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.

Cherry Ripe

I survived a Costco trip on Saturday, today.  I know, it seems like a minor victory, but hey...  I dare you to brave the wretched masses on a copious free sample day.  Over 1,000 parking spaces and every one of them filled.

Anyway... we scored fresh cherries - the first I've seen this season.  What is it about cherries that make them so damned delicious?  I'm thinking about developing an inverse correlation theory of food - the harder it is to process/eat it, the better it tastes.  For example, oatmeal?  Easy peasy, no muss, no fuss... and no taste, unless you add a bunch of flavorants.  But cherries?  You have to individually pit each little tiny morsel - and when they're perfectly ripe, there is no better taste out there.  Nothing to add, no need to gild the lily - just perfect taste.  Same for shrimp - pain in the patoot to peel each one, but so worth it. 

Survival of the Hungriest

Sick day today (one of those stupid, inexplicable fevers that Hank likes to throw my way). Anyway, I went to the fridge and grabbed a piece of cheese, and I swear Moose was trying to hamstring me all the way back to my chair. Apparently Havarti brings out his inner wolf, and he figured if he could just bring me down, the cheese would be his. See if I share any of this with him now. (Ok, he's giving me the soulful eye, so I probably will - make that he's giving the cheese the soulful eye. Such a transparent pup.)

Third Annual Memorial Wake/FU Hank Party

I'm getting together tonight with some friends to celebrate - partly it's a delayed birthday party, but it's also my third annual Wake.  Three years ago tonight, I was waking up from surgery to stop my bleeding and about to find out that my uterus had been invaded by Henry the VIII (or Hank, as I call him.) 

Three years later...  I'm in a better space.  I'm getting ready to retire (15 more work days and counting), Hank has turned out to be settled in and not spreading the way we were afraid he would, I'm a lot closer to family and friends than I was...  All in all, mentally, I'm doing great.  Physically, not so much, but hey... one out of two isn't bad. 

So... on to the next year.  With ham, funeral potatoes, and Kevin's incredible salad. 

Memory Well: The Times I Was Beside Myself

http://howmanyofme.com/search/

There's a thing going around Facebook today that examines your name and tells you "approximately" how many people in the US are named the same as you are.  Oddly enough, there aren't a lot of Deci Reynolds out there (1 or fewer, it says), although if I go with Denise Reynolds, there are 308 of us.  But today's post is about my name prior to Roger - Denise Humphries.  Distinctly more uncommon, in fact, there are (supposedly) only 28 of us.  And yet, I've had run-ins (of a sort) with two of them.

First one - back in the 80s, I was in Job Corps in Astoria (for non-Americans, it's a sort of live-in occupational training type thing).  I had gone home to Springfield for a week for home leave, and when I got back to the base, I was getting funny looks from the guards when I checked back in.  When I finally tackled one by himself and asked what was up, he showed me a newspaper article from the Eugene Register-Guard that mentioned that a Denise Humphries had been arrested during a bank robbery, and was being charged with assault for pistol-whipping one of the tellers.  I, of course, said "Come on - can you really imagine me pistol-whipping a teller?"  I was secretly a little gratified when he said yep.  He could.  Fortunately, it turns out that the Denise in the article was also 35 years old, so I was in the clear.

A couple of years later, I was in Fairfax, VA, working for a Government contractor in a mixed use complex called Circle Towers (offices in the front, apartments in the back.)  I kept getting personal mail (electric bills, phone bills, etc...) addressed to Denise Humphries at work for accounts I'd never signed up for.  Turns out that there was a Denise J Humphries who lived in the apartments in back of us - very nice woman.  We went out for drinks a couple of times after I tracked her down and dropped off her mail.

Once Google took off, I tried googling my name a couple of times - turns out there's also a dog trainer in Australia.  So, two out of the three other Denise Humphries seem to be a good sort - but I think I'll stick to using Deci outside of work. 

Me And My Shadow

My guys - I think I'll keep them

A friend posted today about a dream she had - her doxie had jumped out of a hot air balloon over water, and swam to shore.  It made me wonder why I never dream about Moose, but then I realized - I'm not entirely certain anymore that my subconscious registers him as a separate entity.

He's always been a lap dog extraordinaire - but ever since I have been mostly working from home, he is always there.  It's almost like I had a procedure - an addapuptome, if you will, where he was surgically implanted.  Not that I'm complaining, you understand.  He's generally twirled around my midsection like a comma of love, a furry brown tutu generating warmth and oxytocin molecules in equal amounts when we're sitting down, and if we're laying down, he's cuddled up at the small of my back, or the joint of my knees (or occasionally vulturing from the top of the pillow over my head.) 

