Bill and I spent all day yesterday futzing with plumbing issues at one of Ray's rental houses. Bill (the expert) knew that it was going to be a day of frustration; I, ever the optimist, thought we could bully our way through it and things would work out all right in just a couple of hours.
Nine-plus hours later, the tenant had a new bathtub faucet and control, but it entailed much pounding, sweating, sawing, trips to the hardware store, tweaking, sighing and yes, a little swearing. But it's done. Why is it that plumbing repairs are always eleventy-billion times more complicated than you think they are going to be? You can't just take something new out of the box, unscrew the old one, screw on the new one? I think it's because you're always following someone else's mistakes or lazy adaptations, trying to fix things that should have been done differently to begin with. Short of replacing the whole bathtub, we did what was necessary, hacksaw in hand, and were able to walk away with just a day's frustration behind us and some small measure of satisfaction.
There is probably a lesson in here somewhere, but I'm too tired from actually working all day to figure it out for sure. Perseverance? Adaptation to adversity? Smugness that we didn't have to call a plumber at $150 an hour? I'll keep you posted if anything else comes to mind.
Saturday, May 31, 2008
Friday, May 30, 2008
Rebellious Knitting
MaryAnn reminded me yesterday that I need to stop being such a contrarian and follow the pre-class instructions for the knitting class that starts a week from today.
Somehow, I was under the impression that this was a knitting "group," as in we all get together and knit our individual projects, the beginners getting expert advice from the more advanced members. But that is the result of having skimmed rapidly (as usual, missing the cogent information), the announcement of the class. It really is a class, taught through the UT Extension. We are supposed to show up with two sets of #9 needles, a skein of cotton (for knitting a dishcloth), and a skein of worsted weight (for a scarf).
I have never knitted with anything smaller than a #10.5 (I am all about the instant gratification, so I use BIG needles that make things move along much, much faster). I don't use dishcloths (unsanitary), I'm getting pretty comfortable with the scarf thing (I want to knit a beret), and from somewhere in the depths of my whiny-child brain rises a protestation of "do I have to?"
Yes, Pam--you do. So stop with the kvetching already, and get your sorry butt over to Walmart for a hunk of "Peaches & Cream" yarn and some baby needles.
I am so immature.
Somehow, I was under the impression that this was a knitting "group," as in we all get together and knit our individual projects, the beginners getting expert advice from the more advanced members. But that is the result of having skimmed rapidly (as usual, missing the cogent information), the announcement of the class. It really is a class, taught through the UT Extension. We are supposed to show up with two sets of #9 needles, a skein of cotton (for knitting a dishcloth), and a skein of worsted weight (for a scarf).
I have never knitted with anything smaller than a #10.5 (I am all about the instant gratification, so I use BIG needles that make things move along much, much faster). I don't use dishcloths (unsanitary), I'm getting pretty comfortable with the scarf thing (I want to knit a beret), and from somewhere in the depths of my whiny-child brain rises a protestation of "do I have to?"
Yes, Pam--you do. So stop with the kvetching already, and get your sorry butt over to Walmart for a hunk of "Peaches & Cream" yarn and some baby needles.
I am so immature.
Thursday, May 29, 2008
We saw Rock City!
Our quick little trip to Chattanooga was proclaimed successful by all participants. Bill got his TWIC card, which was the first reason for going (the receptionist handed him the oh-so-important-new-photo I.D. and asked, "Is this you?" I guess it's not a very good credential if the issuers have to ask).
We then navigated to our motel room for a quick stop and then went off to Lookout Mountain to see the local sights.
The first was a tour of Rock City, amazing cultivated and indigenous gardens winding through natural giant boulders on top of the mountain. The walk of about 90 minutes was strange and wonderful, and included the promised breathtaking views and cool caverns, mixed natural wonders with man-made tackiness of gnomes and colored lighting. Echo was a trouper, even on all the scary steps and tight squeezes through the rock fissures.
We did not take her across the swinging rope-and-wood bridge however!
At the summit, the promise of "See 7 States!" was fulfilled, even though the sky was overcast.
And there were spectacular waterfalls and the obligatory balanced rocks too:
We then navigated to our motel room for a quick stop and then went off to Lookout Mountain to see the local sights.
The first was a tour of Rock City, amazing cultivated and indigenous gardens winding through natural giant boulders on top of the mountain. The walk of about 90 minutes was strange and wonderful, and included the promised breathtaking views and cool caverns, mixed natural wonders with man-made tackiness of gnomes and colored lighting. Echo was a trouper, even on all the scary steps and tight squeezes through the rock fissures.
We did not take her across the swinging rope-and-wood bridge however!
At the summit, the promise of "See 7 States!" was fulfilled, even though the sky was overcast.
And there were spectacular waterfalls and the obligatory balanced rocks too:
After our nature hike, we went to Point Park and viewed the 30-minute animated diorama of the Battles of Chattanooga, where the Civil War siege and battles of the area were explained.
We wound our way back down into the city, and took a swim in the hotel pool to cool off. Observation: this is the first time I've been swimming in the new body. I am frighteningly buoyant! It makes it a little awkward to gain any forward motion, because my chest keeps rising from the depths, bobbling along, ever topside! I may have to attach weights in the underarms of my suit, some sort of anti-waterwings! Weird.
Dinner and reading and sleeping. In the morning, we cruised the new downtown areas, but it was raining and not conducive to foot-exploration (also the spectre of driving home in a car with a wet dog restrained us). We had an easy drive back to Hawkins County.
After unpacking the car and going through the mail, we saw this headline in the new American Maritime Officers newsletter:
TWIC Deadline Extended to April 15, 2009
Sheesh.
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
Ch-Ch-Chattanooga
We're off on another Chattanooga adventure today, this time to pick up the stupid-ass TWIC card for Bill. They can mail a Driver's License, they can mail a Passport, but this puppy has to be applied for and picked up in person, necessitating TWO round trips of almost 500 miles each.
This time we're going to stay overnight, so we can maybe see some of the sights and get the full tourist experience before trekking home again. On the agenda: Chickamauga Battlefield, Lookout Mountain and the very famous Rock City (as in "See Rock City!" painted on barn roofs all across America in the 1930s). All are dog-friendly, as is our lodging for the night.
So, we're off to see the Department of Homeland Security wizard. Wish us luck...
This time we're going to stay overnight, so we can maybe see some of the sights and get the full tourist experience before trekking home again. On the agenda: Chickamauga Battlefield, Lookout Mountain and the very famous Rock City (as in "See Rock City!" painted on barn roofs all across America in the 1930s). All are dog-friendly, as is our lodging for the night.
So, we're off to see the Department of Homeland Security wizard. Wish us luck...
Monday, May 26, 2008
Memorial Day
It is humbling to remember that whatever freedoms we enjoy here were purchased with the lives of American soldiers all around the globe.
There are times when I am dismayed by the things my country's politicians do, but I am almost always proud of my country's soldiers. Their sacrifice awes me, and today is a good time to remember what so many gave up, in order for us to have the easy civilian lives we have.
They are ordinary people called upon to do extraordinary tasks, and they get little credit for their efforts or their devotion.
Thank a soldier the next time you see one in uniform. Thank a veteran for his or her service. It's the very least we can do.
There are times when I am dismayed by the things my country's politicians do, but I am almost always proud of my country's soldiers. Their sacrifice awes me, and today is a good time to remember what so many gave up, in order for us to have the easy civilian lives we have.
They are ordinary people called upon to do extraordinary tasks, and they get little credit for their efforts or their devotion.
Thank a soldier the next time you see one in uniform. Thank a veteran for his or her service. It's the very least we can do.
Sunday, May 25, 2008
Gardening Joys
It's going to be a beautiful day out there in the TN sunshine.
My little garden is coming along beautifully, as I finally found two Brandywine tomatoes at Lowes last week. The raised bed is now officially "full," with no more room for plants. (Well, if something really grabbed me, I suppose I could find a place to tuck it in, but just one)! One benefit of the bed is that it actually encourages me to weed. Because it is so compact, it is easy to pluck out the offenders who spoil the symmetry of the whole.
Bill has always been dismayed by my lack of enthusiasm about weeding. When we had a huge family garden each summer in New York, my philosophy was to plant everything (a monster task in itself) and let nature battle it out unassisted--the strongest would survive. In any case, I wasn't about to stand out there in the heat and bugs and pull weeds all day, everyday. This is how our yard became an overgrown mess. Going out to pick produce was a scavenger hunt of epic proportions, and occasionally, I came face to face with a woodchuck (or groundhog, as they call them here) who was also there to harvest the vegetables, and scaring the bejabbers out of me. We got plenty for the family table and canning pot each year (though probably not as much as we would have, if the plants weren't competing with the weeds), but I didn't worry about it. The stress-free garden. At least I didn't have to weed. And I felt completely guiltless about it too.
Maybe I'm getting older and more persnickety, maybe more orderly and responsible, but now I just weed my little patch without complaint or drama. I hum while I'm out there, and dream about fried okra and BLTs for breakfast. My own sweet pickle relish lined up in the pantry in sparkly glass bottles. Kosher dills with fat cloves of garlic in the bottom of the jars. Ziplocks of baby beans and peas, stacked up in my freezer.
Harvest time will probably bring much complaining and sweating and bug-bite slapping, but for now, tending my garden patch just gives me unadulterated joy at basking in the sunshine and contemplating the promise of produce to come.
My little garden is coming along beautifully, as I finally found two Brandywine tomatoes at Lowes last week. The raised bed is now officially "full," with no more room for plants. (Well, if something really grabbed me, I suppose I could find a place to tuck it in, but just one)! One benefit of the bed is that it actually encourages me to weed. Because it is so compact, it is easy to pluck out the offenders who spoil the symmetry of the whole.
Bill has always been dismayed by my lack of enthusiasm about weeding. When we had a huge family garden each summer in New York, my philosophy was to plant everything (a monster task in itself) and let nature battle it out unassisted--the strongest would survive. In any case, I wasn't about to stand out there in the heat and bugs and pull weeds all day, everyday. This is how our yard became an overgrown mess. Going out to pick produce was a scavenger hunt of epic proportions, and occasionally, I came face to face with a woodchuck (or groundhog, as they call them here) who was also there to harvest the vegetables, and scaring the bejabbers out of me. We got plenty for the family table and canning pot each year (though probably not as much as we would have, if the plants weren't competing with the weeds), but I didn't worry about it. The stress-free garden. At least I didn't have to weed. And I felt completely guiltless about it too.
