Missing Lova and Dewane

I was a lucky girl, growing up. With mom and dad splitting up before I was 3 (I know, I know... we're getting to the lucky part), I ended up spending a lot of time with my maternal grandparents.  I've written some about it, but this meme just brought it home to me how much time and attention that they gave me. 

Grandma taught me a few basics - how to make Parker House rolls, canning, quilting.  But she also gave me a good solid basis in working for a living, serving the community, being a solid partner in everything with Grandpa.  And Grandpa...  he took me with him.  Everywhere.  We went fishing, we went out getting logs, down to the field to take care of the cows, out boating on the reservoir.  He just took me along - no questions, no comment.  I knew that I belonged on this earth and that I was loved for who I was, because these two made sure I knew about it - without ever really telling me so.  There's a powerful amount of confidence you can get from family that accept you - especially when you don't really feel like you fit in other places.  We moved a lot when I was young, but there was always a home to come back to - even if the fit was a bit tight and I knew I'd need to leave again. 

So... it's not so much the physical act of snapping green beans we need to get back to.  But there is a lot of time and attention spent while snapping... that, I miss like crazy.

What's The Difference?

Every post that I've seen on Facebook regarding the potential Groper-In-Chief has had an immediate follow-up - "But what about Bill Clinton?  And Hillary helped! Why aren't you angry at them?"

There are a lot of reasons- Bill's not the one who is running for office, the adultery was consensual, there's no definite proof either way, maybe I'm a flaming hypocrit - but mostly, for me, it's because I'm angry that Trump and his minions just don't get it.  The apology that he gave for the tape was so oblivious as to why it was wrong.  It wasn't the "pussy".  It was the GRAB.  It was the lack of realization that women are human beings, not things.  And he and his supporters have continued on - attack, deny, ridicule (seriously, he's using "look at her, she's an uggo" as a defense?) 

I attempted to talk it out with a niece of mine who is a Trump supporter and posted something about "Women claim sexual abuse to get new furniture".  Tried telling her that I was hurt by that characterization, mentioned my issues... she responded with inaccurate memes about the Clintons and that some women like to be touched. 

Roger has asked me not to engage these people, and I'm trying, but it's hard.  I don't want to know that there are people out there that are using #repealthenineteenth.  I want to be able to respect my friends who are voting for Trump, despite their vote.  But it's getting harder and harder.

When A Man Shows You His True Self - Believe Him

My Facebook feed blew up today with the latest Trump scandal - this one catching him in a "hot mic" moment back in 2005, talking about being able to grab women... well, you can read the news about it.  God knows, it's everywhere.  I found myself thinking "well, we knew that he was like that.  He's done and said a lot of terrible things about women... this isn't going to make a difference." and trying to move past it... and I hit a brick wall.  Well, several brick walls.  From my past.


This isn't going to be a fun post.  You might want to skip it (god knows, I do).  But...  when I was a young girl, my great-grandmother got remarried (well, she eloped - frankly, no one in the family approved) to Grandpa John. Grandpa John was a groper - the kind of guy who would kiss a 7 year old on the lips and use tongue.  He slipped his hand down the back of my pants once, before I learned to always, always keep a piece of furniture between us (so did the rest of the women in my family.  We didn't talk about it, we just learned, and watched out for each other.  That's the way you handled it back in the 70s)  Grandpa John was eventually hospitalized and out of our lives... but he left an invisible mark - the knowledge that my body wasn't mine.  Some guy could just grab and take and there wasn't a lot I could do about it.

There were a few other instances over the years that I'm not willing to go into publicly, but that's the way it was, growing up female back then. There were different coping mechanisms - mine was completely divorcing myself from my body.  I built a brick wall around those memories and refused to look at them  Not the healthiest method, but it worked for me - for long enough to make it through and find friends who could wake me back up, and eventually a man who loved me for myself.

But that damage... that damage affected my growth the way an ax cut can affect a tree.  My life changed because of those men, and I don't think it was for the better.  But I hoped that we were moving away from that sort of thing being acceptable - that girls of today wouldn't have to guard themselves the way I did.  Until now.  Now, we're at the point where 40% of America seems to think that this is an appropriate leader.  Not just that he's not reprehensible, but that he could be our *President*.  How on earth can any woman vote for him?  Hell, how could any man who loves a woman vote for him?  I just don't understand - other than if they are as good at ignoring as I am - but I'm having problems ignoring this now that I've seen it.  I'm going to have to build another wall, I'm afraid.  And if I'm building walls... he wins.

I'm LaRae's Daughter, and I Approve This Message.

I saw possibly the hundredth iteration (today) of "Why isn't Hillary more likable?" on my Facebook feed today, and it made me want to scream.  It also made me think about why it is that I've always liked Hillary - felt like she was a kindred spirit, etc..

You see, I grew up with Hillary.  Or rather, a woman who I suspect is a lot like Hillary - my mom.  And when I say "grew up with", I'm being almost literal - Mom was just barely 17 when she had me, so we sort of raised each other at times.  I could write a book about how freaking incredible my mother is - at some point, I'm sure I will - but back to the Hillary similarities.

Mom was a project manager - still is.  You want stuff done, you go to my mom.  She knows how to listen, to bring people together, to use the right person with the right skills and to keep them on track.  Sound like Hillary?  But you can't be a candy-ass if you're a project manager... you have to keep things going, and you have to be smart - and let people know that you're smart.  You have to stand out - and for a woman, that means you're going to have to get in people's faces at times.  It's not something that's necessarily going to make people like you - people don't like being prodded - but it's going to make people respect you (and want to be on your team again.)  There's a reason why most people who worked with Hillary have endorsed her - same with Mom, people who worked with her wanted to work with her again because she got shit done and she made them look good. 

Mom cares, too... almost too much at times, so she won't let it show if she doesn't know you.  She's had to be strong for a long time - being a single mother in the 60s and 70s wasn't easy (especially when you've got a daughter who is also a strong, smart little wench.)  But if there are hard decisions to be made...  that strength comes through.  If you're on a ventilator, you want my mother making the decision as to whether or not to pull the plug - and I personally want someone like her to be the one making the decision on whether or not to push the button.  Someone who cares, who knows the implications and has thought through all the possibilities...  and who will cry later, because for now, stuff has to get done.

Mom was never June Cleaver - well, she might have tried, briefly, back in Salmon, but it was always bad drag.  Kind of like how Hillary tried briefly with the cookie recipe, but we all knew she had better things to do with her time.  And I'm not saying that June isn't wonderful - I've got a couple of aunts that I love that could give June a run for her money - but June isn't what our country needs right now.  We need someone who can get us back on the right direction, someone who can bring people together and make them do the right thing - we need a project manager.  And since Mom is busy with the goat ranch, we need Hillary. 

Arlington Photos

Lately, a meme has been showing up in my newsfeed, with a picture of Arlington superimposed with "This is why you stand for the National Anthem." 

No.  No, this is why you properly fund the VA.  This is why you make sure that veterans are not left homeless in the streets.  This is why you work your damnedest to elect people who will both fulfill our promises to those left, and who will work their hardest to make sure that we don't have useless wars in the future.  This is why you honor their service, by working to make sure that we have a country that lives up to the promise that they sacrificed for. 

