsessed about my clothes then as well, hating a particular skirt because the pleats wouldn’t lie straight, or a collar was flat on one side.  Everything had to be just right. This affliction wasn’t about hoping to gain attention from anyone. Absolutely not. The absolute horror of someone noticing me was something I never wanted. If I saw someone looking at me, I just knew that something had to be wrong. That things were not as they should be. My immediate reaction was one of intense embarrassment. The horror of it all. It was semi- debilitating for a very long time. Well, not quite.  But I just don’t care anymore. Yes, I care about my appearance, I just choose to be free of the stifling restrictions I put on myself to appease everyone else (as if they actually had anything to do with it to begin with). Okay, I actually got a grip and deal with these less than earth-shattering issues in a realistic fashion.

    So what does this all have to do with brown hair?  Well…

    Recently, my sister in law asked whether I’d be interested in being a model for a hair stylist class for a particular product line. I’d get free hair color out of it, and maybe a trim. Since it had already been a few months since I had my color done, I was sans gift certificate, and I’d thrashed my hair this summer in the sun and water, I told her I was game. Somehow, it slipped my mind. So I was surprised when she called to remind me that I said I was interested, and that two days would be involved: Sunday morning to do the hair color; and Monday to do the show. Two days. Two. And both in L.A.  No hotel.  Driving two days in a row.

    Now, if you’ve been taking notes on my on-going blatherings (a redundancy, as the concept of blathering has evolved into a pastime denoting incessant verbosity…) you are completely aware that I not only less than love driving, but driving to L.A.? Well. But it was for free hair. And not only free hair, but free brown hair. Brown. Not blonde like everyone else in Paradise. B-R-O-W-N. Woot! I was sooooooo there.

    But I had forgotten, so her reminder caused a bit of anxiety last week as the days approached. Anxiety about my hair? Are you kidding? Hell, no. I just don’t like having things on my calendar (I so do not own a calendar anymore…). Having items on my calendar disrupts the chaotic ebb and flow of life around here because I have to think about something concrete. I’m sort of out of practice, so then I have to apply myself in a more than unfocused way. Quite the challenge.

    So, yes. Free brown hair.

    You might be wondering why I bother? Well, I’ve wondered that a bit myself. The main reason is that growing out one’s hair is a less than attractive activity. One wanders around looking a bit like she’s sat in water up to here eyeballs for a while with one color emerging slowly on top as the other, older color fades and changes. Yes, one might schedule regular trims to speed the process. Or, one might even cut one’s hair very short, mightn’t one? One?

    Okay, I have thought of cutting my hair very short to get to the root of things…Bwhahahahahaha...but have you ever seen a guinea pig’s hair? The type of guinea pig that has all the cowlicks with its hair going every which way? That would be me. Yes, I could get some Dep or something and swish things around a bit, then it would look intentional, but I doubt it. I will think on this, however. One never knows with me.

    So until I figure all that out, I’m going for the free brown hair.

    Besides, I got quite the education while on this little adventure:

    1. I really can drive to L.A. by myself and be sane when I get there. I cannot, however, drive 65 or 70 m.p.h. because everyone else is driving 85-90 m.p.h. even on a Sunday morning at 7am. Who knew? What is the big freaking hurry?

    2. People who work in the “hair business” are in a completely different world than I have ever been. I suspected this and have had hairdressers I love tell me. So now I believe them. It’s fascinating to observe. They talk. A lot. They’re sort of bubbly, are completely unabashed about anything having to do with their bodies — starting with their hair, and eat, think, speak, and wax prolifically about hair. Okay? Hair. (It’s a bit like me and food…) And they love tattoos in interesting places… High-heeled shoes and platforms in zebra stripes and leopard patterns that cost $7 a pair, and do I want to know where the shop is so I, too, can stop before returning home.

    3. It is possible to have hair that was maybe brown once upon a time, and then black, then white, then with rainbow colors all at the same time. And, it is possible to “lift” those colors if you use the correct sequence of products. Lift as in make them more intense. “Like, insanely intense.” And shiny. Like, you know?

    4. It is possible to do all of that to your hair and still have it feel like hair. Not synthetic. Or have it stretch when it’s wet in the bowl. Stretch? Oh. My. Goodness.

    5. A hairdresser’s scissors — a good pair — cost $750. Really. I was amazed. They are sharp enough to cut off a finger.

    6. The owner of the company whose products were being featured clearly enjoys what he is doing (what a concept, huh?) really wants people in the business to understand the science behind the products they use every day (you know — actually think instead of just following directions), and was fascinating to listen to. Very.