Maybe I'm getting older and more persnickety, maybe more orderly and responsible, but now I just weed my little patch without complaint or drama. I hum while I'm out there, and dream about fried okra and BLTs for breakfast. My own sweet pickle relish lined up in the pantry in sparkly glass bottles. Kosher dills with fat cloves of garlic in the bottom of the jars. Ziplocks of baby beans and peas, stacked up in my freezer.
Harvest time will probably bring much complaining and sweating and bug-bite slapping, but for now, tending my garden patch just gives me unadulterated joy at basking in the sunshine and contemplating the promise of produce to come.
Saturday, May 24, 2008
Off to the showers...
Hooray! I can shower today! I suppose I could just strip down and step outside, it's raining today. With my luck, I'd get all soapy and the sun would come out! So off to the boring old bathtub instead.
Yesterday's doctor visit brought no new surprises. I'm healing well (itch, itch), everything looks "good," and I am to return in 2 weeks. When I got home I realized that the appointment they gave me conflicts with the first meeting of the new Rogersville Knitting Club that I have been awaiting with anticipation. So, I'll change the appointment, because I'm not going to miss that gala affair!
I know, I'm weird. Bill and I went to town last night for the Car Show/BBQ/Bluegrass Music. It was mildly pleasant, but the best part was that I got to sit in my lawn chair listening to the bands and knit away contentedly on my almost-finished pastel basketweave scarf. I figure I have about 20 more rows to go on that puppy, and then I can start a new project with my fancy-dancy bamboo needles. I find I am becoming increasingly annoyed with the scrape-and-clink of the aluminum needles, and even though I am a beginner, the needles already have nicks and scratches in them, which catch on the yarn, making annoying little "pills" that have to be picked off. I don't know whether this is a result of the needles or the yarn I chose, or a combination of the two. This is why I need a club of knitters! People to tell me what the heck is going on. Also, someone who can decipher pattern instructions that so far look like gibberish to me. Nothing like jumping into a new hobby with absolutely no clue as to what I am doing!
Daughter Juli emailed to tell me she is completely thrilled with her new Cutco knives. She was so taken with the Super Shears, she confiscated them and decreed that no one but her was to touch them on pain of instant banishment! Maybe she's just worried about the boys and sharp objects? There are now 4 of them living in the two-bedroom apartment, Kerne's brother Beorn staying with them and occupying the giant beanbag chair for his "bed." Juli says she likes having Beorn around, because he is a compulsive housekeeper. She leaves a dirty house and comes home to a clean one. Wow. I need a Beorn for my abode! (Don't we all)?
But for today, the only goal is to get clean myself. So I will go do that...
Yesterday's doctor visit brought no new surprises. I'm healing well (itch, itch), everything looks "good," and I am to return in 2 weeks. When I got home I realized that the appointment they gave me conflicts with the first meeting of the new Rogersville Knitting Club that I have been awaiting with anticipation. So, I'll change the appointment, because I'm not going to miss that gala affair!
I know, I'm weird. Bill and I went to town last night for the Car Show/BBQ/Bluegrass Music. It was mildly pleasant, but the best part was that I got to sit in my lawn chair listening to the bands and knit away contentedly on my almost-finished pastel basketweave scarf. I figure I have about 20 more rows to go on that puppy, and then I can start a new project with my fancy-dancy bamboo needles. I find I am becoming increasingly annoyed with the scrape-and-clink of the aluminum needles, and even though I am a beginner, the needles already have nicks and scratches in them, which catch on the yarn, making annoying little "pills" that have to be picked off. I don't know whether this is a result of the needles or the yarn I chose, or a combination of the two. This is why I need a club of knitters! People to tell me what the heck is going on. Also, someone who can decipher pattern instructions that so far look like gibberish to me. Nothing like jumping into a new hobby with absolutely no clue as to what I am doing!
Daughter Juli emailed to tell me she is completely thrilled with her new Cutco knives. She was so taken with the Super Shears, she confiscated them and decreed that no one but her was to touch them on pain of instant banishment! Maybe she's just worried about the boys and sharp objects? There are now 4 of them living in the two-bedroom apartment, Kerne's brother Beorn staying with them and occupying the giant beanbag chair for his "bed." Juli says she likes having Beorn around, because he is a compulsive housekeeper. She leaves a dirty house and comes home to a clean one. Wow. I need a Beorn for my abode! (Don't we all)?
But for today, the only goal is to get clean myself. So I will go do that...
Friday, May 23, 2008
Unveiling Today...and GOOD news from a friend
I'm off to Kingsport this morning for a dressing change and an initial viewing of the new nips. This should be interesting, in a disinterested, distracted way, of course. I'm still having a hard time associating all of this with me.
Bill says that he is concerned about my apathetic attitude toward all these cosmetic improvements. He can't understand why I'm not the least bit excited about what he sees as one more step toward normalcy. I come from another perspective, I think. From inside here, nothing about this is normal, no matter how many visual improvements are piled on. I can understand that he really wants to move on, get away from the events and fears of last year, and get on with the adjustment to what it will be like from now on. I am skeptical, even cynical. Part of me agrees with the notion that scars will eventually fade, and terror-memory will be replaced and supplanted each year that I get further away from it. But right now, I am still too freshly horrified by what was done to me, what was necessary, and what was sacrificed.
For me, it's like dressing up a badger and putting it in a baby buggy (not that anyone would ever do such a thing)! You can put the evil creature in a frilly dress and wheel it around the neighborhood, but it's still a badger, and it will bite you if you give it a chance. I need more time. And a better analogy, probably.
Last night brought truly great news from friend Rob, who is at the National Cancer Institute in Bethesda. His scans yesterday confirmed that the two Interleukin-2 treatments he suffered through over the past two months are working--his tumors are shrinking--and even more importantly, his brain MRI was clear. Big sigh of relief all around. Thank you for your good wishes and fervent prayers for him and his family. He also met a patient there who has had Stage IV malignant melanoma for 21 years, and is still going strong. It gave him hope that he might well have many more years in his future. That is my wish too.
This insidious disease. I just shake my head at the capricious nature of the beast, and the rapacious appetite it seems to have. I just wish someone, somewhere, was working on causality and prevention with the same diligence currently applied to treatment.
Bill says that he is concerned about my apathetic attitude toward all these cosmetic improvements. He can't understand why I'm not the least bit excited about what he sees as one more step toward normalcy. I come from another perspective, I think. From inside here, nothing about this is normal, no matter how many visual improvements are piled on. I can understand that he really wants to move on, get away from the events and fears of last year, and get on with the adjustment to what it will be like from now on. I am skeptical, even cynical. Part of me agrees with the notion that scars will eventually fade, and terror-memory will be replaced and supplanted each year that I get further away from it. But right now, I am still too freshly horrified by what was done to me, what was necessary, and what was sacrificed.
For me, it's like dressing up a badger and putting it in a baby buggy (not that anyone would ever do such a thing)! You can put the evil creature in a frilly dress and wheel it around the neighborhood, but it's still a badger, and it will bite you if you give it a chance. I need more time. And a better analogy, probably.
Last night brought truly great news from friend Rob, who is at the National Cancer Institute in Bethesda. His scans yesterday confirmed that the two Interleukin-2 treatments he suffered through over the past two months are working--his tumors are shrinking--and even more importantly, his brain MRI was clear. Big sigh of relief all around. Thank you for your good wishes and fervent prayers for him and his family. He also met a patient there who has had Stage IV malignant melanoma for 21 years, and is still going strong. It gave him hope that he might well have many more years in his future. That is my wish too.
This insidious disease. I just shake my head at the capricious nature of the beast, and the rapacious appetite it seems to have. I just wish someone, somewhere, was working on causality and prevention with the same diligence currently applied to treatment.
Thursday, May 22, 2008
Pain Amnesia
I am surprised this morning by my post-op discomfort. While mild compared to my previous surgeries, it is curious to me that I apparently forgot that all of this hurts afterwards.
I guess I figured I was such an "old hand" at this surgery thing (and who really wants that experience on their resume?), it would be no big deal to do another. I really have moved on, and the memory of all those months struggling to get out of bed, twinging with movements that involve pectoral muscles, and general constant ouchiness somehow got put in the "delete" pile in my brain.
It's back. I have to be fragile and slow again. Drugs instead of wine with dinner. Sigh.
Daughter Juli came up with a great word for my mental state as well: Dysmorphia, the disconnect between body image and body reality. While Dr. Huddleston was cutting and stitching yesterday, I asked him about it. He says that in his profession of plastic surgery, dysmorphia is an actual pathological condition, where patients continually undergo surgery after surgery because they are never satisfied with the results.
But this morning with my now-remembered pains, I don't think I'll be going down that particular road to imagined perfection. As my friend Melanie says, "no surgery is minor, it all hurts." Codeine for breakfast, Amen.
I guess I figured I was such an "old hand" at this surgery thing (and who really wants that experience on their resume?), it would be no big deal to do another. I really have moved on, and the memory of all those months struggling to get out of bed, twinging with movements that involve pectoral muscles, and general constant ouchiness somehow got put in the "delete" pile in my brain.
It's back. I have to be fragile and slow again. Drugs instead of wine with dinner. Sigh.
Daughter Juli came up with a great word for my mental state as well: Dysmorphia, the disconnect between body image and body reality. While Dr. Huddleston was cutting and stitching yesterday, I asked him about it. He says that in his profession of plastic surgery, dysmorphia is an actual pathological condition, where patients continually undergo surgery after surgery because they are never satisfied with the results.
But this morning with my now-remembered pains, I don't think I'll be going down that particular road to imagined perfection. As my friend Melanie says, "no surgery is minor, it all hurts." Codeine for breakfast, Amen.
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
Home and Itchin' in my Stitchin'
Well, that was weird, being awake for a surgical procedure!