And sometimes, that means that you point out flaws you might see - to ensure a more perfect union.  That freedom that they sacrified for?  It means we have rights, and responsibilities.  You do what you can - you vote, you discuss, you protest.  Peaceful protest to try to better our country?  That's one of the more patriotic things you can do, in my opinion, especially when it's accompanied by good works (for example, donating the first million of your paycheck to help out your community).  And you listen.  When someone else is protesting, trying to tell you that there's a problem here that needs solving, you listen to what they say and process it before shouting them down. 

Political: How His Mind Works

Look, I think that it was a pretty pre-school move for the Clinton camp to invite Mark Cuban to sit in the front row of the first debate. Admittedly, it was a wily move - bring in someone who has been needling Mr Trump in the press, saying that he's not a true billionaire, claiming he's a bad businessman, hope that the sight of him rattles Mr Trump enough to throw him off guard.  But still, petty.  For anyone else I can think of on that level, it wouldn't work - the distraction would be planned for and ignored.  But...

Mr. Trump's reaction?  Retaliation, of course... but not to bring in someone who has confronted Secretary Clinton on her job, or her own personal flaws.  No, he immediately went to Gennifer Flowers - someone that President Clinton had sex with back in the early 90s.  His estimation of what will rattle Secretary Clinton, what will throw her off her game the most, is a reminder of a flaw in her husband?  He honestly thinks that a woman who has survived everything that's been thrown at her for the past 30 years is going to be thrown off her stride by some meaningless bimbo? 

I'm getting really tired of our society (or at least certain segments of it) assuming that every woman's self-image revolves around her man, and nothing but her man.  Stop underestimating us...

Bonus post for the day: Roger and Moose

Subtle.  My boy is always subtle. 

I finished off my dinner pretty quickly, so Moose immediately moved over to the couch to try to mooch off his daddy.  He was sitting there with his pleading eyes focused firmly on his dad's fork until:  

I just asked Roger if I could have a bite of his gnocchi.  He had just forked up a bite, so he just handed me the fork so that I could have a taste.  As I was handing the fork back to him, Moose gave me a *look* - somewhere between disbelief, anger, and sheer betrayal... 

It's a good thing that Roger already set him a little bit aside on the plate, or I don't think I could sleep easily tonight.  As it is, I may need to make sure that my shoes are moved above the high tide mark.

In A Lyrical Mood

My mind works in mysterious ways.  For example, I remember almost nothing of my personal past - it just isn't there (or maybe it's blocked), unless someone else reminds me or I've written it down somewhere. (Yet another reason for my memory well posts - if I do get reminded of something, it's good to write it down and freeze it in my memory.)  However, if you're talking sheer trivia, I'm your girl.  There's a reason why no one will play Trivial Pursuit with me - last time I played, my friends insisted we play the drunken version (take a drink every time you answer a question right, down a shot each time you get a wedge).  They thought it would give them an advantage, since I am not a heavy drinker.  Wiped the board with them...  see, some people are mad drunks, some people are happy drunks... I'm an exact drunk.  The drunker I get, the more precise I get.  Like I said, my mind works in mysterious ways.

Anyway - the point of today's digression...  my mind is also lyrical flypaper.  Any song that I've ever heard more than a couple of times is stuck up there - not necessarily correctly, depends on how I heard it, but it's stuck there.  (For the longest time, I swore that the words were "High up on the mountaintop, a badger chased a squirrel", but anyway...)  And at odd moments, my brain will just throw up a song to the top of the list, and it WON'T GO AWAY!!!  It's like having my own personal soundtrack.  Sometimes, it's not so bad - yesterday's was "You Give Love A Bad Name", and Bon Jovi has always been one of my guilty pleasures - but today.  Today, my brain keeps repeating this obscure waltz tune from 1895 (yes, that's right - 1895) - And The Band Played On.  "Casey would waltz with a strawberry blonde and the band played on.  He'd glide cross the floor with the girl he adored and the band played on.  But his brain was so loaded he nearly exploded, the poor girl would shake with alarm.  He'd never leave the girl with the strawberry curl and the band played on."  No idea where I heard it originally, no clue why it popped up today, and no idea what the hell that third sentence could possibly refer to...  but with any luck, it's going to turn out to be viral transmission, and I will be able to pass it off to one of you guys and get back to "Shot to the heart, and you're to blame!"

Describing Yourself In Three Fictional Characters

The Original Mouthy Broad

Penelope from Criminal Minds - my last boss said that she thought of me as Penelope because I was always the helpful voice on the other end of the phone line

And of course, Victoria - feminine, but willing to do what needs to be done

Ok, so it's an idealized version of me - but they did say fictional.

Blood Sugar (no) Sex Magick

Blood Sugar Monitor - Mine is named Twoey, after Audrey II

My body has become a finicky little wench - I checked my blood sugar last night before dinner, and it was way too high (like 398 too high).  So, I compensated by upping my regular insulin, because I'm really trying to get my A1C down.

Then... spent about an hour last night in bed, dealing with cramps up and down my legs, and when I finally got up and checked my blood sugar, it was at 56.  (Normally is 80 to 120, but personally, I start feeling woozy if I drop below 100).   So I had a quarter of a piece of naan to bring me back up quickly (quick carb) and 6 chocolate covered hazelnuts (fat for long-acting glucose because I didn't want to crash again - because if I was going to feel bad, I was going to compensate with something I like, damn it.) At any rate... we are talking somewhere in the region of 30 carbs, total... wake up this morning, and I'm at 256.

I have absolutely  no idea what the hell to do at this point, other than scream at Twoey and call her a liar...

God, I Hate Rachel From Credit Card Service's Boyfriend Chuck

First off, the jerk is persistent.  He's been calling me two or three times a week for the past 6  months or so, even though every time he calls, I tell him that I know this is a scam, and that I'm on the National Do Not Call list.

Second - why the hell would I ever listen to someone who starts off our "relationship" with a lie (spoofed phone numbers?)  They keep changing the phone number, so I can't block them, and it's always something "official" looking on the caller ID, but you know if you try to call the number back, it doesn't exist.

Third - you have an Indian accent so thick that I would suspect you were an extra in Slumdog Millionaire (except, let's face it, you're no actor.)  Don't try to tell me your name is really Chuck, or Ed, or Bob, or whatever stereotypically American name you've chosen to use today - while I really don't want to establish a relationship with you, again, I hate being lied to.  And could you change up the script a little?

Fourth - ok, we've established that I hate you, I will never listen to the lies you are spewing, you're not getting any money from me, etc... Why the hell do you keep calling me?  And, more importantly, how the hell do you know to call 15 minutes into my vital, life-sustaining, sanity-maintaining nap?  I'm tempted to become a Wiccan just so that I can turn to the dark side and curse not only you, but your entire bloodline.

Ok... good to get that off my chest. 

Our Patch of Wilderness

I love our backyard - it's not what you would expect to find in the middle of the city, but it suits us well.  No lawn - just wild and free.  The birds in our neighborhood also love it, though.  Mostly because of the service - Roger makes sure to keep the bird feeders topped up with seed, thistle, juice for the hummingbirds...  it's a full service bird bar.

They get stroppy when he's working overtime and he doesn't have time to keep up the catering, though - like this morning, he was sitting out on the porch, grabbing a smoke, and one of them popped up on the fence and stared him down - essentially saying "Well?  Seed?"  Still better than when they send kamikazes to strafe the sliding glass doors, though - every once in a while, we hear a thud just to remind us (and send Moose into a tizzy...)

