My Career as a Cork

Winter in the desert is activity time. We do all the outdoor things we've been dreaming about while huddled around our air conditioners in summer. I finally caught on to that life rhythm this year--three years into my desert residency. Thoughts of blogging slipped into the background as I dashed about attending outdoor activities and reveling in our sunshine while the rest of the country shivered.. Now it's payback time. The temperature is due to be 110 degrees F  a few days from now, and I'm back inside. Blogging is starting to sound pretty good again.

I'm fortunate to have found a group of people who go to the outdoor pool at 8 a.m each day to paddle and chat before the killer midday sun appears. Fortunate, because by 10 or 11 a.m. anyone whose brain isn't already fried scurries back to their air conditioning, computers, and TVs. If one wants to socialize and get some sunshine here, one must do it early.

I like to swim laps, which is best done in the indoor pool because lap lanes are printed on the floor (I tend to wander like a drunken sailor in my lane when doing the backstroke) and because the previously mentioned social folks are randomly bobbing and walking all over the outdoor pool. I'm having to give my sore right shoulder a break for a while, so I decided to water-walk with the happy, chatting group.

The shallow part of the salt water outdoor pool is four feet deep. (You're aware of the buoyancy properties of salt water?) I'm 4'9" and so buoyant that many years ago my scuba instructor gave a certain part of my anatomy an unflattering name that referred to the near-impossibility of getting it submerged. He then loaded my weight belt with as much weight as one of the 6-foot tall guys.

My chosen flotation device for my foray into water-walking was a "noodle" (one of those of those long cylindrical Styrofoam flotation devices you can get at Walgreen's for about $3.) I was balancing precariously, trying to get a feel for it. Suddenly, I rolled backwards, my feet flew up, and I couldn't get stabilized. I flopped around, grabbed the edge of the pool, and fought mightily. I forced my stubborn feet down once--but then they shot right back up.

"Do you need help?" asked one of the water-walkers. I was embarrassed to say so, but, well yeah, I did. She came over and pushed my feet back down, righting me, but as she was walking away, I slipped backward again. By this time, all six women in the pool were watching, asking if they could help. I could not get my feet down! I also couldn't bring them within reach of  my hands in order to open the Velcro straps and take them off. Visions of myself upside down in the water with only the soles of my pink water-walking shoes visible on the surface flashed into my mind.

Thanks to the pool ladies, that didn't happen. They took the water shoes off of my feet for me, stood me upright and put my noodle on the side of the pool. I hoped they thought my face was red from the sun.   Later examination of  my shoes revealed foam in the soles, which combined with my salt-water-enhanced floating ability and death grip on the the noodle, turned me into a virtual cork. 

My career as a cork is over. From now on, no noodle; no little pink shoes. With my awesome floating capabilities, I should be able to navigate through just about anything--including one sore shoulder!

Evil Late Night Computer Gnome

I usually hate trying to do anything fancy on bank sites--like redeem my "reward" points. But Christmas is almost here and my money isn't, so when I saw that my bank (without notifying me) switched my card to a rewards card, I checked out the situation.

It looked so easy. They said I had many, many points. They said I could get a $100 gasoline card at a major oil company. They said just sign up here. So I did. And signed up, and signed up, and signed up.

I filled in the info, clicked to place the order, and was sent back to the beginning. The first time I thought, "OK, I missed something." The second time, I got irritated. I'm pretty sure I didn't miss something twice. By the third time, I began to feel an overwhelming urge to yell at someone or eat a pint of ice cream (I really shouldn't do these things late at night.) Unfortunately, no one is here but my little dog and me--he's sleeping and I'm out of ice cream.

I realized someone was messing with me when the screen displayed the information I'd entered. It looked very official. Just one little problem: tiny red letters proclaimed that I 'd entered my phone number incorrectly--not enough numbers, too many symbols that don't belong, yadda yadda. I checked. I double checked. I looked on my cell phone. Yep, that's my number, all right. Ten digits--entered correctly and in the right order. I suspect a computer jockey somewhere in the bowels of the bank activated an endless loop--to keep customers busy without actually accomplishing anything-- after the supervisors left for the day. I can just hear his evil laugh as he rubs his hands, crunching Fritos and guzzling Mountain Dew.

You will not beat me, Evil Gnome! It may be my bedtime now (well, it was an hour ago when I began this fiasco,) but as Scarlett O'Hara said, tomorrow is another day. I will have that gas card, doggone it!

C'mon, Toto, let's hit the sack. (Oops. Wrong movie.)

900-Foot deep Mystery

Yesterday's paper said three million gallons of crude oil in the SS Montebello is gone. Vanished during the 70 years the torpedoed ship sat in 900 feet of water off the coast of California. I'm amazed.

Government scientists expected to find a substance the consistency of peanut butter and wanted to know how it would affect the underwater ecosystem if the tanks broke. What they didn't expect to find was: nothing, nada, not a thing, in those tanks. They hypothesize that it  leaked out slowly over decades (I'm reminded that as kids we always got "tar" on our feet when we went to the beach and had to remove it with gasoline or nail polish remover. Yuck.) Or...well, they don't have much in the way of other theories. Apparently, we don't know enough about the effects of that alien world--the ocean--on our landlubber substances to accurately predict what will happen.