It wasn't bad, even with the registering, undressing, being wheeled around, sitting around, scooting on to the op table, lying still for a half-hour, then scooting back onto the gurney and doing the whole routine in reverse.
At one point, the local anesthetic wore off and I had to tell the surgeon I could feel him cutting and suturing. He explained that I would feel "pressure, but not..."
"No," I replied, "I know the difference and I really do feel your scapel cutting!" Quickly, he shot me up again and continued his job. The whole surgery only took about 35 minutes.
Afterwards, Bill and I went to Lowes and got plumbing supplies and I mooned over new refrigerators. I secretly keep hoping that the awful side-by-side monstrosity that came with the house will just die. It did, about a month after we moved in, but my marvelous fix-it husband repaired it with a used $15 part. Dang!
We came home, had lunch and took a walk. Then I came back up to the house and took a nap. Not a bad day. The chest itchies are a very familiar feeling at this point and will abate soon. I know this routine.
It wasn't bad, even with the registering, undressing, being wheeled around, sitting around, scooting on to the op table, lying still for a half-hour, then scooting back onto the gurney and doing the whole routine in reverse.
At one point, the local anesthetic wore off and I had to tell the surgeon I could feel him cutting and suturing. He explained that I would feel "pressure, but not..."
"No," I replied, "I know the difference and I really do feel your scapel cutting!" Quickly, he shot me up again and continued his job. The whole surgery only took about 35 minutes.
Afterwards, Bill and I went to Lowes and got plumbing supplies and I mooned over new refrigerators. I secretly keep hoping that the awful side-by-side monstrosity that came with the house will just die. It did, about a month after we moved in, but my marvelous fix-it husband repaired it with a used $15 part. Dang!
We came home, had lunch and took a walk. Then I came back up to the house and took a nap. Not a bad day. The chest itchies are a very familiar feeling at this point and will abate soon. I know this routine.
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
Back to the Land of Surgery
Tomorrow, it's back into the clutches of continuing medical procedures.
I've had a quite wonderful time these past few weeks ignoring my reality, but it's time to deliver myself into the maw of medicine again tomorrow, 9 am.
The subject is cosmetic surgery--again--and I have to just get on the post-cancer treatment bus and stop my whining. Whatever. There will probably be no time to blog tomorrow, just so you know. I'll be back online as soon as I figure out how I feel about this...again!
I've had a quite wonderful time these past few weeks ignoring my reality, but it's time to deliver myself into the maw of medicine again tomorrow, 9 am.
The subject is cosmetic surgery--again--and I have to just get on the post-cancer treatment bus and stop my whining. Whatever. There will probably be no time to blog tomorrow, just so you know. I'll be back online as soon as I figure out how I feel about this...again!
Moving Trees and other Rural Pursuits
While I putter along in my day-to-day relaxed routines, Bill has hit the "energetic" part of his vacation. Having successfully built the Turtle Trap (though yet to successfully capture said turtles), he has now turned his attention to defoliating the encroaching forest, machete and chainsaw in hand.
Yesterday found him out in the woods, attaching eyebolts to 10 foot sections of oak trees, rigging cable and then using Alex's van to "tow" the logs up the steep slopes to "level ground" (this being a rather relative description anywhere on our property), where he can deal with them. One of these oaks was a dead tree that Bill cut to prevent it from coming down on car or roof in a storm. The other is...well, it's my fault.
When I was having trouble with internet satellite reception a few months back, "the boys" from Wild Blue came out and declared that a tree would have to come down or the satellite moved to solve my problem. Rather than take the time to go tromping into the woods and have the guy put his hand on the tree to be removed, I asked him to just point out which tree. Thinking he was pointing at the straggly locust I wanted gone anyway, I told him to go ahead. Twenty minutes later I was still hearing the drone of a chainsaw and went out to discover he was halfway through a 14" diameter monster oak. All I could think was that Bill was going to kill me when he found out that I was responsible for the death of this magnificent tree. Cut halfway through the trunk though, there was nothing to be done but to finish the job. I confessed my laziness and remorse to Bill in an email, and he was very nice about it, considering. I'm still here, chastened, but alive.
Now the chore is to get these fallen giants out of the forest before they begin to rot. Bill's idea is to cut these oaks into 10 foot lengths, take them (somehow) to the sawmill and have replacement bridge timbers made out of them. This is a good idea. So would cutting them up into planks and replacing all the rotten decking around the house, but who has that kind of energy? Not me. So I'll just shut up on this project.
To get the Pam-Killed-Me oak out, some clearing will be necessary to build a path to drag it down to the backyard. So Bill was out there hacking away with abandon and a 3 ft. machete he bought at the discount tool store for $2.99. No, it's not a quality tool--but it is, as Crocodile Dundee would say, a BIG knife.
There is something elementally primal about men chopping down the forest, I think. My happy guy came home sneezing at sunset (it is Spring, after all, and the pollen abounds), and hungry for his dinner. My hero.
Yesterday found him out in the woods, attaching eyebolts to 10 foot sections of oak trees, rigging cable and then using Alex's van to "tow" the logs up the steep slopes to "level ground" (this being a rather relative description anywhere on our property), where he can deal with them. One of these oaks was a dead tree that Bill cut to prevent it from coming down on car or roof in a storm. The other is...well, it's my fault.
When I was having trouble with internet satellite reception a few months back, "the boys" from Wild Blue came out and declared that a tree would have to come down or the satellite moved to solve my problem. Rather than take the time to go tromping into the woods and have the guy put his hand on the tree to be removed, I asked him to just point out which tree. Thinking he was pointing at the straggly locust I wanted gone anyway, I told him to go ahead. Twenty minutes later I was still hearing the drone of a chainsaw and went out to discover he was halfway through a 14" diameter monster oak. All I could think was that Bill was going to kill me when he found out that I was responsible for the death of this magnificent tree. Cut halfway through the trunk though, there was nothing to be done but to finish the job. I confessed my laziness and remorse to Bill in an email, and he was very nice about it, considering. I'm still here, chastened, but alive.
Now the chore is to get these fallen giants out of the forest before they begin to rot. Bill's idea is to cut these oaks into 10 foot lengths, take them (somehow) to the sawmill and have replacement bridge timbers made out of them. This is a good idea. So would cutting them up into planks and replacing all the rotten decking around the house, but who has that kind of energy? Not me. So I'll just shut up on this project.
To get the Pam-Killed-Me oak out, some clearing will be necessary to build a path to drag it down to the backyard. So Bill was out there hacking away with abandon and a 3 ft. machete he bought at the discount tool store for $2.99. No, it's not a quality tool--but it is, as Crocodile Dundee would say, a BIG knife.
There is something elementally primal about men chopping down the forest, I think. My happy guy came home sneezing at sunset (it is Spring, after all, and the pollen abounds), and hungry for his dinner. My hero.
Monday, May 19, 2008
Berries!
We are going to have SO many berries!
I can already see myself sweating over the canning kettle on the hottest day of the summer, putting up jam and loving every minute!
Sunday, May 18, 2008
Addicted to Sales
Most of you who know me, know I am all about the direct-selling business. I love buying stuff from people I know, I love selling stuff to people I know, and I adore being able to work at home in my P.J.s late at night or early in the morning, making my living without punching a time-clock.
My son Alex says that if we had a Family Crest, it would sport two mottoes: "Needs More Garlic!" and "Never Pay Retail." Whenever I see a product I love, I sign up to sell it--why not get what I want at deep discount? Why not share the joy with family & friends?
I started my first adventure in direct sales when I was 16, selling Jafra cosmetics. My best customers in college were not my peers, but the Hispanic housekeeping staff in the dorms. After they finished their shift, they would come to my dorm room en masse, sit on the floor for the afternoon, trying lipstick colors and making up each other's faces. I loved it.
In my single late twenties, I sold Avon door-to-door in my Costa Mesa neighborhood, mostly as a way to get to know my neighbors. When Bill and I were living with my parents in San Pedro and I was pregnant with Juliana, I did it again in that neighborhood, for spending money and exercise. People bought from me, maybe because they felt that anyone who was hugely pregnant and stomping around the suburbs, selling door-to-door, was desperate? True, we were pretty desperate then, but I enjoyed the walking and the personal interactions. And I even got to see inside some of those fabulous houses by the ocean.
When my kids were little, I fell in love with Discovery Toys and wanted most of them for my own children. I built up a nice little side business doing parties for moms who wanted developmental toys in bright colors for their kids. The home demonstrations were chaotic (because there were always a pack of whirling dervishes in the living room and crying babies in the kitchen), but the products virtually sold themselves, because the moms could see immediately what their kids liked right away.
Over the years, I've done direct selling for Pampered Chef, Tupperware, and of course, my enduring love, Longaberger baskets and pottery. I did it mostly because I have fun demonstrating products I believe in. And then there's that wholesale price thing.
When daughter Juli was visiting last month and said she wanted a good set of knives for a wedding present, I had her try out all the cutlery in my kitchen to see what she liked. She test-drove Lamson, Gerber (I'm glad she didn't fall in love with those, they no longer make kitchen knives, unfortunately), Victorinox, Henckels and Cutco. Being her mama's daughter, she decided she liked the Cutco best.
Now, these are the best: Made in the U.S.A. (still!) since 1949, high-carbon surgical stainless steel (Bill has had the stitches to prove it!), molded ergonomic thermo-resin handles, nickel-silver flush rivets, patented recessed Double-D serrated edges, perfectly balanced and pretty darn pricey, unless you're the type of person who thinks long-term amortization rather than buy-now, throw away next year. They also have a "forever" guarantee, which means if you own a Cutco knife or tool, it's warranted forever. And, anytime it loses its edge, Cutco will sharpen it for free. I just sent all of mine off to the factory for reconditioning this week, when I realized I've been using them for 14 years without rest.
I bought my first set when I enrolled in culinary school in 1994 and never regretted it. My parents liked them so much, they bought a set from Terry's brother when they came to visit us in NY one year. My brother and sister-in-law own them. Mark and Jo in Charlottesville got a set for a wedding present 30+ years ago, and use them everyday. Yes, it's a cult, but a nice one. When we see Cutco on each other's countertop, we know we are like-minded people.