Slip Sliding Away

Skip's the one on the left

Well, I am definitely awake this morning.  I went to let the Moose Monster out for his morning constitutional, accidentally stepped on his wet pee-pad, and came perilously close to going ass over teakettle when it slipped on me. 

The thing is - if I go down, it's going to take the five hunky firefighters featured in my previous blog post to get me back up.  My knees are arthritic enough that I can't even put pressure on them (no, it's not just an excuse to get out of kneeling down to pray or scrubbing the floor - I firmly believe God hears me from any position, and as for scrubbing floors - there's a reason why I chose to be a career girl.).  I didn't have my phone with me when it happened, but even if I did - the front door is locked.  How are Rocky, Ricky, Reggie, Reynard and Skip supposed to get in to help me?  I need to have a better plan, and I think I need to invest in one of those stupid "alert" buttons.  Or we just need to give in to Mom's urging and move on out to the Basin. 

Frankly, the Basin is looking better and better.  For one thing, I should have been there yesterday for Daisy's passing.  I hate the fact that Mom had to take her home alone...  But for another, less sentimental reason - traffic in Portland sucks.  Hell, Saturday morning heading down to Champoeg, the Banfield was down to 15 MPH if that...  I'm a city girl, but Portland has gotten too big for me.  I'll miss my friends and family here, but it would be nice to know that I'm not going to be spending the best part of every day alone.

RIP, Daisy May Adams Reynolds Adams...

Wind in her hair... 

Giving Roger a good talking to

Going after Hank for me...

 

Just got off the phone with Mom - We knew this was coming, Daisy has been losing her sight and getting confused for a while now, but when Mom took her to the vet today, the vet gave her the news that Daisy is completely blind and that the pressure from the glaucoma was hurting her.  She'd lost two pounds (which, I know, doesn't sound like much, but when you're only 6 or 7 pounds to begin with...)  I wish I could have been there - it's such a hard thing to have to do alone, but Mom has always been there to do the hard thing when her children needed it.  Daisy Mae came into our lives as a rescue - another family member had adopted her, but it didn't work out, and so we ended up with one of the most loving little girls ever - and one of the most opinionated.  

At one point, while Mom was packing up at my place to head back to Utah, Daisy decided that she really wasn't up for a car trip, and she would rather be a city girl for a bit, and hid out in the back yard until she had made her decision known to everyone - she was staying with her sister and Moose for a bit.  She did bring unpredictability into our lives as well - she took any open door as an invitation to explore, but she did always come back home (eventually) - more quickly if you opened the car door and invited her for a little ride. She really loved her little rides.  Rest in peace, my little girl - I'll write more later, when I can see through these tears.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Realization

I realized today that I've been putting up with way too much from my body.  Between the cancer and the diabetes and the depression and the arthritis... my reaction to Hillary Clinton being diagnosed with pneumonia is not the typical "Oh, my god, will she be able to continue on..." that seems to be clogging the airways. 

Nope.  My reaction was "Oh.  Just pneumonia?  She'll be fine - give her a Gatorade and a nap and send her after Putin."  Yes, I know... pneumonia was the thing that took out Jim Henson, but... Hillary's a woman.  We deal with mystery blood on a regular basis - it's going to take more than an over-educated cough to bring her down. 

(Yes, I know, I'm sounding flippant here - I'm secretly terrified because I fear for my country, not to mention my retirement, if Trump somehow wins, but nevertheless...  Get well soon, Hillary.  Please!)

Obligatory Medical Update (Feel Free to Skip)

Met with Dr Wang yesterday - discussed my ongoing depression and pain issues.  She suggested perhaps trying a different anti-depressant that might also help with some of the nerve pain problems (Cymbalta?), so we're going to give that a try, and I'm going to be working on getting my A1C back under control - I know, I've got to start checking my blood sugar 4 times a day and trying to figure out what's causing these weird swings and highs (my current A1C was 10.4 - way not good...)  So... that's the goal for the next three months.  That, and trying to work on the agoraphobia - I need to get out at least once a week. 

Getting Gas

(Just a side note -  the minute I started writing this, Moose immediately splayed himself in front of the keyboard like Miss March, demanding my undivided attention.  I don't know how he knows when it's time to be a pain, but he nails the mark, every single time.)

We had to go face my doctor today (somedays, it feels like I've been called over to the principal's office), and driving along the route, I noticed something really odd.  At the NW corner of 101st and Sandy, there's a Shell gas station that had unleaded for $2.65 a gallon.  At the NE corner of that same intersection, there's a Leather's (local gas company) that's $2.21 a gallon.  Ok, I know you're willing to pay a little for the name, but seriously... .44 cents a gallon?  Even odder, there's another Shell station not half a block down the road that's $2.69 a gallon - and they had people waiting in line. 

It's not just the Leather's either - there was an Arco along the way that was just across the street from a 76 station - again, we're talking $2.23 vs 2.55.  Admittedly, Arco is kind of the Pabst Blue Ribbon of gas stations (don't even get me started on Astro - that's the Hamms of gas stations), but still, if we're talking over $4 per fill-up, I might be willing to go ahead and lower my car's intestinal expectations (except that we always fill up at CostCo, where it's generally around $2.20 anyway).  But I just don't get the thinking here.  Why on earth would you pay that extra $4 a fill-up?  Oh, well...

September Ain't September Anymore

The Old Me Accepting An Award From Lt. General Flowers

Since I worked in Contracting for the Federal Government, for the past quarter century, I've been driven by the Fiscal Year calendar - my year has gone from October to September, rather than the usual New Year's Eve party to Christmas hangover that most people go by.  And September was always the harshest month. 

You see, budgets being what they are (tight), and Federal rules being what they are (strict), September is the last chance to get money spent.  Well, really the whole last quarter is kind of frantic, but September is when it really kicks into high gear.  If you're in Contracting, you live on No-Doz chased down with Red Bull (or in my case, Diet Rock Star), desperately trying to make sure you get everything out the door by midnight on September 30th.

I'm finding myself a little at a loss this September - it's the first since I've retired, and it just doesn't feel right to not be counting down (73 requisitions to go!)  For 20 years or so (before I went to the dark side of Systems Administration), I was pretty much the guru of "Simplified Acquisitions" - that's Army-speak for anything under $150K, or in September, that's "oh, thank the gods of Budgeting, we managed to save enough money to finally replace these steam-powered PCs - what do you mean, you don't have time to put together a solicitation?  There's still 2 hours left!"  Every year, we'd put out a memo telling everyone to get their requirements in to us by July 15th, and every year, we'd have people saying "Oh, we didn't think you meant us!". 

I used to have a recommended "bribe" sign outside my cubicle as a way to break the tension - "In order to get a requisition through at this date, we recommend XXX"  I'd start with "Tell us we're pretty" on September 1st, working my way through the Diet Coke and a box of Twinkies phase on September 12th or so, and ending up with "A time-machine and the blood of a male unicorn" on September 29th.  Let's face it, mid-September, a good laugh is hard to find, and you'd take what you can get.

But this year... the only thing I have to count down is days until my next Dr visit.  No stress, no begging, no hair pulling out... but no sense of accomplishment, either.  I miss being able to help people out (while cursing them under my breath).  Heck, I miss the numbers - I miss reports, I miss spreadsheets, I even (and I never thought I'd say this), I even miss the hourly calls from Division saying "Are you guys ready to close yet?"  I'm not saying I'd want to go back, even if I could (my body definitely doesn't miss it), but... I feel proud of what I accomplished, back in the day.  I guess I miss that me... the one that could take a last minute request and find a way to make it happen. 