Tons of old tires were piled in shallow waters during the 1970s to create "artificial reefs" and attract fish. They attracted fish, all right--but they also released toxins into the water. A lengthy, costly effort is now underway to remove the rubber reefs and replace them with something that won't  decay in salt water (how about rocks, guys?)

Since 1993, various businesses have been experimenting with iron fertilization of the ocean to promote phytoplankton bloom, which is supposed to produce all sorts of biological goodness. One can only hope they learn the side effects before they spread too much iron.

That being said, what did happen to the oil on the SS Montebello? I can think up lots of cool fiction stories with explanations that are probably more interesting than whatever did happen:

• Sci-Fi: Dormant micro-organisms mutated to eat the oil, and now that it's gone they're slithering across the ocean floor, driven by the scent of oil at a nearby refinery...
• Conspiracy theory: There never was any oil on the ship, which was a decoy to fool the enemy because a really important ship filled with [fill in the blank] had to get to [blank] to help create [blank] that was going to help end the war...
• Greed: When the war ended, a military guy who became an oil guy figured out a way to siphon the oil out and sell it...

I know at least one of my writer friends comes up with some very imaginative paranormal stories, maybe he'll weigh in. How about you? Any stories come to mind?

A 900-Foot Deep Secret

I was born in the first wave of Baby Boomers. I grew up in coastal Southern California where the leftovers of war were being surplussed and cleared away. New businesses popped up in leftover Quonset huts, hundreds of huge gray ships huddled together in "mothball fleets" in the harbors, and--most shocking to a small girl--constant reruns of the liberation of German concentration camps were shown on TV stations that apparently had nothing else to show between "Victory at Sea" episodes.

Our 1950s homes were the epitome of tiny modernity and everyone's dad had a shiny new car in the driveway. The dads all seemed to work at one of the many local aviation companies. My mother got excited whenever she saw a "Flying Fortress" overhead because she had helped build them. I thought everyone's mom could recognize airplanes in the sky.


I remember seeing piles of huge round black buoys at the Seal Beach (CA) Naval Depot. Boys at school swore they were explosive mines. "If they blew, they'd blow everything to kingdom come!" one male classmate said, eyes shining. I didn't then--and still don't--understand why boys liked to see things blow up.

One day when we were on our way to the beach, I pointed at the dark globes and asked my mom, "What are those?"She said she wasn't sure, but she thought they were floats to hold up underwater submarine nets. Oh, I said. But I always wondered: Did Japanese submarines come to California beaches during the war? It was weird to think about. My mom didn't know. Of course, she was only 14 years old when Pearl Harbor was bombed. She said there weren't any reports in the paper about ships being sunk off our coast. She lived in San Diego, where she and her friends visited the beach as a regular part of their recreation. They were too busy taking pictures of each other in bathing suits to think about Japanese submarines.

As told in an AP Wire story a couple of days ago, the Japanese submarines were there, all right. They even sank a few of our ships, one of which was a very large oil tanker named the SS Montebello. Two weeks after Pearl Harbor, it was torpedoed and sank off the coast of Cambria, near Hearst's Castle. The 39 crew members all survived, thanks to the residents of Cambria, who waded out through rocks and treacherous surf with ropes to help them ashore from their bullet-riddled lifeboat. It was big news in the local paper. But the story never made it to the national news . Why? Because, as the government admitted around 1988, they didn't want to create "hysteria" in the populace. Fair enough. People might have indeed panicked if they'd known enemy subs were close enough to watch through periscopes as they ate their dinners. Even with sturdy submarine nets in place, a couple of miles offshore seems uncomfortably close.

The danger of keeping a secret like that for too long was revealed in the recent news article. It seems the SS Montebello--and its three million gallons of oil--lies in 900 feet of water dangerously close to the Montery Bay National Marine Sanctuary. Government agencies are mounting an expedition to test the oil--which they think is the consistency of peanut butter by now--to see if it's a danger to wildlife if the tanks give way. (My thought is: how would it not be? But what do I know?)

My childhood question has been answered, and I don't like the results. My conspiracy-theorist friends are probably having a field day with this one. I chose to exercise my imagination in a different way: I wrote a short fiction story about a fifteen-year-old girl seeing a Japanese sub off the coast of her beach in 1941. People don't believe her because it wasn't on the news. Maybe I should give her a camera...

"It's Really Easy, You'll See"

I love Verizon FIOS, I really do. I've been using it for two years and it's been mostly reliable. It's very fast. The customer service over the phone has been great. But today I'm thinking I may not be the customer they need me to be.

My internet went down for no apparent reason. They worked with me on the phone, but bounced me back and forth between a couple of departments, including one young woman who couldn't find my account, said she couldn't put me through to a supervisor because she couldn't find my account, and hung up on me when I told her that sounded crazy.

On my next odyssey through the phone maze, I got to a sympathetic young man who helped me get my internet connection back on my desktop. My in-house wi-fi remained DOA . In the hierarchy of home technical needs, internet connection is #1 because it's crucial and everything else depends on it. I, however, have no less than four devices that require wi-fi.

I had no idea I had become so dependent on my laptop, TiVo, Roku, and iPhone. It's like Reefer Madness. These things were introduced to me by my kindly and well-meaning husband, and now I'm hooked. I'm having withdrawal symptoms. Unfortunately, even though I'm technology-dependent, I'm not very technology-savvy. I need someone to tell me what wire to plug into which cable and what obscure string of numbers to enter into the gaping, blinking fields on set-up screens.