It seemed logical when Juli made her choice, that I go online and find out if I could sign up to sell them (and save on that wedding present)! So I did that last week. I filled out an online application, got a call from the branch manager, went in for an interview, and was selected to become a rep.
Then came the training this week: Three days in Johnson City, with a dozen other trainees, all of whom were high school and college students, with no experience with direct sales at all. Talk about a fish out of water? I have 35+ years on these youngsters for one thing, and my butt doesn't sit in a metal folding chair for 6 hours without complaint! Actually, they were all very interesting, engaging people, though they did treat me as sort of a doddering grandma at times (maybe it was the knitting I brought along because I knew I would be bored)? They can't help it, these humorously arrogant youths. At times, it was even uplifting, as no one in the room guessed my real age--the oldest estimate they could come up with was 40 (ancient!), giving me a 15 year face-lift in one fell swoop! Ha! Fooled them! They really couldn't even conceive of someone being 55 and not in a home?
I tried very, very hard to behave myself for three days, and only slipped a couple of times. The manager who led the training was very enthusiastic, but a complete control freak. I think she was afraid, this being her first big responsible management job. My guess is that she is about 21 or 22, tops. She was highly disorganized, stupefyingly repetitive to the point of internal screaming frustration (mine), and inwardly terrified of not doing a "good job." Her butt is on the line, and it shows. The actual training could have been done in one painless six-hour session, if we were dealing with real-world, business-oriented adults. But the company is committed to training young students as their primary marketing force, so it was like being back in high school. And I wasn't all that compliant then, even when I was a student of that age. It was a sacrifice, and it was torture to sit there for 3 days, but I did it, and tried to enjoy what moments I could. Now I am free to sell Cutco cutlery.
Except that the manager still wants to be my mommy. She wants me to call her after every appointment, every freaking day! I rebel. I chafe. I don't even call my real mother everyday! And certainly not to be hounded, coached, cajoled, patted on the back or exhorted to do better. I know who I am. (I am so ancient and wise, after all)!
So, now that I have a contract, a reckoning will have to occur this week. Manager-mommy and I will have to have a discussion about the definition of an independent contractor versus her insane personal need to direct my every waking minute. I will be kind, but firm.
In the meantime, if you want Cutco, you now know who to call...
My son Alex says that if we had a Family Crest, it would sport two mottoes: "Needs More Garlic!" and "Never Pay Retail." Whenever I see a product I love, I sign up to sell it--why not get what I want at deep discount? Why not share the joy with family & friends?
I started my first adventure in direct sales when I was 16, selling Jafra cosmetics. My best customers in college were not my peers, but the Hispanic housekeeping staff in the dorms. After they finished their shift, they would come to my dorm room en masse, sit on the floor for the afternoon, trying lipstick colors and making up each other's faces. I loved it.
In my single late twenties, I sold Avon door-to-door in my Costa Mesa neighborhood, mostly as a way to get to know my neighbors. When Bill and I were living with my parents in San Pedro and I was pregnant with Juliana, I did it again in that neighborhood, for spending money and exercise. People bought from me, maybe because they felt that anyone who was hugely pregnant and stomping around the suburbs, selling door-to-door, was desperate? True, we were pretty desperate then, but I enjoyed the walking and the personal interactions. And I even got to see inside some of those fabulous houses by the ocean.
When my kids were little, I fell in love with Discovery Toys and wanted most of them for my own children. I built up a nice little side business doing parties for moms who wanted developmental toys in bright colors for their kids. The home demonstrations were chaotic (because there were always a pack of whirling dervishes in the living room and crying babies in the kitchen), but the products virtually sold themselves, because the moms could see immediately what their kids liked right away.
Over the years, I've done direct selling for Pampered Chef, Tupperware, and of course, my enduring love, Longaberger baskets and pottery. I did it mostly because I have fun demonstrating products I believe in. And then there's that wholesale price thing.
When daughter Juli was visiting last month and said she wanted a good set of knives for a wedding present, I had her try out all the cutlery in my kitchen to see what she liked. She test-drove Lamson, Gerber (I'm glad she didn't fall in love with those, they no longer make kitchen knives, unfortunately), Victorinox, Henckels and Cutco. Being her mama's daughter, she decided she liked the Cutco best.
Now, these are the best: Made in the U.S.A. (still!) since 1949, high-carbon surgical stainless steel (Bill has had the stitches to prove it!), molded ergonomic thermo-resin handles, nickel-silver flush rivets, patented recessed Double-D serrated edges, perfectly balanced and pretty darn pricey, unless you're the type of person who thinks long-term amortization rather than buy-now, throw away next year. They also have a "forever" guarantee, which means if you own a Cutco knife or tool, it's warranted forever. And, anytime it loses its edge, Cutco will sharpen it for free. I just sent all of mine off to the factory for reconditioning this week, when I realized I've been using them for 14 years without rest.
I bought my first set when I enrolled in culinary school in 1994 and never regretted it. My parents liked them so much, they bought a set from Terry's brother when they came to visit us in NY one year. My brother and sister-in-law own them. Mark and Jo in Charlottesville got a set for a wedding present 30+ years ago, and use them everyday. Yes, it's a cult, but a nice one. When we see Cutco on each other's countertop, we know we are like-minded people.
It seemed logical when Juli made her choice, that I go online and find out if I could sign up to sell them (and save on that wedding present)! So I did that last week. I filled out an online application, got a call from the branch manager, went in for an interview, and was selected to become a rep.
Then came the training this week: Three days in Johnson City, with a dozen other trainees, all of whom were high school and college students, with no experience with direct sales at all. Talk about a fish out of water? I have 35+ years on these youngsters for one thing, and my butt doesn't sit in a metal folding chair for 6 hours without complaint! Actually, they were all very interesting, engaging people, though they did treat me as sort of a doddering grandma at times (maybe it was the knitting I brought along because I knew I would be bored)? They can't help it, these humorously arrogant youths. At times, it was even uplifting, as no one in the room guessed my real age--the oldest estimate they could come up with was 40 (ancient!), giving me a 15 year face-lift in one fell swoop! Ha! Fooled them! They really couldn't even conceive of someone being 55 and not in a home?
I tried very, very hard to behave myself for three days, and only slipped a couple of times. The manager who led the training was very enthusiastic, but a complete control freak. I think she was afraid, this being her first big responsible management job. My guess is that she is about 21 or 22, tops. She was highly disorganized, stupefyingly repetitive to the point of internal screaming frustration (mine), and inwardly terrified of not doing a "good job." Her butt is on the line, and it shows. The actual training could have been done in one painless six-hour session, if we were dealing with real-world, business-oriented adults. But the company is committed to training young students as their primary marketing force, so it was like being back in high school. And I wasn't all that compliant then, even when I was a student of that age. It was a sacrifice, and it was torture to sit there for 3 days, but I did it, and tried to enjoy what moments I could. Now I am free to sell Cutco cutlery.
Except that the manager still wants to be my mommy. She wants me to call her after every appointment, every freaking day! I rebel. I chafe. I don't even call my real mother everyday! And certainly not to be hounded, coached, cajoled, patted on the back or exhorted to do better. I know who I am. (I am so ancient and wise, after all)!
So, now that I have a contract, a reckoning will have to occur this week. Manager-mommy and I will have to have a discussion about the definition of an independent contractor versus her insane personal need to direct my every waking minute. I will be kind, but firm.
In the meantime, if you want Cutco, you now know who to call...
Saturday, May 17, 2008
Busy Day Ahead
I am up early because Bill and I are out and about today.
Bill and Echo are off to go see Fort Watauga, near Johnson City. The historical site there has many activities planned for the weekend. I am sending the camera with him.
I am in my final day of training in a sales seminar. More on that later, it's been an interesting 3 days, if only for the stories it will give me to tell later.
Off to the showers...
Bill and Echo are off to go see Fort Watauga, near Johnson City. The historical site there has many activities planned for the weekend. I am sending the camera with him.
I am in my final day of training in a sales seminar. More on that later, it's been an interesting 3 days, if only for the stories it will give me to tell later.
Off to the showers...
Thursday, May 15, 2008
Bill's Secret Project
Yesterday, husband Bill finally let me take a picture of his new "girlfriend," the project he's been spending all his free time with. It is (ta-da!), done and ready to be installed in the pond.
When his baby ducklings disappeared, Bill vowed to track down the culprits and bring them to justice. With the help of the instructions on the internet (fount of all knowledge), he built The Turtle Trap:
Now all we have to do is figure out how to get the evil biting turtles out again, once they are trapped. I'm thinking along the lines of a steel mesh pike-net, or perhaps a pair of four-foot forceps. And then what? A trial or summary execution? Perhaps relocation to a turtle re-education camp? I'm not sure we're cut out for the ultimate responsibility of playing parole board to murderous amphibians.
When his baby ducklings disappeared, Bill vowed to track down the culprits and bring them to justice. With the help of the instructions on the internet (fount of all knowledge), he built The Turtle Trap:
This will sit semi-submerged in the pond like an iceberg (most of it below the water, only the ramp where Bill has his hand and the top part above the surface), and capture any snapping turtles we have in the pond by luring them with rotten chicken bones suspended over the open water.
The turtle smells the bait, discovers the ramp and climbs it, reaches the top platform and overbalances the "tippy" plank, which dumps him or her into the large 4 x 4 foot cage. The large bent-nail spikes around the top edge prevent the turtle from climbing the wire and getting out over the edge again:
Now all we have to do is figure out how to get the evil biting turtles out again, once they are trapped. I'm thinking along the lines of a steel mesh pike-net, or perhaps a pair of four-foot forceps. And then what? A trial or summary execution? Perhaps relocation to a turtle re-education camp? I'm not sure we're cut out for the ultimate responsibility of playing parole board to murderous amphibians. Making the pond safe for nesting wood ducks is turning out to be a little more complicated than we anticipated.