    7. There’s a conspiracy going on out there. The big skin and hair companies are buying up all the smaller brands (this is new information?) and the result is that most products are now all the same. Plus, they’re being marketed in the grocery stores now, so people can actually purchase them while buying groceries instead of having to purchase products at a salon. Okay, so maybe not a conspiracy, but clearly a problem for those in the industry who are told that selling products they use in their salons can pay for their overhead. Very interesting.

    8. I have retained more than I thought I had about chemistry. High fives, anyone? Who knew that the reason you hair turns orange when you try to bleach it (remember Sun-In?) is because of iron oxide. And that the reason you have to use products in a particular order (facial care and hair care) is because of the size of the molecules (small first, working to large.) I could keep going, but I detect snoring in the room, so I’ll stop.

    9. Being a hairdresser is a hard job. Hard. I’d have difficulty standing in one place all day (Wait. I forgot. That’s how I put myself through college.) and then having to do what they tell you to do instead of being able to create. It might be interesting, though. But without the tattoos and shoes. I don’t understand how they can work in those heels.

    10. I still have big hair. You know, like in the ’80’s? Yes, that big. I thought I’d never see it again, but no. It’s still possible. Big. With curls.

    When I got home Sunday, the MoH said he liked my brown hair several times throughout the evening. I’m thinking he was making some visual adjustments and the commentary was just processing exhaust. The RT reaction was more succinct. Interesting, was his only evaluation. Kind of like what I think about his hair, so that makes us even.

    Monday, was a bit different, however. We had our hair styled (do you know how long it’s been since I had hairspray in my hair?) and make-up done for the show. Lots of make up — like as in, I had eyebrows. I had to get on the stage with all the other “models” and allow ourselves to be talked about under the bright lights and examined. Now, it was mentioned that we weren’t exactly the type of models they’d have on the runway. (Oh really?) No, we were the “you’d see these types of real people with real problems in your shops” set of models. We had our formulas pinned to our chests while sporting logo-bearing Tees that were quite a bit tighter than anything I’ve worn since birth. At least mine wasn’t a tube top, see-through, or one that said, “Enjoy your blow.” Ahem. We had to carry a “before” photo around, allowing professionals in the audience to touch our hair and take notes on our color. Very interesting.

    As much as I can say that it’s easy to be in the spirit of things while at the show, at some point, I had to go out in the sunlight. My hair is a lovely color with barely a blonde streak in sight. But I had to see my made up face in my own bathroom mirror. I had to see the RT look at me and then look elsewhere just to be polite. At least he didn’t call me Groucho.

    But I did take a photo. Of course. I had to.

    Last Week’s Drudgery

    Before Photo

    Sunday’s Work

    After Photo — Well, sort of…

    Monday’s Effects

    Like, Totally Done.

    Sadly, the fairy dust only lasts so long (my big hair deflated a bit on the way home…) But at least I now am the proud owner of brown hair.

  • Glucosamine, Progesterone & Bubble Baths

    Somehow, I never made it to Target yesterday. By the time I decided to leave the house, it was after 12. I shook my head at the traitorous clock chiding myself over my lack efficiency. I used to be so organized. Well, maybe I just thought that of myself, languishing in years of self-indulgent praise. After all, I was worth it, wasn’t I? What a load of crap.

    With some degree of resignation, I ventured down the hill to the drug store to peruse the section that might have glucosamine and chondroitin for my less than limber joints. Well, they’re still quite limber, they just hurt like a sonuvvahbitch. It wasn’t tough to find, there was so much of it. And just to keep me occupied, there were combinations of the two — how convenient. From what I’d read, both were necessary for my annoyingly persistent aches, so why not save having to choke down more than one horse-sized pill a couple of times a day.

    It’s just unbelievable how much this stuff costs. Talk about having us by the short hairs. Let’s see — ache until your eyeballs fall out, or shell out the 25 bucks for a month’s supply. How much can it cost to make the damn things, anyway? And what about the side effects? I deplore taking pills or caplets, or anything that is supposed to “fix me” for any reason. I’m highly suspicious of the conflicting reports the media spreads about the benefits or lack thereof that “dietary supplements” can have. In the case of glucosamine, it seems that to alleviate the achiness in my joints, I will only have to tolerate increased intestinal gas. Great.

    If it’s not one thing, it’s another. I’m so excited to be able to now understand why the loving endearment Old Fart exists and that I may soon be a card carrying member.

    I tentatively settled on a brand I easily recognized. But after picking up one container, holding on to it while I read a few more labels, then placing it back in its slot to retrieve another, and proceed to repeat the whole indecisive process, I had to wonder whether the druggist who was encased in his shop a few feet away thought I was a loon or not. I finally chose “Triple Flex.” All the ingredients and quantities checked out, and I allowed myself to be coerced by the image of a slick sports like body wrapped in a computer generated grid that appeared on the box. So, that wasn’t too bad.