The nice Verizon guy decided I needed a new router. He ordered one for me, gave me a tracking number and told me it would be here in a day.

"Who's going to set it up?" I asked.
"You are."
"You're kidding."
"It's really easy, you'll see."

Yes, well, you know what that means.

In the meantime, my internet connection went down again.

The new router appeared on my doorstep. I remembered that Verizon guy told me I just had to plug in the new router the same way the old one was, and then put in the magic "In Home Agent" disc and follow the instructions. I plugged everything in, turned on the router, and inserted the disc into my computer. I got an immediate error message. Driven by my addiction, I bypassed the message and got into the first screen of the disc. The instruction sheet told me I would get a an "install" screen and would be given step-by-step instructions. No such luck.

OK, back to prehistoric methods. I dialed the FIOS support number and navigated the two different phone trees with four choices each, and finally got to a female Cylon voice that said, "Due to technical difficulties, we are unable to process your call at this time."

Still desperate, I tried opening Firefox because I saw the internet light was lit on the new router. Viola! Enough internet to write in my blog but no wi-fi to watch TV. (Wait, it just occurred to me that there really isn't a downside to that!)

I could be feeling really inadequate right now, except that I'm really proud of the brilliant job of attaching the router to its cheesy little stand that I did without any help from anyone. It took real brain power, I tell you; I had to figure out how to use a screwdriver from the backside to push down two little tabs....

Holding on to this little point of pride, I'm taking my frustrated, cranky self to bed. Things are bound to look better in the morning, especially if I can bypass Cylon lady and get through to sympathetic young Verizon guy. The return of my wi-fi would, at that point, just be gravy.

Wish me luck!

A Saturday Morning Full of Good Intentions

Darn. Another Saturday morning full of unrealized good intentions.

My short list had at least four semi-important items to be completed by 11 a.m., when the desert temperature climbs above 90 degrees (OK for hanging out at the pool, not so good for dragging propane tanks to the gas station for refill.) All I've actually accomplished is walking the dog. I watched a fun new TV show I TiVoed last night ("CHAOS," if you're interested, but don't get me started talking about it) although I'm not sure that counts as an accomplishment. It might even be an anti-accomplishment.

How does this Saturday morning sloth happen? Maybe 49 years of Monday-through-Friday have permanently altered my bio-clock to the point that I'll never be able to take Saturdays seriously again.

The only thing I can think of is that I must feel like I've already accomplished a lot today, including plenty of social interaction. For that I blame my computers, iPhone, FaceBook account, NetFlix, TiVo, Roku, and even my lowly landline phone. I'm so busy, busy, busy I must be accomplishing something, don't you think? Apparently, some part of my psyche labors under that misconception.

I do have a meeting to go to today that requires real, face-to-face social interaction. It's a roundtable my writer's guild is putting on about self-publishing. I'll hustle myself down there, hope I can remember how to socialize in person, and learn how to publish my writing--if I ever get away from said electronic devices to do any!

Moneybooker.com, aka Skrill, aka lost in the 70s

If you want to be labeled uncool, just talk about something you're proud of from the 70s. Such an odd era, when guys dressed in ruffled shirts, women rebeled against uncomfortable underwear, and everyone thought they were groovy if they went to "encounter groups" and knew the latest dances. And, of course, there was the women's movement.

The world has moved on and the gains made for women in the 70s are now part of the daily fabric of our lives. Or are they? I think most of us Boomer women who were vigilant in upholding the "Women's Liberation" principles are too tired to do it again today, but I see things that make me wish we still could. Five-inch heels and skin-tight clothes on young women make me cringe, but I'm glad that thanks to the legal gains made in the 70s they're free to wear them without being labeled "sluts" or having it assumed they "deserve it"if someone attacks them.

I thought the title "Ms." had become traditional. I mean, it's had about 40 years of common usage--isn't that a tradition? Today I signed up with a European emoney issuer--Moneybooker.com, aka Skrill--similar to (and better than, according to their press articles) PayPal. I was asked to put a mandatory title before my name--the choices for which were Mr., Mrs., and Miss. I called customer service and was told there was no way for me to sign up without using one of those titles. I told the woman with the lovely European accent that it was discriminatory, because it doesn't give women a choice that doesn't reveal their marital status. I asked her to send my concern to the people in charge, and I signed up as "Mr."

Self-congratulatory as I felt for my clever work-around, I was still baffled. Did "Ms." fall out of usage while I was busy aging and not paying attention? Do any young women go by "Ms."? Do they even care?

I suppose using "Ms." before my name does keep people from knowing my marital status, but maybe now it's revealing something else--that I'm an archaic throwback to the 70s. How very ungroovy!

Get that Credit Card Away from that Kid!

I thought 24/7 shopping from home was the coolest thing ever. And it probably is, for normal people--a category to which I appear not to belong. I like the feeling of power I get being able to reach out to the world through my computer and get things delivered to my door within days. Sometimes I even still like the stuff after the thrill of shopping is gone and I'm stuck with whatever lit up my befuddled late-night brain.

I've discovered a really big drawback to my latest impulse-laden activity. Much like people who take sleeping pills and then sleep-eat and sleep-walk, I appear to have the ability to order things and completely forget about them until they arrive. Sometimes I get a clue when I print something during daylight hours and find a printed internet receipt on the printer. Sometimes I don't. Take, for instance, the hubcaps.