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
The Encroaching Forest
It is only May, and already the foliage is taking over. We are going to have amazing quantities of blackberries--this is just one little patch in the front yard along the driveway:
All those white flowers are going to be blackberries (or maybe raspberries too, I forget). There are even more down by the pond (tons, really) and up on the far ridge. I can already anticipate that I'll be spending the summer making jam, and freezing berries for pies and cobblers, etc.
My mother-in-law taught me 20+ years ago, when you see Virginia Creeper, look for the poison ivy too. They grow together. The Creeper has 5 leaves, Poison Ivy looks very similar, but with 3 leaves. So that's Creeper on the right and top, Poison Ivy on the left. Interestingly, Anne told me that if you're in the woods and get the Poison Ivy resin on your skin, you can quickly pick the leaves of VA Creeper and rub it on the affected place. She said that it was an antidote. I haven't ever tried it, mostly because I don't want to get into the problem in the first place. As it is, I always wash thoroughly with soap and water when coming in from outside.
All those white flowers are going to be blackberries (or maybe raspberries too, I forget). There are even more down by the pond (tons, really) and up on the far ridge. I can already anticipate that I'll be spending the summer making jam, and freezing berries for pies and cobblers, etc.While tromping around for berries, one has to be mindful of the natural habitat. And now, for the educational portion of the show:
My mother-in-law taught me 20+ years ago, when you see Virginia Creeper, look for the poison ivy too. They grow together. The Creeper has 5 leaves, Poison Ivy looks very similar, but with 3 leaves. So that's Creeper on the right and top, Poison Ivy on the left. Interestingly, Anne told me that if you're in the woods and get the Poison Ivy resin on your skin, you can quickly pick the leaves of VA Creeper and rub it on the affected place. She said that it was an antidote. I haven't ever tried it, mostly because I don't want to get into the problem in the first place. As it is, I always wash thoroughly with soap and water when coming in from outside.
Last year I made the mistake of rubbing my face affectionately on the dog's fur (don't ask) and ended up with a poison ivy rash on my face. Lesson learned: Don't kiss the dog, at least not Spring through Autumn. The way she runs through the forest, she picks the oil up on her coat. So I have to wash after touching Echo too.
Although here, she doesn't look like she's going anywhere soon:
I'm not sure what this posture is all about, did she have a headache?
Garden adventures continue around here. I've planted the new raised bed that Bill built, and the beans and peas are doing great:
We can look forward to eating out of the garden instead of spending the big bucks at the grocery in about another month. Hooray!
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
What's For Dinner?
Most people wake up thinking about what to have for breakfast. I wake up wondering what to have for dinner. Does this make me odd?
Bill and I have been working our way through the mountain of leftovers from the hordes of houseguests in April. We finally made it through the refrigerator leavings last night, and now we can get started on the leftovers I stashed in the freezer. We still have most of a pork roast lurking in there, along with a packet of home-grown asparagus from Elaine's mom, lovingly transported from Vermont in an ice chest. And the four steamed new potatoes I saw way back on the fourth shelf last night. That will make a nice dinner tonight. Okay, now I can get out of bed, dinner plans are taken care of.
Cooking for two is hard sometimes. I'm used to preparing groaning quantities of food for family and the friends they dragged home, and I'm still having a difficult time scaling down my cooking to something Bill and I won't have to be eating night after night. Cooking for one when he's gone is somewhat of a sacramental exercise for me. I like taking the time and trouble to cook something wonderful for myself; I like the meditation of it, and the respect for myself it signifies. But the eating of it, alone, is dissatisfying.
Cooking for Bill is easy though, because he will eat whatever I put in front of him, as long as it's on time. Years of eating at set hours on a ship has given him a stomach with a timer, if not a discerning palate. And some nights, when we're both feeling lazy or busy, we'll just have snacks instead of a meat-and-three-sides plate. One of the things I really like about this guy is that he thinks that anything I cook is wonderful.
But what I really crave, what I really want, is Reuben Hush Puppies. These high-calorie bombs of fried goodness is what I've been hankering for, despite my disciplined healthy dinner plans.
I may just have to make them and get it over with, and then pay for it on the elliptical exercise machine for the next month.
The list of ingredients is long, but they are easy to prepare. They make great leftovers too. They must have about 100 calories each, and no one can eat just one. They are my downfall.
Reuben Hush Puppies
Mix in a bowl:
1 cup leftover cooked Corned Beef, diced (or 4 oz. deli wt. diced)
3 slices Rye Bread with seeds, pulverized in food processor or blender to crumbs
1/2 cup sauerkraut, squeezed dry and minced
1/2 cup dill pickle, diced
1/2 cup milk
1/3 cup all-purpose flour
1/4 cup yellow cornmeal
1/4 cup scallions, thinly sliced
1 egg
2 Tbls. dill pickle juice
2 tsp. baking powder
2 tsp. dry mustard
1/2 tsp. salt
1/2 tsp. sugar
1/4 tsp. cayenne
1/4 tsp. baking soda
Mix together--batter will be very wet and sloppy. Refrigerate 15 minutes.
While it's chilling, cut a chunk of Swiss cheese into 24 pieces --1/2" squares -- and heat 2" peanut oil in a 2 quart deep saucepan --you're shooting for 350 degrees.
Use a Tablespoon or medium scoop, press a cube of Swiss cheese into the middle and enclose completely in the wet batter, and drop into hot oil using a soup spoon (you can do about 6 at a time in a 6" wide saucepan).
Cook for about 3 minutes, turning occasionally until crisp and very brown, drain on paper towels. Check temp of oil and adjust heat, make another 6 wet balls and cook those. Etc. Serve hot with 1000 Island Dressing as a dipping sauce.
Postscript: After a dinner of these, plan on spending 60 minutes a day on the elliptical or treadmill until you lose those extra 5 pounds you gained from eating these until swooning and overstuffed. Meditate on the sin of gluttonous overindulgence.
Bill and I have been working our way through the mountain of leftovers from the hordes of houseguests in April. We finally made it through the refrigerator leavings last night, and now we can get started on the leftovers I stashed in the freezer. We still have most of a pork roast lurking in there, along with a packet of home-grown asparagus from Elaine's mom, lovingly transported from Vermont in an ice chest. And the four steamed new potatoes I saw way back on the fourth shelf last night. That will make a nice dinner tonight. Okay, now I can get out of bed, dinner plans are taken care of.
Cooking for two is hard sometimes. I'm used to preparing groaning quantities of food for family and the friends they dragged home, and I'm still having a difficult time scaling down my cooking to something Bill and I won't have to be eating night after night. Cooking for one when he's gone is somewhat of a sacramental exercise for me. I like taking the time and trouble to cook something wonderful for myself; I like the meditation of it, and the respect for myself it signifies. But the eating of it, alone, is dissatisfying.
Cooking for Bill is easy though, because he will eat whatever I put in front of him, as long as it's on time. Years of eating at set hours on a ship has given him a stomach with a timer, if not a discerning palate. And some nights, when we're both feeling lazy or busy, we'll just have snacks instead of a meat-and-three-sides plate. One of the things I really like about this guy is that he thinks that anything I cook is wonderful.
But what I really crave, what I really want, is Reuben Hush Puppies. These high-calorie bombs of fried goodness is what I've been hankering for, despite my disciplined healthy dinner plans.
I may just have to make them and get it over with, and then pay for it on the elliptical exercise machine for the next month.
The list of ingredients is long, but they are easy to prepare. They make great leftovers too. They must have about 100 calories each, and no one can eat just one. They are my downfall.
Reuben Hush Puppies
Mix in a bowl:
1 cup leftover cooked Corned Beef, diced (or 4 oz. deli wt. diced)
3 slices Rye Bread with seeds, pulverized in food processor or blender to crumbs
1/2 cup sauerkraut, squeezed dry and minced
1/2 cup dill pickle, diced
1/2 cup milk
1/3 cup all-purpose flour
1/4 cup yellow cornmeal
1/4 cup scallions, thinly sliced
1 egg
2 Tbls. dill pickle juice
2 tsp. baking powder
2 tsp. dry mustard
1/2 tsp. salt
1/2 tsp. sugar
1/4 tsp. cayenne
1/4 tsp. baking soda
Mix together--batter will be very wet and sloppy. Refrigerate 15 minutes.
While it's chilling, cut a chunk of Swiss cheese into 24 pieces --1/2" squares -- and heat 2" peanut oil in a 2 quart deep saucepan --you're shooting for 350 degrees.
Use a Tablespoon or medium scoop, press a cube of Swiss cheese into the middle and enclose completely in the wet batter, and drop into hot oil using a soup spoon (you can do about 6 at a time in a 6" wide saucepan).
Cook for about 3 minutes, turning occasionally until crisp and very brown, drain on paper towels. Check temp of oil and adjust heat, make another 6 wet balls and cook those. Etc. Serve hot with 1000 Island Dressing as a dipping sauce.
Postscript: After a dinner of these, plan on spending 60 minutes a day on the elliptical or treadmill until you lose those extra 5 pounds you gained from eating these until swooning and overstuffed. Meditate on the sin of gluttonous overindulgence.
Sunday, May 11, 2008
Mother's Day
I loved being a mom.
Not that I was that great at it when I was actively doing it day-by-day, but it was simply the very best job I ever had. The pay was lousy, the hours were long, and in the kind fuzziness of retrospective thinking, yes, I loved every minute I spent with my children.
When they were small, I loved thinking up things to occupy their time and energy. I loved playing board games, singing silly songs, making a game out of every chore, finger plays and bathtime. I loved scavenger hunts in the neighborhood on our daily walks, picking up bits of rock or metal for making collages later, or just to look at and marvel. I loved painting, clay, glue and glitter, and baking. I loved the roadtrips, and the daily routines, the special outings and the quiet of just snuggling together, telling stories or reading.
When they got older, I loved them bringing home their friends to gather around the dinner table.
I loved listening to them postulate, argue, tell jokes and banter. I loved picnics outdoors on sunny days, either away or in our own backyard. I loved working with them in the garden, listening to them whine about how hard it was, and showing them how to fix things or figure things out. I loved teaching them all the things I thought they would need to know.