    I, too, could possibly have a body with a grid wrapped around it. Perhaps be the next 6 Million Dollar Old Fart.

    On the other side of the aisle were products I’d seen before and dismissed back in February when I was of a mind to tough this surgically induced menopause bullshit out. Now that it’s seriously kicking me in the ass throughout every day, like I said yesterday, “I’ve been pinned,” so I better figure it out. But there’s just something bizarre about the whole hormone thing and I wander over to the section that has other “personal” products like condoms, personal lubricant, hot flash cold packs and what I was looking for — Progesterone & Phytoestrogen. It comes in a container that sort of looks like deoderant. I saw this product months ago and have kept it in mind, wondering if it would be better than the heinous HRT cellophane patches I wore on my abdomen for a month before rebelling and abandoning their use. Somehow this “measured dosage pump” of “purified water, aloe vera gel, sunflower seed oil, natural glycerine, shea butter, stearic acid, natural progesterone,” and a litany of other things that don’t exactly sound “natural” seems less threatening. Why not just try it? If I have hair growing on my palms after a month, I’ll rethink my strategy, right?

    Nearly 50 bucks poorer, I then made my way to the kitchen store in the same mall to purchase the juniper berries I knew they’d have for the beef daube I was making for dinner. Yes, juniper berries. And yes, they look just like the berries we’d pick off the junipers in front of our house and fire at one another. Who knew? So, I didn’t get to wander the aisles at Target, but this was better. I love the kitchen store. After staring at depressing supplements for a half hour, fondling brioche pans, salivating over imported balsamic vinegar, and lusting after a new rectangular fluted tart pan, I was more than fine. For a while.

    After catching up with the RT and his daily report on how the new school year is going and what kind of homework he has, I puttered around in the kitchen preparing dinner, expecting to be in better spirits. Unfortunately, that wasn’t the case. So I poured myself a glass of wine, grabbed my book and headed up to the bathtub for a soak. The phone rang on the way with the MoH calling to let me know how late he’d be. “How was your day?” he asked, not expecting my response. After all, how could one have a less than stellar day when nearly zero is required with respect to responsibility. “I’m not feeling all that hot, so I’m headed up to take a bath,” I explained. The few seconds of silence on the phone was expected as taking a bath is yet another thing that I just don’t do. And before dark? Unheard of. In five years, I’ve probably used my bathtub fewer than 10 times. But a cool bath just seemed to be the ticket to breaking the malaise that had been dragging me down all day. I told the MoH that it was no big deal. That I’d be fine by the time he got home.

    What About a Bath?I opened the window to let the wind in, poured in a ridiculous amount of something milky, bubbly and promising rejuvenation, made sure the water was luke warm, then settled in. Waiting until the water was a few inches from the top, I turned off the faucet. Waiting for the water to work its cool, soothing wonders. Feeling the gentle pushing of air against the blinds over the window. Listening to the rustle of the palms. Watching the golden glow of early evening sun against the chimney above the skylight. Melting.

    Maybe I’ve been wrong about baths all these years.

    I could get used to this.

    No problem.

    Maybe I should blow the dust off my Pilates book. That should be much easier on my joints instead of power intervals and walking lunges.

    But I’ll have to work out how to lay on the mat, keep my glasses on my face so I can read the directions, and do the routines.

    Hell, who said any of this ever was easy? Huh?

  • Achy Breaky Creaky Self

    Working From Home I’m alive and well after making much ado over my stint at the keyboard yesterday. But barely. I can honestly say that if I had been writing fiction, then I may have ended the day on a higher note, without the headache and stiff neck. Without barely being able to straighten myself and walk into the next room. I could have been writing a piece of fiction oozing with superfluous adjectives that make one wince in much the same way an extremely sweet piece of candy does. With a feisty character whose name is Alexandra or Fiona. Yes, perhaps something on the steamy side conjuring images of gazelle like bodies cavorting through the surf on a tropical island after an intense session of exertion — you know, at a spa. Uh, you weren’t thinking what I think you were thinking. Were you? Shame.

    But still. Entertaining.

    And after two very early mornings of strenuous walking — well, for me it’s strenuous — I could barely move after sitting here as long as I did. Tell me. Why is it that I can sit here and do what I want to do, and am not stiff and sore at all? Hmmmm…? Mind over matter, I’m sure. How pathetic. But I’m also exaggerating.

    So today, I’m not going to sit here any longer than necessary. I’ll actually get in my car for a reason other than to carpool kids to school. I’m going to Target — the land of uber cool advertising and chic but cheap stuff to purchase that I don’t really need. I wander up and down the aisles with absolutely no purpose on earth other than to look at countless items I won’t buy. Sure, I have a list of the usual “have tos” to purchase, but I wait until the end to pick up those items. After I’ve perused the book section longingly. After I’ve cruised through the plants. After I’ve looked at the cookware, the gadgets, and the stationery. The towels. Candles. Sportswear.