My venerable Camry lost a hubcap during one of my misadventures, and I decided the internet was the only logical place to look for a replacement. Or four replacements, as it turns out. (The price was great! They were coming right to my door!) I found a set of fancy hubcaps but didn't order them--I thought. Then I found the Greatest Deal ever on a set of generic imitation Camry hubcaps, with free shipping (!) Of course I ordered the Greatest Deal Ever.

My hubcaps arrived within two days and a helpful neighbor installed them for me. They really spiffed up my car. I swelled with pride at my brilliant coup. Two days later, the next box arrived. I blanched when I opened it and found the fancy hubcaps of my late-night web surfing adventures. But wait...I didn't press that "order" button...did I? In the dim recesses of my mind I seem to recollect an inner voice saying "Oh, go ahead. Get the fancy ones--you know you'll love them!" That must have been my inner child, because the fancy ones cost twice as much as the perfectly fine Greatest Deal Ever ones did. I don't remember an inner adult saying, "Stick to your budget!" (Oh, I get it. Shopping is more fun when the inner adult is asleep and the inner child has the credit card.)

My outer adult had to tape the box back up today, take it to UPS, and pay shipping and a restocking fee. She wants to have a talk with that inner child. Too bad they seem to operate on different shifts.

Move Over, Uri Geller

Sometime in the 1970s, a young guy named Uri Geller got a lot of press for his apparent ability to bend spoons with the power of his mind, never touching them with his hands. He was famous.

I might have done him one better today. I managed to break the unbreakable--a Corelle plate. I didn't use my hands to do it. I didn't drop it on the floor, either. But I''m not likely to get famous.

As I have done hundreds of times before, today I placed two corn tortillas on a dry paper towel on a plate, then covered them with a damp paper towel. I set the microwave for 30 seconds and began to rub my hands in anticipation of warm, soft corn tortillas with cheese. I was so enchanted with my vision that it took a second or two for my brain to register what was right in front of my eyes. My microwave was flashing like lightning in a far-off cloud bank. Or maybe a the embers of a dying fire. I couldn't fathom what I was seeing. I knew there was no metal on that plate; it didn't even have metalized trim. It couldn't be metal--maybe my microwave was leaving this life in a blaze of glory! I hit the "off button" and opened the door.

After the wisps of smoke cleared, I saw that my tortillas were pretty badly burned around the edges. I considered eating them anyway. (What? I was tired!) I decided against the Cajun-blackened-tortilla opportunity, sat the plate on the counter and removed the paper towels and tortillas. At the exact second I found half of a burnt metal twisty-tie tangled in one of the paper towels, a big "Crack!" noise made both my dog and me jump.

Bemused (as usual), I scanned the counter for the source of the mystery sound. Once again, my brain had trouble interpreting the image it was receiving from my eyeballs. Why was my plate split down the middle? And what was that big white sliver between the two pieces? And look, there's the other half of the twisty-tie, melted onto the shiny white Corelle!

Yeah, I eventually figured it out. Probably would've figured it out sooner if the dog could speak English--or wasn't hiding under the table.

I've learned two things from this: 1) Take tortillas out of the bag they come in as soon as I get them, put them in a zip lock bag, and throw away the twisty tie! 2) Uri Geller could have impressed a lot more people if he'd used a microwave.

Terrorism on the Pfizer Boomer Express

Who gets depressed watching the Rose Parade? Usually nobody--until this year. The Alzheimer's Association and Pfizer may have created a whole new parade-viewing experience for a few hundred thousand boomers--if said boomers were paying attention, which I hope they weren't.

So there I was, sitting on my couch in my jammies with my dog and a hot cuppa tea, watching the pre-recorded televised Rose Parade on my DVR. I groaned at Al Roker's corny patter, admired the equestrians, and oohed and ahhhed at the ingenious floats. Then Al said, "here comes the Boomer Express from the Alzheimer's Association and Pfizer." A float shaped like a train passed the camera.

It took a moment for the intimation to sink in. I thought the name "Boomer Express" was a bit odd and wondered why they chose it. "Boomer Express...Alzheimer's...Pfizer..." No, it can't be. Did they make a cute little faux train and convince people to ride it and wave at the camera for the express purpose of telling us boomers that Alzheimer's is likely to be in our future and Pfizer drugs are the answer? I think I actually gasped.

The audacity! The tastelessness! The great big downer in the middle of my beloved parade! Really, guys? Fear tactics in the middle of the Rose Parade? I backed up the DVR recording and watched it again. Oh yes. Terrorism on the Pfizer Boomer Express! A banner near the top of the float said, "Estimated 1 in 8 Boomers at risk."

You know what, Pfizer Dudes? Those of us who have lost a parent to Alzheimer's don't need to be reminded that something worse than the Grim Reaper might come for us. And why terrorize those whose families are as yet unscathed? Do you have a solution for them? An answer for any of us? Nope? Didn't think so. Until you do, I suggest you take down your big Pfizer banner and stop spreading fear on flower-encrusted choo-choo trains. Honestly. Did anyone at either organization actually think this through?

I stopped the DVR for a while because suddenly I had no interest in marching bands and pretty girls in long dresses. I got up from the couch and paced a little. My tea got cold and the disgruntled dog wandered into another room. I vowed to express my indignation somewhere, to someone.