I did not love myself very much in those years though. I was angry too often, frustrated and self-absorbed. I was often anxious, tired, snappish, scared and depressed. I berated them for their supposed failings, forgetting how that kind of criticism made me feel when I was just learning, just trying my hardest to grow up. I wasn't very patient. I wasn't very kind. Not always, of course, but enough to make me regret now the time I wasted on trivial demands and
unimportant details. I somehow forgot that I would not have them and their company with me always.
Now they are grown up and living independent lives, far away from me. I am so immensely proud of them and grateful that they have turned out to be interesting, creative, self-sufficient people. But on Mother's Day, I wish I could go back in time and do it all again--just this time, do it better. I wish I could do it all over again, this time with the knowledge that it wouldn't last forever, and make every moment a positive one, a generous and giving one.
I know they love me, and I know they probably forgive me for my failings as a parent (or are at least working on that part of becoming adults). The full measure of one's own hubris comes of course when your children have children of their own. After Juli was born, I started calling my mother every day and apologizing--for everything, it seemed. It was my self-imposed penance, and one undertaken with newly-found humility.
So today I reflect on my own mother and my gratitude for who she is and everything she does, loving me with the fierce loyalty and protectiveness that mothers know deep in their bones. And I reflect as well on my children, who created the best part of my life by their existence and their presence. I have so much to be thankful for.
Not that I was that great at it when I was actively doing it day-by-day, but it was simply the very best job I ever had. The pay was lousy, the hours were long, and in the kind fuzziness of retrospective thinking, yes, I loved every minute I spent with my children.
When they were small, I loved thinking up things to occupy their time and energy. I loved playing board games, singing silly songs, making a game out of every chore, finger plays and bathtime. I loved scavenger hunts in the neighborhood on our daily walks, picking up bits of rock or metal for making collages later, or just to look at and marvel. I loved painting, clay, glue and glitter, and baking. I loved the roadtrips, and the daily routines, the special outings and the quiet of just snuggling together, telling stories or reading.
When they got older, I loved them bringing home their friends to gather around the dinner table.
I loved listening to them postulate, argue, tell jokes and banter. I loved picnics outdoors on sunny days, either away or in our own backyard. I loved working with them in the garden, listening to them whine about how hard it was, and showing them how to fix things or figure things out. I loved teaching them all the things I thought they would need to know.
I did not love myself very much in those years though. I was angry too often, frustrated and self-absorbed. I was often anxious, tired, snappish, scared and depressed. I berated them for their supposed failings, forgetting how that kind of criticism made me feel when I was just learning, just trying my hardest to grow up. I wasn't very patient. I wasn't very kind. Not always, of course, but enough to make me regret now the time I wasted on trivial demands and
unimportant details. I somehow forgot that I would not have them and their company with me always.
Now they are grown up and living independent lives, far away from me. I am so immensely proud of them and grateful that they have turned out to be interesting, creative, self-sufficient people. But on Mother's Day, I wish I could go back in time and do it all again--just this time, do it better. I wish I could do it all over again, this time with the knowledge that it wouldn't last forever, and make every moment a positive one, a generous and giving one.
I know they love me, and I know they probably forgive me for my failings as a parent (or are at least working on that part of becoming adults). The full measure of one's own hubris comes of course when your children have children of their own. After Juli was born, I started calling my mother every day and apologizing--for everything, it seemed. It was my self-imposed penance, and one undertaken with newly-found humility.
So today I reflect on my own mother and my gratitude for who she is and everything she does, loving me with the fierce loyalty and protectiveness that mothers know deep in their bones. And I reflect as well on my children, who created the best part of my life by their existence and their presence. I have so much to be thankful for.
Saturday, May 10, 2008
No Blog? Must be outside!
I realized at midnight last night that I hadn't posted anything on the blog. Now that the weather is nice, it seems criminal to spend the days on the computer when I could be outside, enjoying the benefits of Tennessee Spring. So that's where I am. Outside, soaking up the sun and fresh air.
I planted okra, cucumbers and potatoes in the raised bed that Bill made for me, along with some annual flowers, just for cheerfulness. The beans and peas are doing very well, though I think caterpillars might be chewing on the leaves. I have a tomato in one of the pots on the porch. Though the lettuce is struggling in containers, I hesitate to put it in the ground, as we are overrun with rabbits--at least if they come up to the deck to eat my lettuce, I'll have a chance at catching them at it (and maybe the possibility of a rabbit dinner too)!
We are waiting to see if we're going to have the problems with drought that we had last year. Though it means staying indoors, I welcome any rain we get, hoping that we can make it through the summer with enough water for daily showers and occasional laundry. I notice that Bill has been researching well-drilling equipment on eBay--I think we need to drill a new well for a number of reasons (bad tasting water, and the fact that the well is downhill from the septic tank and not far enough away, for starters). We don't drink the well water, even though it is sanitized by a complex UV light and filter system, but eventually, we will need a new well if we ever decide to sell this place. Oh the things we learned, after we bought this wreck!
Bill was fussing yesterday about the one corner of the deck sinking each time it rains. Yesterday, he did some exploring with a shovel and found that the 4x4 post supporting that corner is actually not sunk into the ground at all--it's just "resting" on the soil below it! No concrete, no support. At this point, after all the knucklehead things we've discovered about this property, all we can do is laugh.
I have a bit more deck painting to do around the perimeter of the house (underneath where the eaves drip water), and then that chore will be done for the year. Bill says he's going to be putting up more gutters to prevent this in the future, but right now his attention is on his big construction project (photos to follow soon), and the incredibly sinking deck.
In the meantime, I'll just be out on the porch reading under the umbrella or working in the "garden," rather than at the computer. There will be time enough for the indoor activities when it gets too hot in July & August to enjoy the outdoors.
I planted okra, cucumbers and potatoes in the raised bed that Bill made for me, along with some annual flowers, just for cheerfulness. The beans and peas are doing very well, though I think caterpillars might be chewing on the leaves. I have a tomato in one of the pots on the porch. Though the lettuce is struggling in containers, I hesitate to put it in the ground, as we are overrun with rabbits--at least if they come up to the deck to eat my lettuce, I'll have a chance at catching them at it (and maybe the possibility of a rabbit dinner too)!
We are waiting to see if we're going to have the problems with drought that we had last year. Though it means staying indoors, I welcome any rain we get, hoping that we can make it through the summer with enough water for daily showers and occasional laundry. I notice that Bill has been researching well-drilling equipment on eBay--I think we need to drill a new well for a number of reasons (bad tasting water, and the fact that the well is downhill from the septic tank and not far enough away, for starters). We don't drink the well water, even though it is sanitized by a complex UV light and filter system, but eventually, we will need a new well if we ever decide to sell this place. Oh the things we learned, after we bought this wreck!
Bill was fussing yesterday about the one corner of the deck sinking each time it rains. Yesterday, he did some exploring with a shovel and found that the 4x4 post supporting that corner is actually not sunk into the ground at all--it's just "resting" on the soil below it! No concrete, no support. At this point, after all the knucklehead things we've discovered about this property, all we can do is laugh.
I have a bit more deck painting to do around the perimeter of the house (underneath where the eaves drip water), and then that chore will be done for the year. Bill says he's going to be putting up more gutters to prevent this in the future, but right now his attention is on his big construction project (photos to follow soon), and the incredibly sinking deck.
In the meantime, I'll just be out on the porch reading under the umbrella or working in the "garden," rather than at the computer. There will be time enough for the indoor activities when it gets too hot in July & August to enjoy the outdoors.
Thursday, May 8, 2008
Wet Dog and Knitting 1-2-3
Echo rolled in something disgusting a few days ago, and when Bill and I got to the point of eye-watering nausea, something drastic had to be done. Washing the Dog is a tortured process, requiring two humans, a shower hose attachment, a one-gallon pitcher, Suave green apple shampoo, 14 towels, and a steely detachment to the distress of our pet.
There are no pictures of the actual process of cleaning the 80-pound beast. First, all hands were needed to prevent her from leaping out of our very deep tub. Second, because of all the water that ends up all over us and the bathroom, we wash the dog in our underwear. You really don't want to see that, trust me. But we do have a pitiful pic of the poor, mistreated animal:
There are no pictures of the actual process of cleaning the 80-pound beast. First, all hands were needed to prevent her from leaping out of our very deep tub. Second, because of all the water that ends up all over us and the bathroom, we wash the dog in our underwear. You really don't want to see that, trust me. But we do have a pitiful pic of the poor, mistreated animal:
Now we have a thoroughly disgruntled, but very sweet-smelling dog again.
Next up on the agenda: I have started a new hobby. Like I needed another one? My friend MaryAnn had been encouraging me to take up knitting, I became addicted to http://www.crazyauntpurl.com/ just before Bill came home, and I needed something to do besides read (and constantly be interrupted) while sitting in medical waiting rooms. So, I began to try to teach myself how to knit again.
My mom used to knit when I was growing up--she made a fabulous sweater for each of us in a really interesting variegated-thickness yarn, and then moved on to other endeavors. Her mother, my grandmother Alyce (whom I called "Mammo"), knitted and crocheted all through her life. So, presumably, at some point, I was taught basic knit and purl stitches. Could I remember how to do this?
I gave my first practice scarf (which took 3 weeks) to my daughter when she was here. She really liked it, as God-awful as it was, perhaps because it was physical confirmation that her mother did something really badly?
My next real project was just a straight knit stitch scarf. But there were problems. I kept picking up extra stitches from the void, and the scarf kept waxing larger and larger in width (and then narrowing down as I tried to get back to my original 16 stitches). And then there were the mysterious holes where stitches jumped off the needles and created hollows big enough to put my fist through. But, because it was fluffy eyelash yarn, the mistakes didn't show (much), I tied up the holes with patches, and decided I liked it anyway. I'll wear it when it's cold outside. It's weird, but hey, I'm a beginner! I'll keep it as a reminder to be humble.
When I neared the end of the yarn, I suddenly realized I didn't know how to stop, how to "cast off," as they say in the biz. MaryAnn directed me to a website hosted by Lion Yarn, with clear pictures and also an explanation as to why my scarf kept multiplying stitches. So, on to project number two.