Car Thoughts

I was reading through a thread on Facebook where a friend had asked at what age do you let your kid sit in the front seat.  I don't know that they ever reached a consensus, but it looked like somewhere around 11 or 12?

I was born in 1965, and from the time I was 3, it was just Mom and I in the car (and it seemed like we were always going somewhere in the car.)  I wasn't necessarily pre-seat belt, but I was definitely pre- car seat. My first car wreck was sometime between 2 or 3 - Mom would know the exact year, I don't remember it much - but she had ran in to do an errand somewhere, and I knocked her Nash Rambler out of neutral, and managed to roll it down the hill. Then, of course, there was the time when I was 7 or 8, and Dad decided that I needed to learn to drive.  He took me off to the fields in his Ford truck, where there wasn't anything to run into or hit or... well, except for the drainage canal.  Guess who ended up in the drainage canal.

My air bag was always Mom's arm - she was faster than lightning with the Mom arm.  But she didn't have to deploy it often - she was a great driver, and she tended to drive basic tanks that could get you through anything.  My favorite was the Ford Mustang she had - I think it might have been a little older than me, but not by much, and it was just pretty.  Straight black, sturdy and fast.  Plus, it had a great radio... and that was the most important accessory to me.  We got through some pretty rough times together just by singing our way down the highway.

At any rate...  my point, if I had one, was just that I was struck by the change in how kids ride in cars just in my lifetime.  I was always in the front seat - that's where Mom was, that's where I felt safe.  I'm sure that the back seat thing is infinitely safer...  I just am feeling nostalgia for the feeling of belonging that I always felt when it was just Mom and I, rolling down the highway together in the front seat.

OK, Back To The Politics

I was struck this morning by a thread I was a part of on Facebook...


The Republican Convention had (on the first day) a speech from Patricia Smith, whose son was killed in Benghazi.  She has been fairly adamant that Mrs Clinton was directly responsible for her son's death and has said so in multiple forums, despite her daughter-in-law's disagreement with her on basic facts.  I didn't see Mrs. Clinton attacking her character.  I have, however, seen Mr. Trump spend 4 days now attacking the Khan family for their speech at the Democratic Convention - he attacked them directly (including implying that Mrs Khan didn't speak because she wasn't allowed to, even after Mrs Khan's explanation later that she was too emotionally affected by her son's picture behind her to speak), and has unleashed his surrogates to imply everything from "they're moles for the Muslim brotherhood" to "they're shills for Hillary because they have ties through his law firm".  It's been an ugly, ugly spectacle because Mr Trump was too thin-skinned to accept criticism for his proposed Muslim ban.  I don't want that sort of personality anywhere near the White House. 

Non-political Post

I can't be the only person who blesses the invention of the DVR.  Sure, the ability to time-shift programs is lovely, and I appreciate being able to binge-watch series, but most importantly I can avoid Flo from Progressive.  Well, any obnoxious commercial, really, but especially Flo.

Which is odd - I enjoy good commercials, heck I even watch the "Funniest Commercials Of The Year" shows every time they come up (although I watch them with one hand on the remote, so that I don't have to watch the commercials.  Yes, I know that doesn't make sense.)  The one Subaru commercial with Willie Nelson back-up music, where they're going through and checking off the dog's bucket list?  That one gets me every single time.  I had a long-time crush on the World's Most Interesting Man.  But there are so many ads that are misogynistic, or misandrist, or just plain stupid - seriously, Red's Apple Ale - what is it about a concussion that's supposed to make me want your swill?

Also, as a society, can't we make a rule that you can't do commercials for any physical issue below the neck?  (Used to be waist, but I'm upping my standards.)  No commercials with cartoon plumbing, no medicare supply scams involving adult diapers, nothing that requires a 15 second list of potential side effects - and no ambulance chasing for clients who took the pills that required the side effects list.  

But the worst, the ones that have me grabbing for my remote like a lifeline?  The ASPCA and Humane Society ads - usually with Sara McLachlan as a background.  I love dogs in general and my boy in specific, but these ads aren't celebrating dogs and/or cats.  They're torture porn.  Seriously, puppies in cages, their big eyes looking up at you?  For three freaking minutes?  Just no.  It doesn't make me want to write you a check, it makes me want to call the cops on your photographer.  Same for the ones for human puppies, with the freaking flies - photographers, you're right there.  Give the kid a sandwich! 

Thoughts from watching the RNC and the DNC

For my sins, I ended up watching a lot of both conventions this year - what can I say?  I'm a glutton for punishment. Obviously, I saw lots of differences between the two, but...

The most effective speech I saw from the RNC was Ivanka Trump introducing her father.  She made him human, and she obviously loved him.  I was almost at the point of being willing to consider looking at him.  (Unfortunately, then he came on and started spewing obvious lies and fear.  The crime stats he used were misleading at best and flat wrong in some places.  He didn't offer any concrete facts or plans for what he would do to make sure that crime came to a stop January 20th, 2017 - although he used the line several times.  It just didn't work at all for me.)

I saw several great speeches from the DNC - loved Michelle Obama's speech the first night, and I fell for her obvious affection and pride for her friend, Hillary.  (Considering the fairly vicious fight for the nomination in 2008, the fact that they are now friends makes me impressed with both of their characters.)  Bill's speech on Tuesday was a total love letter, but an effective one - while telling the story of their lives together, he also managed to bring out her relentless activism for the disadvantaged and downtrodden, and brought up things I didn't know about her - and as I might have mentioned, I'm a bit of a politics nerd.  And of course, the passing of the torch by Barack Obama on Wednesday just made my heart lift...

But the bit that really showed me that the democratic party is where I belong, and that I can feel safe with my vote going to Hillary even though I voted for Bernie in the primary, was Khizr Khan's speech, with Ghazala standing with him.  They're the gold star parents of Humayan Khan, and if you didn't see the speech, or the introduction to it, it's so worth going back for.  But while the speech was incredibly effecting (it made me cry, and I think I may have seen a tear or two in Roger's eyes as well), it also pointed out the stark difference between the two conventions.  The reason that the Khans (who were not necessarily Democrats, by the way) were at the convention is because Hillary Clinton had found out about them during one of her listening tours during the primary race, and recognized their sacrifice and their unwavering loyalty to this country, even after they lost their son.  This is the sort of thing that we should be celebrating as a country, in my opinion, and I'm so glad both that she was listening and that they were given a national outlet. 

Recovering from the Weekend

It was a great weekend, but...  I was reminded fairly vividly that I'm not able-bodied.  While the guys were loading up the car with leftovers, I decided that it would be a good idea to go try to get the scooter back out to the road - and I ran out of battery power.  About 10 yards from the road.  Just stuck.  Plus, I had been sitting in the scooter long enough that my knees had locked up, so once Roger did manage to find me, I had a scary couple of minutes where I wasn't sure I was going to be able to get up into the car.  And of course, even though I sat under the trees for most of the time, and I was pretty much fully covered, I still managed to sunburn my face and arms...  Those Twilight twits don't know from sun aversion. 

Anyway...  I'm trying to decide whether I'm becoming agoraphobic, or just realistic.  The world outside truly does seem to be out for me. 