The somewhere is here, and the someone is you, my two faithful readers. Did you watch the parade? Did you notice the Boomer Express? No? Oh. And I bet you're not grateful that I pointed it out, either.

Sorry. I guess I forgot my manners in my sudden fear that I might be the eighth boomer.

At Last, Someone Pays Attention

We've all experienced it: the waiting room with the little chairs pushed up against each other, leaving even less room between humans than the stingy airlines deem sufficient.

You see one empty seat. On it is a purse, a shopping bag, and a jacket. The women on either side of it have their faces buried in magazines. You focus your laser eyes on them. Which of them is keeping your aching feet from relief? Aha! There it is--one of them is working hard to keep her eyes averted, pretending not to see you. Yes! She's the one.

I once signed up for a college class on Cultural Anthropology because the classes I really needed were full. It turned out to be one of the more serendipitous events of my academic career. I learned that people from different cultures have different needs for personal space, with Americans considering 3-1/2 empty feet to be their God-given right. Britishers need up to 4-1/2 feet, and Mediterranean people require only 18-24 inches, according to my professor, who grew up in an Italian neighborhood in Chicago with "garlic on his glasses".

The Prof showed us a movie in which people arranged themselves on benches as precisely as if they measured the space between them. I was convinced the people in my class and I were the only ones who ever saw that movie. Certainly not the folks who plan human containment areas.

But when I walked into the medical imaging office of my local clinic last week, I felt a shock of recognition (see picture above--doncha love it?) Somebody was paying attention! Just look at all that people-friendly space between the seats!

What a relief not to have to pretend I don't see you standing there, needing the space occupied by my stuff!

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!

The Whack-a-Mole Within

I spent the last two hours crying and reading What to Eat with IBD, a book by by Tracie Dalessandro, MS RD CDN (and IBD sufferer herself). IBD stands for "Inflammatory Bowel Disease," I think. Whatever, it includes Crohn's Disease, which was supposed to have much less control over my life after my surgery last August. I spent years of painful trial and error finding out which foods it was OK to eat and which exacerbated the pain and other symptoms of this puzzling auto-immune disease. Now there is this great book that distills everything I learned, and then some. I've tried for the last nine months to forget what I knew, but I was unsuccessful, and it's all rushing back.

"You have no restrictions on your diet now!" crowed the Seattle surgeon on my follow-up office visit after the surgery. He was SO wrong! Inflammation in the digestive tract can show up anywhere at any time when you have IBD. Even removing badly affected areas doesn't mean the inflammation won't just whimsically pop up in that very spot. It's Whack-a-mole, only I don't have a mallet.

Since August I've been joyfully eating things you probably take for granted but that I had not experienced in years: grapes, peas, big salads, sesame seeds, berries, whole grain foods--in short, most of the foods that have been found to be healthy for most of you. I thought they were now healthy for me as well. It's been so nice not to feel like a freak waiting for the Mother Ship to come take me home. I started having pain and fever about six weeks ago. My new desert gastroenterologist informed me on Friday that inflammation has shown up in places it never was before, that I need to stay on medication for the rest of my life--which may be shortened if I don't take meds--despite the fact that I have severe reactions to almost every medication the ingenious drug companies have devised to save your lives.(Would it be bad form to call that Northwest surgeon and tell him just how wrong he was? Yes, I know it would. I just want to yell at someone.)

I've been feeling sorry for myself for three days now. I think that's enough. It's time to go back outside at night and look for the Mother Ship. At least the nights are warm here in the desert, so keeping a lookout isn't such a chilly business. And now I'll slip back into restrictive eating patterns that will lessen my symptoms. Yep, I'm taking responsibility for myself instead of railing at gods and doctors (who sometimes think they are gods.) Maybe it's because I'm old and too tired to make a big fuss. Maybe it's because feeling better is more important to me than insisting I don't have to follow ever-changing rules. Or it could be that I finally recognize that I'm blessed in all the ways that count, among them good health care, caring people in my life, and so much food to chose from that I can eat healthily, no matter what my dietary restrictions.

Actually, this is progress. Only three days of whining and self pity! When I first found out I had Crohn's Disease about 25 years ago, I went into denial and didn't give up foods that hurt me (tomato-based foods, nuts, pepper, spicy foods, etc.) for three years. I was cocky for 20 years thinking I was getting away with something because I didn't seem to have many symptoms without medication and I didn't have to have surgery. But chronic inflammation is insidious and comes after you with quiet persistence until one day it leaps up with a "Bwah hah haha!" and drags you into the hospital.

I thought my reward for going through surgery was that I would get to eat berries again. I guess not. ("No, no, my Sweet--you get to do all that hospital stuff and you still don't get berries and fried chicken! Bwah hah haha!") Actually, the reward was that the doctor was able to remove enough damage to keep the Whack-a-Mole creature from shutting down my digestive tract completely. I could have had the wailing ambulance experience and emergency surgery--which I may or may not have survived. (OK, maybe I should be calling that Northwest surgeon and thanking him.)

Well-intentioned people have been sending me articles and news blurbs and suggesting alternative medicines since I was first diagnosed. I actually tried some things before I realized that natural or synthetic, most of the treatments involved ingesting something--and they all made me sicker. I thought I'd learned not to get my hopes up. But did get them up this time around. Having them dashed hurts. And yet...and yet...these nine months have been glorious. I had a reprieve. I savored the giant, juicy strawberries of California spring. I reveled in blueberry buckwheat waffles. I felt happy and hopeful that my life would be so very different. It was a good run.