This time, I decided to try to relearn the purl stitch by doing a basketweave pattern, suggested by Ashley, MaryAnn's daughter, on her website, http://www.amountainspirit.blogspot.com/ . I used a solid-color, soft acrylic yarn in Autumn Red, so I could see the stitches I was making. By the time I got to the end of that one, I was doing better, and actually had whole sections that looked okay. Still, the mistakes were glaring, and I decided to give this one to a friend who is changing his entire life, going off to become a Lutheran minister in mid-life. I figured that he will need a scarf in the Gettysburg, PA winters, and the mistakes will charm him in his new adventure, reminding him that we are all "imperfect," and "works in progress."
Now, my latest project in a self-striping yarn is turning out to be much, much better. This one, I'm actually proud of. I did a simple garter stitch (notice how quickly I'm picking up the knitting jargon!) of 3 stitches on the edges and ends, plus the basketweave pattern. Because of the garter stitching, it is not all poinky and curled on the edges like the red one--it lies flat! And though I obsessively count my stitches when finishing each row, I'm holding steady to my original 26. I have even figured out how to catch a mistake and carefully undo it, while picking up the original loop to do it over correctly. I am starting to see how this all works.
So here is my knitting 1-2-3:
I love the idea of taking something simple (a single strand of yarn) and turning it into something complex. It's like baking bread, using the humblest of ingredients (flour, water, yeast), and making something three-dimensional and delicious!
It also soothes me. The steady click of the needles, the opportunity to take a break at the end of each row. It's contemplative and creative. As Aunt Purl says, "it's the new Yoga", (without the grunts and groans accompanying the contortions, I say)!
And of course, I'm already obsessing: I bought fancy bamboo needles on eBay yesterday, have already stocked 3 years worth of on-sale yarn from Big Lots, have "my knitting bag" by the door, and am contemplating getting circular needles. I'm thinking hats, socks, leg warmers. MaryAnn is starting a Friday morning knitting group at her church in June. And already, I'm biting off more than I can chew. The story of my life!
So guess what you're getting for Christmas this year?
Wednesday, May 7, 2008
Alex, Post-Submarine Adventure
We got a call from son Alex yesterday, saying he was standing on a Navy pier in Groton, CT. He said that his 5-day Tiger Cruise was "absolutely amazing!"
Soon, he will be headed back to Seattle to resume his urban lifestyle. Here's what he looks like in his natural habitat:
Soon, he will be headed back to Seattle to resume his urban lifestyle. Here's what he looks like in his natural habitat:
I pulled this pix off his livejournal webspace. Yes, that's a kilt he's wearing. And I don't think he has a drop of Scot blood in him.
What can I say? I have strange children.
Tuesday, May 6, 2008
36 Years Ago?
Today is the anniversary of my first wedding. Yes, I was married when I was 19, on the campus of UC Irvine, on May 6, 1972. Too young, way too young. Too naive, too unformed, too sure I knew everything. Just too much.
We divorced amicably on April 15, 1976, and the details are either unimportant or forgotten, but the pictures from that day are GREAT! What a slice of cultural disconnect! What a fashion statement! Long hair, polyester double-knits (including my wedding frock), beards, giant hoop earrings, and look at all the knitted/crocheted shawls!
Here are my girlfriends and I, post-bouquet throwing:
(From left: me, Ann Niehoff, Lynn Coffman, Janet Moore, Susie Sword)
My brother Jerry, played guitar (of course he did, it was the 1970s). This is Jere, in his pre-USAF Fighter Pilot persona, when he was a theatre arts major at UCLA. Age 17. Oh my.
And here is my favorite picture of that day--my two grandmothers and my mother in profile, watching the silly goings-on. (Bess Taylor Sink, Aileen DeFazio Sink, Alyce McGahan DeFazio).
And the entire wedding party of friends, freaks and hippies:
Front: Richard Edwin Bergholdt, me, Karen Garretson. Back: Who ARE these people?
The marriage didn't last long, but I have few regrets. The experience taught me quite a bit about myself, and helped me get ready for the right man, when he came along ten years later.
But 36 years ago? You've got to be kidding me, I'm not even that old yet.
Monday, May 5, 2008
Lovin' these long, sunny days...
I was out early this morning in my slob-clothes, ("Pam!" Bill said as I was headed out the door, "you've got a big hole in your pants!)" Yes, thanks, I do know that. It's not like I'm seeing anybody here. After sweeping the deck, I continued my project of deck painting. One more day, and at least the front decks will be done for this year.
I spent the mid-morning walking with Echo, spraying the poison ivy with kill-juice along the edge of the driveway as we strolled down. I do love to defoliate!
I applied online for an administrative job. I took a long, hot shower. I watched a mediocre Harrison Ford movie (Firewall) and ate popcorn and Sweet-tarts. I talked with my lawyer on the phone. I continued knitting on my second scarf. I thought about what to cook for dinner.
Am I retired? No, I just act like I am.
I just love my life on days like this.
I spent the mid-morning walking with Echo, spraying the poison ivy with kill-juice along the edge of the driveway as we strolled down. I do love to defoliate!
I applied online for an administrative job. I took a long, hot shower. I watched a mediocre Harrison Ford movie (Firewall) and ate popcorn and Sweet-tarts. I talked with my lawyer on the phone. I continued knitting on my second scarf. I thought about what to cook for dinner.
Am I retired? No, I just act like I am.
I just love my life on days like this.
Sunday, May 4, 2008
Is it hot in here, or just me?
As I near the bottom of my first 90 days worth of tamoxifen tablets, I want to make some observations. Tamoxifen citrate has been prescribed for post-BC patients for more than 20 years. Statistically, if a patient completes the full 5 years of tamoxifen treatment, there is a 41% increase in survival rates compared to no tamoxifen. This sounds pretty darn compelling, but there are problems.
First, it is only effective where the malignant tumor was estrogen-positive, in other words, fueled by the body's estrogen. It works by blocking the absorption of estrogen, taking up space on cells' estrogen receptor sites, and crowding out any estrogen trying to get in. Newer hormonal treatments such as aromatase inhibitors work by actually shutting down the production of estrogen, but they can only be used by post-menopausal women. There are some studies that show that recurrence rates can be diminished by a combination of tamoxifen and aromatase-inhibitors (2 - 3 years on one, then the remainder of the 5 years on the other) over using tamoxifen alone, but interestingly, there is no increase in overall survival rates. And all the hormonal treatments have some hefty side effects. The most serious for tamoxifen is an increased risk of endometrial and/or uterine cancer. Once again, I have to weigh the chances of that against the 41% statistical benefit of taking the drug to prevent a recurrence of breast cancer or metastases. I had an endometrial biopsy in April--I am good there, so far.
For now, tamoxifen is my only option, since I am still technically pre-menopausal. Not that you'd know, after 3 months of blocking my estrogen. I notice little things--the texture of my skin is starting to change, becoming rougher, hairier and drier. There's a little weight gain too, though that could just be the fact that Bill is home, I'm cooking more elaborately and pigging out myself, due to my usual lack of self-control.
The most dramatic side effect though, is what one would expect: pseudo-menopausal hot flashes and night sweats. With estrogen not getting through to the cells, my body thinks it's in full-blown menopause. During the day, it's manageable. I just spend a good portion of my waking hours changing clothes. I'm hot. I'm cold. I put on a shirt. I take it off. I change from jeans to shorts and back again. Socks on, socks off. I hardly think about it during the day.
Nightime however, is a different matter. I'm not sleeping all that well, mostly because my temperature gauge is totally out of whack. I awake in the dark several times a night, convinced I am about to burst into flames. This is of course impossible, not because spontaneous combustion is out of the realm of possibility, but because I am also soaking wet, clear through my pajamas and sheets. At best, I figure I would just smolder like a drowned campfire, and then the BS channel would do a special on the woman who mysteriously steamed herself to death in her own bed.
So, I get up. I run a cold washcloth over my face and whatever other portion of my body is bright red and raging, I change nightclothes and allow the sheets to dry out. Sometimes I wander into the living room, and lie on the couch under the ceiling fan until I chill down. Then, it's back to bed for rounds 2, 3, and sometimes 4.
Toasty-warm Bill usually manages to sleep through all of this up-and-down routine, and thankfully doesn't add to the problem by crowding me--this is because I barricade myself with a couple of throw pillows. He usually cuddles up to one of those, and presumably doesn't notice the difference in his sleep. And I am so okay with that. One more degree of warmth and I think I would indeed self-immolate.
This morning I woke up with a dream: I was lying on a beach somewhere, and "Ramon" came by asking if I would like a "spritz" to cool off? Hey! I could keep a squirt bottle on the nightstand instead of schlepping out of bed four times a night to wipe down with a washcloth! It wouldn't help the humidity/flop sweat problem at all, of course, but at least I wouldn't feel like I ran the marathon in the morning from all the getting up at night!
Now, all I have to do is figure out a way to groggily spritz myself without it turning into an unintended squirt-gun fight with Bill every night.
First, it is only effective where the malignant tumor was estrogen-positive, in other words, fueled by the body's estrogen. It works by blocking the absorption of estrogen, taking up space on cells' estrogen receptor sites, and crowding out any estrogen trying to get in. Newer hormonal treatments such as aromatase inhibitors work by actually shutting down the production of estrogen, but they can only be used by post-menopausal women. There are some studies that show that recurrence rates can be diminished by a combination of tamoxifen and aromatase-inhibitors (2 - 3 years on one, then the remainder of the 5 years on the other) over using tamoxifen alone, but interestingly, there is no increase in overall survival rates. And all the hormonal treatments have some hefty side effects. The most serious for tamoxifen is an increased risk of endometrial and/or uterine cancer. Once again, I have to weigh the chances of that against the 41% statistical benefit of taking the drug to prevent a recurrence of breast cancer or metastases. I had an endometrial biopsy in April--I am good there, so far.
For now, tamoxifen is my only option, since I am still technically pre-menopausal. Not that you'd know, after 3 months of blocking my estrogen. I notice little things--the texture of my skin is starting to change, becoming rougher, hairier and drier. There's a little weight gain too, though that could just be the fact that Bill is home, I'm cooking more elaborately and pigging out myself, due to my usual lack of self-control.
