The Universe Speaks

My purse was stolen tonight. It was ancient but beloved, dilapidated but functional, and I'd been debating whether to try to find a new one or ask the shoe repair guy to replace the zipper and stitch the hole in the front section one more time. But now the Universe has spoken, and I must find a new purse.

I am very particular about the organization of the object I carry everywhere and use as a file cabinet, lunch box, and communication center. I hate rummaging in an undivided space, and am happiest when there is a compartment for everything. Not easy to find in this era of glitzy "hobo bags" that are as large as airplane carry-on bags. For now, I'll make do with my travel purse, my back-up credit card, and a printed appointment confirmation for my Department of Motor Vehicles appointment (in case I make the unexpected acquaintance of the local constabulary under unfortunate circumstances.)

Worse than contemplating carrying a less-than-perfect purse is the feeling of being incommunicado. My iPhone and Daytimer with everyone's phone numbers, addresses, and some gmails, are gone. If someone isn't in my gmail contact list or on my home phone, I may have lost them for all eternity. Sad. I like my contact people (almost as much as I like my purse.)

I spent the last three hours talking to my bank, credit card company, the police, getting my ancient flip phone charged up, and leaving a message with the locksmith to get my home locks changed. (Yes, I had duplicates of house and car keys in my purse. I've had occasion to feel smugly intelligent about that when I misplaced said keys. I'm not feeling so smart about it now.) Maybe tomorrow I'll have enough energy to set in motion the arduous process of replacing insurance, Costco, and AAA cards--and a bunch of others I can't even think about now.

Have you ever noticed that the number to call for a lost credit or debit card is on the back of the card, not on the bill? I hope you don't have to find out the way I did. One more telephone tree, and I was going to have to have to have a temper tantrum.

But life goes on and I must plod forward, if ever so slowly. Good-bye, battered old leather purse! We had some good times and some truly weird ones. I suspect you'll wind up in a dumpster somewhere with everything still inside you except the cash. So sorry. You deserved better!

I Thought it was Teal...

When you live in a planned retirement community, all the houses and yards are almost fanatically groomed. Not because people are in accord about how homes should look, but because they are all in the clutches of the evil HOA (Homeowners' Association.) If you live or have lived in one of these places, you know what I'm talking about. If you haven't, you might want to talk to a LOT of people before you consider it.

The rules are strict here. I like the uniformly maintained landscaping and not having cars parked on the street at night. I like that everyone else has to comply, of course, but I'm so darn perfect I can't understand why they want me to follow some silly rules!

For instance, yesterday it was HOT outside and I came home exhausted. There was an envelope in my mailbox from the HOA telling me I have to paint my shutters to maintain uniformity in the complex, and a separate letter telling me I have to replace the bulbs in the placket around my address. And I must do this things in 15 days, OR ELSE! (Or else what, I don't know--but I suspect it has something to do with citations, fines and possible property liens.)

I want very much to be a good citizen (a good citizen with no citations, fines or possible property liens), so I visited the HOA office and asked what manufacturer made the lovely teal paint for my shutters. One of the office Administrators looked up my model and shutter color (green), and told me I need Frazee's Strong Hunter color. "That can't be right, I said. My shutters are a lovely teal color."

The ladies in the Homeowner's Association office looked at me with pity. "Your front door and your shutters are supposed to be Frazee Strong Hunter." (What? That dark color associated with British hunts and sports cars?)

"Yessss," I said, the door IS hunter green, but the shutters are...my voice trailed off as I realized the front door is in the shade but the shutters are in the sun. I suddenly got a mental image of what color Strong Hunter wooden shutters would be after five years of baking in the desert. They would probably be...teal. I got the mental picture at the same time that the HOA ladies started laughing.

"Sorry, honey, your lovely teal shutters probably started out as Strong Hunter, and you're going to have to paint them that color again," said the manager.

I wonder what would happen if I pretended I hadn't asked. If I just go to a paint store and get some teal paint. (Citations, fines and possible property liens, probably.) Ah, well. All I have to do is stick it out for another five years and I'll have lovely teal colored shutters again.

Seattle, Doctors, and Job Training

We were refugees from the brutal heat of the desert, so my little dog and I required very little in the way of entertainment from the friends who hosted us on our four-week odyssey in Seattle. One couple, who were immersed in one of those incredibly stressful life situations that pop up like scary monsters in horror movies, apologized for not being more available during our visit. My mouth probably dropped open in amazement. "Hey, " I said, "It's 115 degrees at my house. I live alone. I'm stuck in the house from 7am to 8pm if I don't want to wind up a pile of bleached bones along the highway. This is heaven!" They appeared unconvinced. Maybe I should try to get them to my desert in summer. They would have no doubt after a day or two of instant sweat and near heat exhaustion each time they ventured outside during the day.

There is no place in the world more beautiful than the Puget Sound region when the sun is shining. I'm glad I had a month there, because even in July and August, sunshine is not guaranteed. A one-week vacation could wind up being a gray experience. I got my share of gray days and rain--enough to remind me why I had Seasonal Affective Disorder when I lived there. I loved being with my friends and I loved the gorgeous greenery and lakes all around. But I was glad to get back to my desert sun, even in the heat. I am a fortunate person; loving two different places and being able to spend time in each of them.

While there, I visited a naturopathic doctor who has helped a friend of mine with a difficult and serious illness. I try not to get my hopes up when someone tells me they can help me with my Crohn's Disease; I've had my hopes dashed so many times. My body is not partial to the introduction of chemicals--synthetic or natural--and all drugs and herbs are essentially chemicals. The one the naturopath recommended is well tolerated and is given in small doses. What could go wrong? (I should have known better than to wonder that.) I've been taking the medication for a month now. It's hard to tell if it's working, but I have been very hopeful. Then, a couple of nights ago, I noticed my skin felt like little tiny bugs were crawling on it about an hour after I took the medication. I looked in the mirror and saw exactly what I hoped not to see: little hives breaking out on my face. This is not a new pattern for me. So I shouldn't have been surprised by it. But hope induces selective amnesia, and I'd forgotten about it. Go figure.

The only things mainstream doctors have to offer me to stop the destructive intestinal inflammation are immunosuppressants, which will--as the name suggests--suppress my immune system. "You'd better get a flu shot and a pneumonia shot before you start these drugs," said the doctor conversationally, as if he wasn't delivering truly alarming news.

I just started a training program to learn to work in the front office of a medical practice. I cringe when I think of working face-to-face with germ-laden persons who may not have a clue about infection control (Don't sneeze at the receptionist! Don't cough all over the counter!) Making myself vulnerable with some crazy drug and then going into that situation just seems wrong, somehow. But the medical field is more appealing to me than the only two other industries that are hiring in the desert: retail and hospitality. (My friends know why those aren't a good fit for me. Let's just say I'm...um...kind of a strong personality.)

So there you have it. I'm suffering from PTIO--Post Traumatic Information Overload (OK, so I just made that up. It fits, though.) My life is now officially a suspense story. Will the body hold out long enough to finish training and perhaps even get a part-time job? How long will an immunosuppressant work to keep down the inflammation? (Internet discussion boards suggest five years. At my age, five years whooshes by at the speed of light. I must refrain from thinking, "What then?")

I still believe good things can happen at any time. I'm not as omniscient as I once thought I was, and the Universe constantly surprises. I'll figure out what to do, move forward, and find out later if it was the right decision. It's better than tossing and turning and writing whiny blog entries at three in the morning!