    I do need some sports wear. You know, for sports. Okay, so not sports. But exercise.

    Yes, I still exercise, but you should see what I exercise in. To convince you, I’d offer to let you smell it, since I wear it more than once a week, but I’m sure you’d politely decline. I need to get back into some kind of a routine. The ocean water was less than lovely when I last swam because of waves, low temperatures, tons of seaweed and tourists who just stand in the water. They do. Plus, we had begun to ramp up the intensity of our swim, so I’d end up with my tongue hanging down to my knees after I got home, already dreading the next time we’d go. Then, the humid weather seriously kicked my butt (I would so not be able to live on the Right Coast or in the South, weakling that I am…) and I’ve had some issues with my joints — especially my wrists. And no, it isn’t because I’m typing. One hurts more than the other, and the last time I checked, my right hand wasn’t hitting more keys than the other. Yes, the keyboard is level with my wrists. Yes, yes, yes. To be honest, the soreness is probably yet another change related to hormones. Do you know how annoying it is to have to say that? I hate saying it. It’s like calling “uncle” or whatever that is when someone has you pinned. I give up, okay? Except I can’t.

    I’ve been a bit resistant to finding out exactly why my body is feeling the way it does from one time to the next. I’ve never been one to dwell on aches and pains I may have except in the paragraph above… A headache rarely moves me to take an aspirin. I just grin and bear it, and always have. But I’ve also never had body parts removed, and it gives me the creeps to think about it — still. I’d rather ignore what I notice instead of acknowledging that concern hovers around in my mind with every change I notice. I’d rather not be reminded about how much in my body has been affected by the removal of those organs.

    I used to understand when I was exhausted after a long and busy day at work. Even then, I’d deal with it understanding that I could get in bed earlier, or pay attention to my diet, make sure I was exercising, or quit my job! But this is different. I’m exhausted today and I have no reason to explain it. Yes, I got up at 6:30. And I spent some time outside trimming bushes grown over during the summer. But that shouldn’t make me tired. I could take a nap right now, and I’ve never, ever been one who naps. Remember napping in Kindergarten? Sheesh. I could never go to sleep like the other kids. I’d lay there on my towel from home staring at the ceiling tiles and watching the kid next to me drool and twitch until the teacher told me to go to sleep. And then I’d shut my eyes and pretend.

    My knees feel better today than they did yesterday– but that’s because we didn’t do “intervals” during our walk yesterday morning, or the walking lunges that I know I will pay dearly for when I do them.  Ten of them.

    My VBF is just stronger than I am. Plain and simple. She does it all and just keeps on ticking. I, on the other hand, feel like I’m whining when I say that I’m sore, or that my arm is throbbing as I walk, forcing me to raise it over my head to relieve the pressure. But yesterday was the straw. I vaguely remember my doctor saying something about glucosamine…so I finally decided to see what I could find about why I’m feeling this way, and what I can do about it.

    It’s pretty depressing to read:

    “You may feel listless, depressed, isolated, indifferent, unenergetic, weak, unable to sleep, or anxious. You may lose emotional stability and contentment, becoming moody, hair-triggered, prone to fits of tears for little obvious reason, irrational, impatient, lacking any self-esteem. You may have trouble breathing, experience irregular heartbeats, or experience anxiety attacks.”

    Oh, and here’s a good one with respect to the effect of low estrogen on memory:

    ” You may know what you want to say, but the specific word just isn’t in your brain even though you know it’s one you know very well. You may forget or lose things, or you may get lost yourself, unable to remember how to travel a route with which you are familiar.”

    Hmmm…yes, I’ve noticed this. In fact, it’s a bit scary when I’m driving somewhere and I have to think about where I’m going because I’ll just drive on auto pilot. Yes, I’ve done this before, and do remember doing it when I was in my late teens and early 20’s. But now? Feh. It happens all the time. No, I do not have ADD.

    Ah-Ha! Look at this:

    “Both physical energy and joint inflamation seem to be related to estrogen levels. When they dip, we may become physically fatigued beyond whatever sleep we’re losing to insomnia. We may also develop creaky, aching joints, stiffness after being still, and actual symptoms or exacerbation of osteoarthritis, especially in the knees.”

    Ah, but validation is a double edged sword, isn’t it?

    I am seriously going to Target. Either that or bawl my head off. I’m not one to feel sorry for myself — ever. But this is ridiculous. When I find some energy, I’ll figure it all out. In the mean time, I guess I’ll just keep looking for answers, keep exercising, and try to understand it all.

    It’s not fair. I know. Life’s not fair. Hahahaha. Whatever.