The most dramatic side effect though, is what one would expect: pseudo-menopausal hot flashes and night sweats. With estrogen not getting through to the cells, my body thinks it's in full-blown menopause. During the day, it's manageable. I just spend a good portion of my waking hours changing clothes. I'm hot. I'm cold. I put on a shirt. I take it off. I change from jeans to shorts and back again. Socks on, socks off. I hardly think about it during the day.
Nightime however, is a different matter. I'm not sleeping all that well, mostly because my temperature gauge is totally out of whack. I awake in the dark several times a night, convinced I am about to burst into flames. This is of course impossible, not because spontaneous combustion is out of the realm of possibility, but because I am also soaking wet, clear through my pajamas and sheets. At best, I figure I would just smolder like a drowned campfire, and then the BS channel would do a special on the woman who mysteriously steamed herself to death in her own bed.
So, I get up. I run a cold washcloth over my face and whatever other portion of my body is bright red and raging, I change nightclothes and allow the sheets to dry out. Sometimes I wander into the living room, and lie on the couch under the ceiling fan until I chill down. Then, it's back to bed for rounds 2, 3, and sometimes 4.
Toasty-warm Bill usually manages to sleep through all of this up-and-down routine, and thankfully doesn't add to the problem by crowding me--this is because I barricade myself with a couple of throw pillows. He usually cuddles up to one of those, and presumably doesn't notice the difference in his sleep. And I am so okay with that. One more degree of warmth and I think I would indeed self-immolate.
This morning I woke up with a dream: I was lying on a beach somewhere, and "Ramon" came by asking if I would like a "spritz" to cool off? Hey! I could keep a squirt bottle on the nightstand instead of schlepping out of bed four times a night to wipe down with a washcloth! It wouldn't help the humidity/flop sweat problem at all, of course, but at least I wouldn't feel like I ran the marathon in the morning from all the getting up at night!
Now, all I have to do is figure out a way to groggily spritz myself without it turning into an unintended squirt-gun fight with Bill every night.
Saturday, May 3, 2008
Okay then...
Yesterday's appointment with Dr. Huddleston, home-grown plastic surgeon extraordinaire, went well, I think. He is such a kind person, so in tune with the traumas his patients have been through, as well as being a competent doctor, I joke that he really must have been a woman (with breast cancer?) in a former life!
I told him that I really didn't care about the nipple reconstruction. It all seems so pointless to me. The bionic boobs are fake, now we're going to slap on some tattoos and pretend that everything is real and just peachy?
He patted my knee. He told me that though it seems like a delusional exercise, it is in fact, going to make me feel better in the long run. His nurse, Dawn, showed me some pictures (before and after), and I have to say that he does nice work. When I look at pictures that are about 4 years "after," yes, I DO wish mine looked like that!
I acquiesce then. Sign me up, I'll give it a whirl. This will at least be a minor day surgery, with only local anesthetic, and I can drive myself home. Bill will be in Florida that week, taking required courses at the AMO school, but this is not a big deal to do on a Wednesday morning. Doc will also continue to work on my cleavage issues (sags & bags) when he does the surgery. Nurse Dawn also gave me some samples of a new type of scar-diminishing ointment, which I am anxious to try. If it actually works, it will be worth the $40 per tiny tube. We'll see.
As for the encapsulation, this is apparently just how my body is--overly aggressive on building excess scar tissue. I am not in much pain most days. If I start out with a hot shower and massage, I can use my arms and chest muscles throughout the day without too many twinges. The numbness through my back "wings" extending out from under my arms is most likely permanent, but I suppose I will eventually get used to that. I will probably have to have encapsulotomies each year, for forever. I am astonishingly firm and perky, I'll give you that, the envy of all my middle-aged friends! If I fell flat on my face, I suspect I would bounce right back up to a standing position, like a super-ball!
I told Bill a few months back that I suspected I was being stubbornly resistant to the addition of nipples because that would mean that all of this was over, that the end result would be what I would have to live with from now on. Now I discover that instead, I will have annual surgeries to keep the encapsulation at bay, and that further tweaking will continue, as necessary. I figure that by the time I'm in my seventies, I will be perfect. Now that's just what the world needs--a 70-year old woman with a 18-year old's chest! (I hear all of mankind, cheering at this thought).
Harumph.
So. Onward.
I told him that I really didn't care about the nipple reconstruction. It all seems so pointless to me. The bionic boobs are fake, now we're going to slap on some tattoos and pretend that everything is real and just peachy?
He patted my knee. He told me that though it seems like a delusional exercise, it is in fact, going to make me feel better in the long run. His nurse, Dawn, showed me some pictures (before and after), and I have to say that he does nice work. When I look at pictures that are about 4 years "after," yes, I DO wish mine looked like that!
I acquiesce then. Sign me up, I'll give it a whirl. This will at least be a minor day surgery, with only local anesthetic, and I can drive myself home. Bill will be in Florida that week, taking required courses at the AMO school, but this is not a big deal to do on a Wednesday morning. Doc will also continue to work on my cleavage issues (sags & bags) when he does the surgery. Nurse Dawn also gave me some samples of a new type of scar-diminishing ointment, which I am anxious to try. If it actually works, it will be worth the $40 per tiny tube. We'll see.
As for the encapsulation, this is apparently just how my body is--overly aggressive on building excess scar tissue. I am not in much pain most days. If I start out with a hot shower and massage, I can use my arms and chest muscles throughout the day without too many twinges. The numbness through my back "wings" extending out from under my arms is most likely permanent, but I suppose I will eventually get used to that. I will probably have to have encapsulotomies each year, for forever. I am astonishingly firm and perky, I'll give you that, the envy of all my middle-aged friends! If I fell flat on my face, I suspect I would bounce right back up to a standing position, like a super-ball!
I told Bill a few months back that I suspected I was being stubbornly resistant to the addition of nipples because that would mean that all of this was over, that the end result would be what I would have to live with from now on. Now I discover that instead, I will have annual surgeries to keep the encapsulation at bay, and that further tweaking will continue, as necessary. I figure that by the time I'm in my seventies, I will be perfect. Now that's just what the world needs--a 70-year old woman with a 18-year old's chest! (I hear all of mankind, cheering at this thought).
Harumph.
So. Onward.
Friday, May 2, 2008
Again, a quiet house...
Yesterday was another marathon activity whirl, culminating with the departure of all our house guests, relatives and friends.
Alex made it to his three torturous flight connections to Ft. Lauderdale, and is presumably on his way to the submarine right now, via Navy bus. Juli got through security without valid photo I.D. (having lost her passport somewhere, and possessing only an expired Washington State identification card), and is hopefully back in Seattle this morning. Bud started toward Illinois, (we split up at 25E in Bean Station--we headed south and he went northward), and is probably home by now. Ray and Elaine came by for pizza and much wine and beer on the deck last night, then departed for their hotel, leaving for Nashville and then Sacramento this morning.
Between dropping off Alex at 9:30 am and Juli's flight at 2:45, the three of us plus dog toured John Sevier's summer home, had brunch at Sonic, stopped at Food City to get Juli some fruit, tried out mattresses at The Bed Store, got lost, and then toured the Ramsey Plantation. (For this last one, I took an ibu 800, parked in the shade and knitted, while keeping Echo company in the back of the car).
After dropping Juli off and making sure she got through the security fooferah, Bill and I had our obligatory tired-and-tension argument on the way home from the airport, and stopped at the Smoky Mountain Knife Works and the tool store. Of course we did. Seems we hadn't filled the day up with enough activity already?
Bill and I are off to Dr. Huddleston in Kingsport this morning to talk about (what else?) my breasts again. The scar tissue has returned since the encapsulotomy. Plus, everyone wants to discuss the addition of nipples, and I still don't know what I think about that. On one level, I suppose this is supposed to be the next step, designed to make me feel better, more normal. From a practical view, it seems completely ridiculous to me. I am not normal, nothing is ever going to make this better, and who are we kidding with the fake boobies and nips? I am not amused.
Grrrr....
The house this morning is abnormally quiet after two weeks of non-stop people. And really dirty. It looks like Madison Square Garden the day after the conventioneers went home. Makes me wish I could take to my bed with a good case of Victorian Vapors and get away with it.
But instead, life goes on, without the benefit of a personal janitorial staff.
Alex made it to his three torturous flight connections to Ft. Lauderdale, and is presumably on his way to the submarine right now, via Navy bus. Juli got through security without valid photo I.D. (having lost her passport somewhere, and possessing only an expired Washington State identification card), and is hopefully back in Seattle this morning. Bud started toward Illinois, (we split up at 25E in Bean Station--we headed south and he went northward), and is probably home by now. Ray and Elaine came by for pizza and much wine and beer on the deck last night, then departed for their hotel, leaving for Nashville and then Sacramento this morning.
Between dropping off Alex at 9:30 am and Juli's flight at 2:45, the three of us plus dog toured John Sevier's summer home, had brunch at Sonic, stopped at Food City to get Juli some fruit, tried out mattresses at The Bed Store, got lost, and then toured the Ramsey Plantation. (For this last one, I took an ibu 800, parked in the shade and knitted, while keeping Echo company in the back of the car).
After dropping Juli off and making sure she got through the security fooferah, Bill and I had our obligatory tired-and-tension argument on the way home from the airport, and stopped at the Smoky Mountain Knife Works and the tool store. Of course we did. Seems we hadn't filled the day up with enough activity already?
Bill and I are off to Dr. Huddleston in Kingsport this morning to talk about (what else?) my breasts again. The scar tissue has returned since the encapsulotomy. Plus, everyone wants to discuss the addition of nipples, and I still don't know what I think about that. On one level, I suppose this is supposed to be the next step, designed to make me feel better, more normal. From a practical view, it seems completely ridiculous to me. I am not normal, nothing is ever going to make this better, and who are we kidding with the fake boobies and nips? I am not amused.
Grrrr....
The house this morning is abnormally quiet after two weeks of non-stop people. And really dirty. It looks like Madison Square Garden the day after the conventioneers went home. Makes me wish I could take to my bed with a good case of Victorian Vapors and get away with it.
But instead, life goes on, without the benefit of a personal janitorial staff.
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