Now it's likely that I'll have to eat the same few well-cooked foods over and over to minimize pain and inflammation. If the past is any indication, I'll spend about a third of my time too fatigued to do anything but move from the bed to the couch and the computer. That's just the way it is with auto-immune diseases.

It's not such a bad life, all things considered. Maybe I'll just lie back and read (or write) a good book while doctors search for a mallet to knock out the Whack-a-Mole.

Of Energy Shots and Smog Certs

In an amazing show of efficiency, the AAA -recommended gas station that Smog Certified my car completed the task within their 45-minute time estimate. Lucky for me, because they had no waiting room and it was 95 degrees outside. The guys from the garage graciously placed a folding chair in front of the boxes of beer inside the air-conditioned Mini Mart for my dog and me. They must not like unconscious clients littering the gas pump area.

"What?" I said, "I can have my dog in a food mart?"

"Yes," reassured the clerk, "because we don't have any open food here" (Or anything that can really be classified as food, I thought. But being old and finally getting wise, I said nothing.)

Little Oliver was content with his head on my shoulder and I was left to admire a wall. As I sat there, bemused as usual, I realized what an amazing wall it was. On five 5-foot shelves and three rows of hooks, this wall held pretty much everything people need to live their lives--or survive a disaster. It even had four rows of baseball caps up by the ceiling in case said disaster was a big wind that knocked everyone's USC and UCLA caps clear into Arizona. Instead of getting an earthquake kit, I may just take up residence in the Mini Mart.

The bottom shelf held cans of something called "Energy Shots" (clarify this for me, anyone who has been brave enough to ingest one of these), instant lunches and packaged meals that require no refrigeration. The shelf must have sagged dangerously at some point, because someone cut a broom handle off and nailed it to the center of both lower shelves with its tip resting on the floor. The second shelf had all the things you need but don't think about until you don't have them: toilet paper, bar soap, feminine hygiene products, eye glass repair kits, baby wipes, dish soap, and hand lotion. The largesse of comfort items made the mom in me practically giddy.

Lighter fluid (a must in disaster situations--especially if you have a lighter), pocket tissues, shampoo, mousse, shaving cream, teeth whitener, and toothpaste filled the third shelf. The fourth and fifth shelves were a miniature pharmacy, with cute little packages of everything from band-aids and eye drops to aspirin and every non-aspirin pain reliever known to man. My admiration for the person who stocked these shelves grew by the minute.

The three rows of hooks above the shelves were masterpieces of architecture and ingenuity. Hanging from a variety of industrial and homemade fasteners were knit gloves, playing cards, extra brushes for electric toothbrush thingies (well, what do you call them, anyway?), batteries, lint removers, fun cameras, razors, condoms, hand sanitizer, and something called "Stain Gone."

All this, and beer too. My, my. I was having a great time imagining people gathered round my little wall after a disaster, eating packaged meals, shaving, and listening to battery-operated radios while drinking beer and waiting for FEMA. But then the guys in the garage called my name. My car was ready and it was time to relinquish the folding chair and the great view of the wall.

With many thanks for the great hospitality, I paid my bill and drove out of there in search of a place with real food that isn't preserved in fat and salt for posterity--and future archeologists. The wall is great, but it didn't entice me to buy and consume anything on its shelves. I think it might take a good strong disaster to make that stuff look more attractive to the average female shopper.

BTW, my car passed the smog certification. Just one more step in my metamorphosis back into a Californian!

Energy Shot, anyone?

Tired Recipes

I don't like to cook much. But for some reason, I enjoy looking at recipes in magazines and newspapers. Sometimes I pity the writers for being expected to come up with new and interesting things without overtaxing their readership. Sometimes I actually get excited and think: "I could do that!" (I won't, of course, but I could.) I have a book specially made for stashing clipped recipes, given to me by my niece-in-law almost twenty years ago. She cooks. Apparently she had high hopes for me. I'm not sure exactly when she stopped suggesting recipes I might like, but it seems like a long, long time ago.

Reading my local paper here in the Valley of the Retirees, I'm struck by undeniable proof that I'm not in Seattle any more (as if the non-stop sunshine wasn't enough). Seattle has great recipes to read. Everyone is into fresh and healthy, and the Asian influence makes for fabulous flavors (I assume. Not that I've ever actually made any of the recipes. My foodie friends do, though, and I do my job--eating and appreciating.) My current newspaper presents endless small variations of 1950s whitebread comfort food that put me back to sleep at my breakfast table. A few of the Food & Drink section's headlines for your awe and amazement:

- "Sour cream enhances meatloaf "
- "Skillet Chicken Fried rice" (don't even try to imagine it, my foodie Asian friends.)
- "Delicate dumplings not just for stews"
- "Stuff and grill mushrooms for a savory treat"
- "Creamy banana pudding a southern delight"
- "Drink of the week--Orange Creamsicle "(orange juice! ice cream! And…well, that's all.)

Under those titillating articles are:
- An ad for the grand opening of the Chicken Pie Factory
- Five ads for Italian restaurants
- An article written in breathless tones about Denny's new value menu
- A review of KFC's new Double Down abomination (bacon, cheese, and special sauce between two breaded and fried chicken breasts. They claim it has only 540 calories. I think someone forgot their glasses when they added up the calorie count.)
- An ad for the restaurant--which shall remain nameless--that produced the apparently day-old cheeseburger, above.