I'm Feeling More Hopeful

I got to spend Saturday at a lovely Portland park (Peninsula Park) watching these two get married, catching up with old friends I haven't seen in way too long, meeting new friends, and enjoying my version of America - people in tuxes, people in running shorts, a utilikilt, a couple of people in BDUs, a guy in a really incredible purple suit with an orange vest, rocking wing tips, all coming together to celebrate life and love. 

There was a pot-luck lunch, little kids running around blowing bubbles, conversations about dogs and dresses and (oddly enough for my crowd) almost no politics... it was a lovely day.  And then, in the gazebo where Daniel and Davey just pledged their vows, there was a lovely young woman, celebrating her quinceanera in a beautiful purple dress that extended into the next zip code, accompanied by a troupe of mariachi... It just doesn't get any more American than that. 

Post-Midnight Meanderings

This... this is his "What are you doing up?  I put you to bed!" look

Scene:  1:45 am body call...

*Clickclickclickclick*
Oh, rats - did I remember to latch the door...
*nudge*  *creak*
No.  No I didn't.
*clickclickclick*
Judgmental stare from the Moose.
"Look, I get to go to the bathroom.  What's more, I'm entitled to be alone when I do so."
Stare.
"Ok, ok... I'm coming..."
*clickclickclick* stand in the bathroom doorway staring until he's sure I'm actually standing up*
*flush*
*clickclickclick* down the hallway, turning his head every fourth step, just to make sure I'm coming.
Sliding into bed carefully, even though I know Roger can sleep through anything, including having a cat land on him from the window ledge.
"Well?  Are you coming?"
Slightly plastic *clickclickclick* up the ramp, followed by a doxie walking up the entire length of my body, waiting for me to lift up the blanket slightly so that he can slip under it, and then stretching out along my back, followed shortly by dueling snores from my two guys.

Flames... Flames on the side of my face...

I hadn't realized how angry I still am at the medical establishment, on behalf of me and every other fat woman on the face of the earth, but mostly on behalf of my mother.

My mom is a special woman in a lot of ways.  She's smart as hell, she's driven, she's devoted to her family, she's got a dry sense of humor... and she's obese and has been for most of her life.  She's been fighting it most of her life as well, with the usual diets and exercise and...  And she gets the same thing that I get, every single time we go into the doctor.  Whatever the issue we have, the answer is always the same - lose some weight.

And here's where I realize that I'm not really mad on behalf of my mother.  Well, I am - the woman is incredibly fit, considering.  She's come through uterine cancer with barely a blip, she walks every day, she does channel walking when she's here in Portland...  she's got healthier habits than most of the 20 year olds that I know.  And yet... she's having oxygen difficulties, to the point where she might be on oxygen permanently.  She told me yesterday that her doctor suggested losing some weight, and I went ballistic.  Overly ballistic (I know, this shocks those of you who know what an even-tempered soul I am.) 

But then I realized... it wasn't her doctor I was mad at.  It was every other doctor that looked at me, and immediately assumed that I just wasn't trying.  Every doctor that I saw when I had the flu who told me that my weight was causing it.  I was mad about the 3 weeks I had to wait to get a CT scan because Kaiser had no idea how to scan someone my size.  I was mad about not being able to get surgery to get this damned tumor out of me - yes, I understand that may have saved my life, but still...  (I wouldn't have been so mad about that part if Mom hadn't gotten the same opinion - come back when you lose 100 lbs - when she was already 150 pounds less than I was.)  I am angry about the medical establishment's assumption that if you are significantly overweight, you are a bad patient risk and can be shuffled off to the side with little consequence.  But mostly, I'm angry at the shame I feel for just inhabiting this body of mine.

Rachel from Credit Card Services has a boyfriend, apparently...

One of the disadvantages of teleworking (and now retirement) is being home during the day, and having to deal with Rachel from Credit Card Services.  I don't know if you've been afflicted with this wench, but...  she always calls from a spoofed phone number, which changes every couple of weeks or so, and she starts off with this computer monologue about how she's calling because she's worried about one of my credit cards (never states which one) and how she can get me a much better deal, yada yada yada.  I've tried everything I can to get rid of her - I'm on the do not call list, I've tried asking to be taken off their list, I've tried asking to speak to their supervisor (they hang up on me at that point, usually), I've even changed my phone number, which usually gets me a couple of months of respite before she finds me again.  She calls once or twice a week, usually when I'm trying to nap or in the bathroom...

She's now been joined by her boyfriend, Peter from Microsoft Computer Services (with a suspiciously thick foreign accent), who calls 2 or 3 times a week (also from a spoofed number) to tell me what a stupid girl I am and how my computer is about to blow up unless I follow his specific instructions.  Mind you, he doesn't have a clue even what operating system I'm running, but...

My home phone is practically unusable now - the only calls I get are from family, these jerks, and polling companies (and the polling companies tend to assume I'm a Republican, for some reason.)  There can't be that many people falling for these scams, can there?  I mean, yes, I'm sure it's a low-overhead operation, but at some point, they've got to run out of suckers - how are they keeping this going?  Where is the money coming from?  And how can I take them out?  I've tried the FCC, but that's pretty much throwing info down a well... 

Very Long Night

It's my own fault.  I shouldn't have bragged about how fireworks don't affect Moose at all...  it was a recipe for disaster.  Especially in my neighborhood, where the fireworks start in June and last until the budget finally runs out sometime next week.  And we're not talking the legal stuff, like pretty fountains or sparklers - we're talking airborne mortars going off until 2 or 3 in the morning.

He was actually doing ok, until last night - but last night, he finally broke.  It's not that he was scared by the loud noises... he was definitely not scared.  Pissed.  He was really pissed, but not scared.  Lots of patrolling, lots of barking his fool head off (I think he may have strained his throat).  He'd give off a flurry of full-throated protection of his mama's lap, finally settle down... and then the idiots would set off another round, starting him up all over again.  I finally know just how to say "Hey, Kids, get off my lawn" in canine...

Random Political Mutterings

No one will be surprised by this, but... I'm a liberal.  I've mentioned this a few times before, but really...  I believe in Government.  More importantly, I believe in the United States Government.  It's my country, and I honestly do feel that it's good-hearted.  However...

I think we lost our way in the past few years.  I think that we got terrified by 9/11, and started down the wrong road completely, and one of the biggest signs of that was our willingness to turn a blind eye to torture.  (And yes, water-boarding is torture, in my mind.)  One of the best parts about the American experiment is our desire to treat everyone equally - we started out seriously shaky in that regard, but we keep getting better and better, more inclusive each generation, but the torture... that was going backwards.  Fortunately, we finally got our collective heads together and turned back around.

But now... one of the two major party nominees is saying that we need to go back there.  That our enemies consider us weak because we're not willing to be as barbaric as ISIS is.  That we need to kill children and families, we need to torture and behead and... I don't know where he means to draw the line, but I know that it's not somewhere I can go.  And the fact that people are willing to listen to this man, follow him, vote for him, scares the hell out of me. 

Goodbye, Jim

I found out from old office mates that Jim Russell passed away this week.  He was a sweet man, one of those "glue of the office" kind of guys.  If you needed your monitor replaced, or if something wasn't quite working, he was always willing to help.  He also was always smiling - not sure why or how he managed that, but...