Oh, there are plenty of restaurants that serve tiny $30 gourmet entrees that look like stacks of checkers with bits of fancy sliced vegetables balancing on their crowns. If that wasn't more than half my food budget for the week, I might even try them once in a while. But alas, reality encroaches.

I'm trying to eat healthy and lose weight, so I'm actually making most of my own food in my own kitchen. It's kind of boring, but it's working. Because of my low boredom threshold, I have to make things that require few ingredients and not much cooking. To that end, I just bought a barbeque. Now, as soon as I get a propane tank, I'll just slap hunks of things on a grill like some of my friends do. (OK, and the occasional foil bag of veggies.) (Arrrr, arrrr, arrrr!)

I might still daydream about the recipes and photographs of beautifully presented food in magazines, though. A girl's gotta have aspirations!

So Long, Davey Crockett

Fess Parker died yesterday. He was a successful real estate developer and winery owner. But to millions of us Baby Boomers who were at our most impressionable age in the 1950s, he will always be the coonskin-cap-wearing Davey Crockett.

The article in the paper this morning mentioned "The Ballad of Davey Crockett," then reminded us of the words: "...born on a mountain top in Tennessee..." in parentheses. That's all it took. The tune that lay dormant in my brain for about a thousand years leapt up and started playing over and over again. (It just got you, too, didn't it? You're welcome.) I just hope it doesn't have as long a run, this time.

Fess Parker portrayed the Disney version of Davey Crockett as tall and straight, kindly and righteous. We had a lot of those dads in our 1950s TV shows. We all wanted to have a dad like that, and about one in 25 kids actually did. (According to a very accurate study done by a really observant 10-year-old.)

TV gave us Pa Walton and Little House on the Prairie in the 1970s, but it's been kind of downhill since then. Instead of Disney fantasy dads, we have gritty reality shows, Ozzie Osborne fumbling around his house, and evening soaps about dysfunctional cops and lawyers barely able to cope with their personal lives. The closest thing to a kindly, smart dad we have now is Ed O' Neill (formerly of Married With Children) as patriarch of a diverse extended family in Modern Family. He portrays a good guy doing his best despite his human foibles. No coonskin cap and country homilies there.

It's a good thing. Women are no longer portrayed as two-dimensional, pie-baking nurturers, and men don't have to play infallible, gentle fixers-of-all problems. We can all breathe a sigh of relief.

That is not to say we can't indulge in a little nostalgia for our fantasy Disney parents. It was kind of nice to believe life's problems could be solved with some country wisdom and a tramp in the woods. (No, not that kind of tramp. The one where you tramp through the forest with big boots, feeling wild and free.)

So long, Fess Parker. Thanks for the great memories--and all the coonskin caps!

Efficiency

Ads proclaiming a "Free Shredding Event" appeared in the newspaper for about three weeks, inviting us to bring as many as ten file boxes of papers to the Home Depot today (Saturday.) "Ah," thought I, "Now's the time to get rid of 20 years' worth of outdated papers. I'll clean out my huge Boeing Surplus file cabinet and have room for the next 20 years worth of stuff!" (The possibility of not accumulating more papers didn't even enter my mind.)

Feeling proud and efficient, I tried to open one of the four file drawers. No luck. I looked up at the key slot. No key! Then I remembered. A friend sent me one of those internet things designed to inform (or terrify) you. I think the theory is once you have this invaluable information, bad things won't happen and you'll be eternally grateful to the person who sent it. This one was called "13 Things a Burglar Won't Tell You." Reading it caused me to pull the key out of the file cabinet and hide it in a safe place--not my usual sock drawer. (Item #10 on the burglar's list: "Do you really think I won’t look in your sock drawer?') Unfortunately, I have no clue where I hid the key. I looked everywhere I could think of--but then, I'm not an experienced burglar. Maybe I could ask one to come find it for me . It would probably take about four minutes.

I don't know how much it costs to have papers shredded, but "free" sounded much better than whatever the price is. I called Jake the Locksmith. He wanted $70 to open the file cabinet, and another $15 to make keys. EasyKeys.com offered the key online for $10. This was more like it! I could still have my satisfying exercise in efficiency! Unfortunately, the three-day service I ordered might not get me the key until Monday. [Sigh.] Unwilling to pay for faster service, I just hoped for the best.

Oh, joy! The key arrived yesterday afternoon! I put off until this morning the job of pulling the papers out of file cabinet because...well, because I'm a procrastinator. I felt proud and efficient as I purged two file drawers within 40 minutes and filled my used Trader Joe's paper sacks. I jumped in the car and raced to Home Depot.

The lack of a large truck with a Shred-It logo on the side was my first clue. The second was when none of the helpful guys in orange aprons knew what I was talking about. It finally dawned on me--I was at the wrong Home Depot! (I live between two of them.) I felt myself deflating. I'm surprised I didn't fly all over the room backwards as all that efficiency pride whooshed out of me . It was too late, of course, to make it to the other store in time. Head drooping, tail between legs, I dragged myself back to my car.

The Trader Joe's bags are still in the trunk. I guess I'm going to find out how much it costs to have documents shredded. Or, I could hunch for hours over the tiny shredder that straddles the top of my office trashcan. Naw. If it burned up halfway through, I might run screaming from the room. The houses here are only about 10 feet apart and we all have our windows open in the 75-degree weather. My neighbors are sure to call someone official, and I have no desire to meet my local constabulary under those circumstances!