I was going to say that I'm going to miss him, but his death really brought home to me the fact that I'm retired.  That Contracting is no longer my home away from home.  Hearing second hand something that monumental...  thank God for Facebook is all I can say.  But I feel sort of... not lonely, exactly.  Just alone.  Without a tribe.  Fortunately, it was just one of my tribes.  Time to go out and find another one, I guess.

But at any rate... Goodbye, Jim.  May you have peace and freedom and never lose your smile.

Serendipity

www.mistyksnow.com

I was reading the news this morning, and saw the article about Misty Snow being nominated as the Democrat for the Utah Senate seat held by Mike Lee.  She's the first major party transgender candidate for Senate - incredibly proud of my home state (although it being Utah, I suspect her chances are not good - but then again, Snow is an old-family Mormon name which could get her a few more votes.) 

Anyway, I was telling Daniel about it, and the phone rang - he of course piped up with "That's Utah calling..."  And it was.  Mom and Sherri checking in, wanting to know what size bed he has (I suspect I can guess what his wedding gift is going to be...) 

It amazes me sometimes how things have changed, just in my lifetime - both in the world and even just in my family.  When I was born, I suspect that the majority of people in Utah (heck, in America) wouldn't have a clue what transgender even was, and it's certainly not something that would ever be talked about.  We still have a long way to go... but it's heartening how far we've come.

And while I'm at it - Vote Misty! 

Frustration (Again)

I'm in the process of applying for disability, based on a number of things (mostly Hank and my heart issues, but there's all the other contributing factors - you all know...) and decided to get a lawyer to help me through the process.  When I met with Dick Sly (I know - great name for a lawyer, right?), he warned me up front that Kaiser would not be helpful, but I had no idea just how unhelpful they were going to be.

I mean, I knew that it was going to be hard to get them to write anything up for me - their foot-dragging was a good reason why I decided to just go ahead, take early retirement, and then apply.  But I just got a letter from Oregon Human Services saying that they can't even get Kaiser to respond to a request for records.  I mean... I've been with Kaiser for over 20 years - they've got all my freaking records, I signed the damned waivers... what else am I supposed to do? 

Anyway - getting the letter threw me into a funk, which got me thinking about depression, which then got me thinking about unproductive anger, which has got me even more depressed.  I'm about ready to throw in the towel, but damn it - I have been paying into the system for 30 years.  Why is this so freaking hard?

Attention Dungeon Master

Apparently, I screwed up royally when I built this character - I thought shoving all my character points into Intelligence and Charisma was a good idea, but thinking back, maybe I should have put a few points into Constitution.  I mean, so far I've been lucky, but...

Making my saving roll vs the ULMS monster - that was great.  However, I don't know how long I'm going to be able to keep up my rolling streak, and one bad roll could be the end of this campaign.  So, is there any chance I could get a rebuild?  I'm not looking for a Monty Haul campaign, just one that's a tad less... well, painful.

Moose has a fan club

My boy in one of his "not so fierce" moments

Because our house was apparently built on an ancient ant burial ground or something, we have to have a quarterly "pest" service.  The guy comes out, checks out the rat traps around the outside of the house, sprays some anti-ant stuff, makes sure Moose's nemesis (the damn raccoons) aren't making a resurgence, etc... Oh, the joys of being a home-owner.

Anyway, today was the day - the guy shows up, knocks on the door, and Moose proceeds to go insane defending the house (as usual).  When I go to the door, the guy mentions that he was here a couple of years ago, and the minute he pulled up to the house and heard the full-throated welcome, he remembered Moose (yep, he even knew the name.)  Apparently, Moose has a rep with Halt.  And Delivered Dish, and the UPS guy, and Fed-Ex... let's just say his bark is legendary.

Thoughts On Orlando, Sort Of

I am not trying to co-opt the grief the actual survivors and their friends and family are feeling, by any means.  I mean, hell, as a straight, white, married female in my fifties from just about as far as you can get from Florida, I really have no business commenting on this tragedy.  Which is probably why I messed up so badly when I tried to talk about it.  But then again...

I have this friend.  Not really a friend, so much as family - I jokingly refer to him as my emergency back-up gay husband.  I think my mom loves him as much as I do - and I know that my family in Utah has accepted him as one of their own (he's Muncle Daniel.)  He lived with me and Roger for several years, until recently when the stars finally collided right and he fell in love with a really great guy.  They're getting married next month, and I'm so incredibly happy for him - but now my heart aches for him as well.  This terrific guy is scared now.  He's thinking about getting a gun for self-protection, and I can not say he's wrong to feel this way.  He lives every single day of his life with this little nugget of fear just because he's gay and our society has not been kind to gay people for most of his life.  So something like Orlando happens, and he's reminded, yet again, that the world is dangerous.  And I'm reminded, yet again, that my family is in danger. 

So, I'm angry.  Not that my anger is going to do anything, but I can't just be quiet about this anymore.  And it feels to me like a big part of the tragedies lately has been assault weapons - people who have a grudge against the world being able to do a lot more damage before they get taken down.  But my trying to say anything just gets drowned out in a sea of dogma.  Hell, I posted a link quoting some doctors saying how much more difficult it was to deal with wounds from assault weapons than it was to deal with the typical Saturday night special, and even that ended up somehow with a fight about how the Second Amendment should be absolute, how could I possibly suggest otherwise, oh, and by the way, Hillary needs to go to jail.  I've got people so busy correcting me over the capacity of a Sig (apparently it's 30 rounds, not 50) that they're never going to look at whether or not we really need to have military grade weaponry in the hands of civilians in the first place.  We're not talking from the same universal facts, let alone a reasonable range of opinions - and I know they felt the same about me.  So... I retreated from the battlefield, bloody but unbowed.  I don't know what we can do to fix this...  but I really hate arguing about it when I know people aren't listening. 

Revenge Against The Moose

You know I love my boy, but this morning, starting about 5:00, he started in with the licking.  Licking whatever he could reach, softly whining, pushing me out of bed - I've tried explaining the concept of retirement to him, but he's not having it.  If he's awake, Mom must be awake.  So, this isn't going to be one of those complimentary posts...

Moose was already a teenager when we got him through our slightly shady Utah connections (he was smuggled across the state line by Mom and Sherri from a Utah rescue when the Portland based doxie rescue was found to have some seriously unreasonable requirements.)  Some of his personality traits and habits were already formed.  Most things weren't so bad, but I found one particular personality trait that's just (frankly) embarrassing to his hippy liberal mom - my son is a classist.  In fact, at first I was worried that he was a racist, but turns out that he's perfectly fine with people of color - as long as they aren't homeless people of color.  But when we're driving along, he is perfectly fine, happy to be riding, until he sees someone with a sign along the highway, or pushing a cart along the street, and then he goes absolutely insane with the barking.  It's as if he finds it to be a personal affront that they are allowed on *his* street.  Fortunately, he's a homebody, so we don't take him driving much...

The world is too much with me today

Or perhaps it's just that I'm too much with the world.  I am seeing anger and frustration and fear on the face of my family - and I can't fix it.  Much as I want, I can not do anything to make the world a less frightening place - not even use my words, which is the only weapon I really have left. 

I try to see the good in the world, but I don't know if that really helps any.  A thousand acts of kindness can be drowned out by one horrifying incident.

I would work for gun control, but let's face it.  This specific incident was not because of insufficient gun control, but because an asshole used a gun to mow down his fellow human beings.  Concentrating on the gun aspect just gives us a reason to fight each other and ignore the underlying reasons why it happened, not how it happened.