My Best Piece of Exercise Equipment

It turns out all I really needed to start exercising more was a doggie stroller. [Sound of hand smacking forehead] D'oh!

Oliver can only walk a block or so before his damaged back leg starts hurting. He relays this information to me by planting his rear end firmly on the pavement and staring at me. I carried him back from most of our little forays into the neighborhood.

Some of my retiree neighbors have dog strollers for their elderly or incapacitated dogs, but I balked at the idea. It's one thing to spoil your dog at home, where other humans won't roll their eyes and mutter such things as "weird," and "Look at that old lady's dog! She's pushing him, for Pete's sake!" The sheer practicality of the stroller idea trumped my hesitation, however. I ordered one online. Now we walk a mile or two every day. I see the back of Oliver's little head, ears bouncing, while he sits in the sun and sniffs the air. Since I'm not worried about my carpet being peed upon by a stay-at-home dog, I stay out longer. It's a win-win for everyone but the carpet cleaners.

This idyll will end temporarily in about two months when it becomes too hot to walk outdoors in the desert. That's OK; maybe I'll get him a dog spa by then!

Going Back to High School

I forgot how endearing and gross teenage boys can be. And how beautiful teenage girls can be. I remembered in a hurry last week when I started volunteering at the front desk of my local high school. I wanted to do some community service and take a little break from retirees. I got more than a little break. I got a whole new world--one that moves at breakneck speed. I was so worn out after four hours that I collapsed on my couch with my little dog when I got home.

The Attendance Secretary--who handles students who are tardy, injured, or sick--was on vacation. All those kids came to the front office. At one point, one boy was throwing up in a trash can in a corner, and another one tilted his head back in a chair, trying to stem a nosebleed. Between dramatic bouts of their respective ills, the boys chatted with the girl who was being suspended for fighting. They stole glances at the pretty student aids, who pretended not to notice. Parents came to drop off or pick up their kids. School supply salespeople asked to see the Principal. Students asked to see the Counselor.

I filed packing slips by department without knowing the names of the departments or the items on the slips ("1 regenerator." "4 domes." "1 streak plate.") I filed them in a cardboard box in used file folders because California schools don't have enough money to operate. (If they did, they'd hire someone at the front desk and wouldn't need me. Then I'd miss all this fun.) I removed rubber bands from obsolete rolled-up posters so we could use them again.

My newspaper says the state is going to ask teachers to take a 1% pay cut. Who knows what they'll take from the administrative staff. (Maybe the boxes of carefully hoarded used rubber bands?) The TV news said the Governor wants more money for his office. I said a few choice words when I heard that (we old folk tend to talk to ourselves.) He should volunteer at a school, then he'd know where the money would be best spent.

To be fair, the TV reporters probably took the Governor's request out of context. But there is no other context for what's happening at the schools. There, heroic people perform a mammoth job with inadequate resources--daily.

I'm going back, two days a week. It's a drop in the bucket compared to what they need. But I'm tired of being catered to and entertained (I'm not good retirement material. ) I want to do something. Something useful.

I think it's safe to say I found it.

OK, I'm Ready Now

The in Haiti earthquake coverage, combined with my recent discovery that the San Andreas fault is only a few miles from my home, makes me want to stockpile cans of food, candles, space blankets, etc. (But where to put it? How do you know what part of your house won't fall down? I'm told that isn't a problem in a one-story home--which mine is. Still, if one is making a survival kit, one needs to think of everything.) Storage is a consideration, but it isn't my biggest obstacle. Putting the thing together is.

I've created numerous "preparedness kits" through the years. I gather all the items the media says we need to survive a disaster. I package it according to the current recommendations. (Which seem to change each decade.) I ignore the rolling eyes and derision of those close to me ("Not even in a disaster would I eat that!") I try to keep the kit up-to-date, and sometimes I even succeed for a few years.

Then something life-changing happens, like moving to a different house, and my good intentions get lost in the shuffle. I'm kind of weary of the routine. I'm not sure I have the energy to create yet another viable kit. I'm thinking the canned Spaghetti-Os in the pantry and water bottles in the laundry room might be it, for now.

But, wait--I don't have to start from scratch this time! While sifting through the detritus of my recent move, I found the cute little radio/light/siren combination I bought about 15 years ago. It's powered by battery, hand crank, or solar cell (which wasn't too helpful in solar-less Seattle.) And, it's purple! I love purple!

I thought I'd made a bad purchase when I lived in Seattle because I couldn't crank the handle enough to make the radio work for even a couple of minutes. What good would that be after the batteries died while we waited days for government assistance? Then I noticed the solar cell glinting on the handle. Hey, this is the desert! We got solar energy--lots of it! I took my little purple buddy into the front yard and set it in the sun. I left it there for a number of hours. (OK, I forgot about it.) When I remembered to bring it in, miracles happened.

The light lit, the siren mourned, and I listened to music for about three hours. I feel like a kid who rediscovered a favorite toy. When the "Big One" comes, I'll be able to listen to radio, if it doesn't get squashed by rubble and if anyone is broadcasting. (If they're not, I can amuse myself for hours with the blinking red light.)

OK, I'm ready now. Maybe I'll even get some canned tuna to go with the Spaghetti-Os.