I would fight for better mental health services, but I don't think that would have helped either.  This man probably didn't think of himself as sick, just angry.  Wrong, so wrong, but angry.  Why he felt that his anger was worth more than other human being's lives is something that should be explored, but again, it won't help at this point. 

I just can't see a way past this... and the more I think of it, the more depressed I become.  So I think it's time to retreat until my soul develops scab tissue, and I can be part of the world again.

Ok, I'm a Sexist

In at least one particular instance, at least...  I've been dealing with various iterations of OB/GYNs since Hank showed up, and I've realized that when it comes to my female bits doctor, I want someone of my own gender.

It's not from modesty - after all, I was part of the Rocky Horror caberet, and once you've changed clothing in a fire escape with 20 other assorted (really, really assorted) people, you really don't care that much about who is looking at your unclothed body.  (The whole experience also kind of broke me of the whole Playboy Centerfold comparison guilt - no one looks like that.  Ever.) 

It's mostly just that I want a doctor who actually knows what menstrual cramps feel like.  Someone who can understand that when I say "pain", I don't mean stubbed my toe - I'm talking writhing, fainting, body being turned inside out.  I know, guys get the whole vulnerable bits on the outside that are subject to being whacked, but the pain from that doesn't last for 4 days at a time.  So give me someone who knows...

Game Night

Watching a special last night on Carol Burnett, I saw a skit with The Family playing a game of Sorry.  While it was entertaining, I couldn't help looking at it and thinking "Amateurs!  You're only drawing metaphorical blood - my family, on the other hand..."

To say the women of my family are competitive is an understatement.  We grow up playing cards, starting with Spoons and Go Fish, moving on to Spades and Garbage, with an occasional foray into Canasta. If you've never played Spoons, it's essentially musical chairs with cards and kitchen spoons.  Once a player gets 4 of a kind and lays it down, everyone grabs for a spoon - last one out is eliminated.  Blood has been drawn before - literal blood (Cassidy should not have been foolish enough to try for my spoon). 

We've also been known to play full contact Pictionary - never go up against my mom and Aunt Sherri.  The sister pair bond is strong with those two - Sherri can draw a straight line and my mom will yell out Monday Night Football (which was, of course, correct.)  Trying to avoid the high fives and back slapping is the hardest part of the game. 

But the true Adams family game has always been Rook.  For non-Mormons reading this - it's a trick taking game that uses a special deck.  We all learned to play from Grandma and Grandpa - well, we learned to play from Grandma, and we learned how to occasionally cheat from Grandpa.  They had a group that they would play with every week, and no camping trip was ever complete without a dogeared pack of Rook cards.

But now that the 21st century is firmly in place, I don't play cards anymore - unless...  The final prep for any visit from my mom is clearing off the table and unearthing the scorecards.  Some family traditions are worth keeping.

Dog Days of Summer

Hot Dog On A Hot Tub

Fuck climate change - it's definitely global warming here in Portland.  Today's high of 97 was 15 degrees hotter than the normal temperature for this time of year, and 6 degrees warmer than the previous recorded high.  That, and they say it's going to be worse tomorrow.

I could tell it was hot because of the suspicious silence around our neighborhood.  I live at the top of a little cul de sac, and all of my neighbors have dogs, and all of the dogs have definite opinions.  Opinions that they are normally willing to express at full volume during the day.  Today, however, was canine-vocal free until just about 15 minutes ago, when Moose went back out and started a debate with Roady next door.  Frankly, I thought he was trying to keep up our family's side - with Daisy heading back home, someone needs to keep him in his place.  Normally, the fluffy one is the instigator, but Moose can keep up his end of the conversation when necessary. 

Since it's still 93 out there, it was a short conversation, but still... he got his point across.

Dammit, Cancer - you had one job!

(This one is going to be squicky for the guys out there... last chance to turn back.)

I've always had a bad relationship with my period - it started out with getting my first one *way* earlier than expected, and at the worst possible time (when I was staying with Dad temporarily, rather than Mom.  I think he was more scarred by the occasion than I was, but not by much.)

Things didn't get much better over the years - I was wildly irregular (not having one for 4 or 5 months, then getting one that lasted 2 weeks, that sort of thing.) Also, while most of the time, it was just a standard chore to deal with, every once in a while I'd get hyper-cramps - you know, the kind of cramps where you feel like passing out from the pain.  Cramps where the only possible way to avoid killing random strangers was to grab a bag of bad chocolate (Hershey level bad, not Brachs level bad) and some Harlequins and hole up in the bedroom for a day or two.  Lizzie Borden level cramps is what I'm talking about here.

Anyway, one of the few positives from developing uterine cancer is that my uterus shut down for business, essentially.  At one point, my doctor gave me this test to check to see if I was menopausal - the scale went from 1 to 9, 1 being the equivalent of menstruating right now, 9 being fully transitioned.  I, of course, was a zero (because I refuse to be normal), which Mom claims means I haven't hit puberty yet.  But anyway... no more bleeding, no more PMS, no more cramps. 

Until today.  Today, Hank let me down.  Again.  Back to the curl yourself in a ball and hate the world type cramps.  And that's on Oxycodone - I can't imagine what this would feel like straight.  Listen up, Hank.  Get in line and do your job, or I'm going to have to trade you in for fibromyalgia or some other easier-to-deal-with disease. 

Occupy The Back Porch!

The girls on a rampage

I wrote a while back about the new pet fountain that we introduced for Moose.  After a couple of days of resistance, he took to it and came to accept it - and Daisy and Dancer loved it. Success (unlike the dog door, which no one has yet figured out - we're still working on it.)

Anyway - came out this morning and the area around the fountain was soaking wet.  After changing out various parts, we determined that there was a leak, and I used my one super-power (shopping) to get another one coming, but in the meantime, we put a regular bowl down and moved the fountain out to the back porch to deal with later.  Moose dealt with the uproar like a trooper, but...  the girls are out on the back porch drinking from the busted fountain.  They may not get flowing water the way they like, but they will not be reduced to a bowl once they've seen the bright lights/big city way of drinking, damn it!  Viva la revolution! Down with the man!

My Body Does Trigonometry

When you're an insulin dependent diabetic, your life revolves around basic arithmetic. Blood sugar levels are carefully (or sometimes not so carefully) monitored, you know to take x amount of long acting insulin (in my case, 80 units) in the morning to get you through the day on a relatively even keel, and then you take x units of short acting insulin with each meal, based on how many carbs you're eating - x being (again, in my case) generally around 70 units, but that can go up or down based on what your base blood sugar is when you check it.  It's basic algebra, boring - but it keeps me alive.

But then again...  last night, about 2 in the morning, Moose insisted I wake up - whining, nudging, all the usual signals, because I was going low blood sugar - sweating, shaking, dizzy...  when I checked, my blood sugar was 68.  (Normal for most people is between 80 and 120 - I tend to run a little higher than that, so when I hit below 70, I need to adjust *now*.)  I got up, drank my emergency apple juice (that's about 15 carbs) and had some popcorn (about another 30 carbs worth) and waited a bit until I was back up to 135.  I then ate a grilled chicken thigh (emergency protein to keep me going once the immediate carb load wore off) and went back to bed.  So, that's 45 carbohydrates - no insulin, but 45 carbs. 

So how the hell is it that I woke up this morning to a blood sugar level of 295?  I've always had a strong dawn phenomenon - where my system releases some sugar first thing when I wake up.  Most people have it a little bit - I've got it in spades.  Anyway, to adjust for that, I'm supposed to take 40 units of long acting insulin to get me through the night - which is probably what caused the low that hit me, but it shouldn't be pumping in twice the sugar that anyone needs in their system.  How am I supposed to adjust for this?  There is no algebraic formula that's going to work here.  Oh, well... apparently, my endocrine system has been studying trigonometry, deciding that algebra is for wimps. 

How is this still a thing?

I know, I know - it's a John Oliver trademark, but it fits.  So... beer commercial for Modelo Especial (or something like that) - listing out all the skills you need to be a man. First off... if you're taking your manhood qualifications from a beer commercial, you're out right there, but...

Anyway - starts out with "If you want a job, you learn a skill." Down with it so far.  "If you want a house, you save for it" - well, short of winning the lottery, it's going to be hard to save enough for a down payment in Portland anymore, but ok... "You want bigger muscles, you lift heavier weights" Going a little off the rails here, but yeah...

But then... "You want a girl to marry you, you ask her father" Seriously?  No.  You want a girl to marry you, you treat her well, you love her, you establish a relationship that can last - asking her father should be the last step on your list (or possibly no step.)  I mean, yeah - I'm happy that Roger gets along well with my family (gets along well may be understating it - if we ever break up, I'm pretty sure that my family would sue for custody), but he's not married to my family.  The other Roger (my dad) has no ownership of me.  Even if we had a better relationship, he still would have no say as to my disposition in marriage. 

Which is why I'm wondering...  how is this still a thing?

Easing Into Retirement

As usual, I'm resisting change, but things are slowly settling in - I've updated my Facebook page for one thing.  I'm going out to lunch with Mom and a friend tomorrow, without worrying about timing or coverage.  I've switched over to a retirement-based wardrobe (funky pjs for the win).

But I still keep running into reminders - for example, the phone.  I had been in the habit of keeping a charged-up phone in the bathroom.  When I was teleworking, since I had my work phone forwarded, I wanted to make sure I didn't miss a call.  Yesterday, I actually let a call go through to voicemail... you can't imagine how freeing that felt.

The Phases of Moose

There are times when I'm pretty certain that Moose was born to be a Frenchman.  I could easily picture him leaning up against a lamp-post in a blue striped muscle shirt, an unlit cigarette hanging from one side of his mouth (unlit because hey, no opposable thumb, but still...)  He's very much a lover man, happy to just snug up against you, with occasional snack breaks (also very French - he does love his food).  But then...

Nights like tonight, something gets into him.  He gets firmly into Teutonic Terrier-ist mode, patrolling the backyard (or the kitchen, if we ground him due to potential noise complaints from the neighbors.)  He's not sure exactly what he's protecting, or who he is protecting it from, but he will not rest until he's sure the situation is firmly under control.  You can hear him muttering "einz, zwei, drei, vier" under his breath as he makes each circuit, looking up to make sure I'm safe each time, then back to the rounds.  Even once we go to bed, he'll still get up a couple of times during the night, just to check things out and make sure everything is in place. 

As he gets older, he gets more and more French, but every now and then...  I can see him looking for his tiny German helmet.  I suppose it's genetics...

Sunshine on the Patio

I had a reminder today of the value of taking life in stride.

We took Mom out for brunch for Mother's Day at Portland Seafood.  I knew it was going to be crowded, so I made reservations - unfortunately, when we got there, the only table they had was one that I couldn't fit at (high top, and there was no way I was going to be able to hoist myself up onto the bench.)  But instead of fretting, we just went with the flow.  10 minutes later, they decided to open up the back patio.

It was lovely - perfect weather, low 70s, mild breeze, shade so that I didn't turn into a lobster.  The service wasn't speedy, since we were off by ourselves, but we had a great time talking, so it didn't matter.  And the patio was quiet - so we could hear each other (not always the case in a restaurant.)  The food was tasty, the mimosas were great...  all in all, it was a fantastic way to spend time on Mother's Day. 

As opposed to the guys they were sitting just as we were about to leave, who were grumping about their reservations not being immediately honored and not having a high chair set up when they got there and...  It just reminded me that the flow can lead you to some really wonderful places, but you have to see the place once you land there.

Moose's Morning Chores

Pre-dawn hours:  Little to no chance of actually getting Mom out of bed, but we'll soften her up for the push later by crawling up on top of the pillow and vulturing her.  Maybe lick her eyeball a time or two, just to remind her we're here.

6:00ish:  Mom's in the bathroom - time to check for the 20th time to see if Daisy and Dancer are willing to accept me into the pack on Grandma's bed.
6:01:  Accompanied by a canine chorus of "Repel invaders!  Repel invaders!", slink back to Mom's bed and resume snuggle position.

7:30ish:  Dad's up - time to work on Mom.  Start with the paws propped up on her hip, staring at her sleeping face.

7:45:  Begin basic subvocalizations - the whine that cuts deep into every mom's soul.

8:00:  Ok.  Time to go hardcore.  Dig under the blanket and commence operation Tongue-Lashing.  Lick everything that's not covered by clothing until she gives in and gets out of bed.

8:10:  Mission accomplished - she's out of bed and into the chair.  Climb up on her lap, spend 10 minutes lovingly gazing into her eyes while she gives me my morning massage, and then resume 20 hour beauty sleep.  Job done.

State of the Body Post

So... latest news.  On the cancer front, I had my scan, and Hank is maintaining his stability - no increase in growth, he's just hanging out compressing my bladder and being chill.  In fact, Dr Steiner is putting me down to yearly scans now, since he seems to be uninterested in threatening my life in any meaningful way (yeah!). 

On the rest of me front...  I finally decided to get serious about documenting my issues with walking/standing for more than a couple of minutes at a time, starting with pulmonology.  Oddly enough, my arterial blood gas test was normal (which is terrific, considering it was awful last time I got it done - the bi-pap really works for me.)  However, when she took me for a walk around the office (about 200 feet, maybe?), my heart rate started spiking about half-way through and went into the danger zone (155-160?), so I guess cardiology is next.  Not a big surprise, this has been happening since I was about 30 - but I've got to get it documented now, since I am pursuing my SSDI claim. 

Still not sure exactly how I feel about disability - Objectively, I know that I am disabled.  I can't walk, I can't get through a day without changing pants two or three times, I have to sleep 12-14 hours a day.  I'm just not sure how to prove it to the Government, and I feel a little guilty about trying.  On the other hand, I've also been paying into the system for 30 years, so I'm not sure why I'm feeling the guilt.  Oh, well...  I've got an appointment next Thursday with a lawyer - we'll see how it goes.

Red Light, Green Light

Back in my way younger days, there was a game we used to play (similar to tag) called "Red Light, Green Light".  Whoever was It would stand maybe 20 yards away from everyone else who was lined up, turn their back and yell "Green Light!"  Everyone would then rush toward them until they turned around, yelling "Red Light".  If It managed to catch you moving, you were out of the game, and the object was to be able to touch It without getting caught.

Dancer plays Red Light, Green Light with me all the time.  She'll start out at one end of the couch, wait for me to look away, sneak a little closer...  She's very good at it - I almost never catch her actually moving, it's just that suddenly, there's a dog in my lap that I wasn't expecting.