So even when I'm dreaming and he's not the star of the show, his warmth still anchors me to reality - the lifeline that lets me wander as far as I want, knowing that there will always be a beacon back home.  His father does the same thing for me emotionally - when I'm wandering off into the fields of frustration and despair, Roger brings me back, calms me down and reminds me of all the good in the world (and how lucky I am to have found it.)  I am truly a blessed woman. 

So Long, Farewell, Auf Weidersehen, Goodbye...

Me Receiving A Desk Set From Lieutenant General Flowers - I wanted a Commander's Coin, but I settled.

After lots of fits and starts (and delays, and turnbacks, and…)  Ok, let’s start again.  I’m finally doing it.  My paperwork is in, and it’s official – my last day with the Corps is April 30^th.  Right now, they’re planning my retirement party for April 25^th – not sure where or what time, but the date is pretty firm.

I just realized that I’ve had the same phone number (three different offices, two different buildings, but the same phone number) for over half of my life.  That’s definitely the longest constant in my life by far.  (It also explains why I get all the weird phone calls – not sure where they’re going to be sending them now.) 

I’ve been going through and cleaning out my desk, throwing out the detritus of a long career.  Date stamps that only went up through 1999, dried out Wite-out bottles, rub-on letters, 410 business cards of a 500 business card order (somehow, I just never seemed to be the business card handing out type.)  Enough pens to sink your average battleship, only half of which ever worked properly (and the half that didn’t work always ended up in my hands when I needed to take a message).  A bottle of WD40 and a couple of rolls of duct tape.  My carefully collated list of NAICS codes and size standards (let’s face it, no one uses the notebooks anymore, but I started here before this stuff was available online – pre-AOL, even.)

There are some things I’m taking with me – the nameplate that my Grandfather carved for me from a chunk of wood from Zion Canyon, various moose memorabilia that my friends have given me over the years, my Group W Bench sign, many coffee cups… which is odd, considering that I don’t drink coffee, but I think they automatically populate in any office environment.  I’m giving away more stuff – passing down my quilted art to Patty, some vases to Jim, my snark sign to Farrell.  I’m not sure who is going to inherit my Mt Hood keyboard – whoever calls dibs, I suppose. 

But mostly, I’m throwing out and getting rid of.  Heck, I’m even getting rid of my “Let go of the banana” sign.  That sign has gotten me through a lot of tough situations – it was a reminder that you can trap any monkey by putting a banana in a box with a hand-sized hole, as long as the monkey involved (and yes, I was usually the monkey) didn’t remember that some rewards just weren’t worth the pain of sticking around.  Which sort of wraps this whole thing up nicely – it’s been a wonderful home, but it’s time to let go of the banana and head off to other pursuits. 

Moose - Nature's Birth Control

I love my boy, but he is rather determined to make sure that the world revolves around him.  For example, when we go to bed, I can generally count on one hand the number of seconds between Roger laying down next to me and snuggling in, and Moose's shoving on in between us.  He's not subtle about it, either - he will stomp his way up our bodies and shove his nose in under Roger's hand, if necessary.  His preferred sleeping spot is right between us, making sure that any contact includes him.

But today, Moose took it to a new height (or possibly depth, depending on how you look at it.)  He was asleep on my lap, snoozing away on my right side.  Roger and I were watching Elementary, and I got a little sentimental.  The episode had an incidental story line about a man sticking around when things got problematic (MS in the case of the story), but I had to thank Roger for being such a mensch - not all men would handle Hank the way he has.  But anyway... I reached out to hold his hand (this would be on my left side), and suddenly Moose almost levitated around to the other side of my lap, nose at the ready.  If there was any affection being given out, my boy was going to be in the middle of it. 

That's one of the best things about having rescued Moose (or having him rescue us - whichever way it went.)  Even when things are sappy and dark, he can still make us laugh.

Oh... Coffee!!!

I saw a link on FB today that reminded me of my early dating days...  Something about how 4 of the Zodiac signs (of course, including Aries) were not hint-takers, and that you have to be direct with them.  Oh, boy is that true...

So, this was back in the early '90s - Mom had moved out of the house (ok, ok, she took a job in Denver, but I decided to stay here in Portland.  Even then, I knew that Portland was going to be my long-term home.)  I had mostly been taking a break from dating, but I had a crowd I hung out with (the Rocky Horror crowd - love you guys!) and that was filling most of my social needs (and keeping me out of my studio - it's amazing how lonely a studio apartment can feel, sometimes.)  I'd like to think that I was welcome in the crowd because of my wit, attitude, charm... but it was probably helped by the fact that I had a job and car as well.  (Amazing how much social cache' a car and gas money can give you.)

Anyway... I was still thinking of myself as basically sexless, until one day I ended up bumping into a friend at a coffee shop downtown (I think it was the Blah Blah, but that's beside the point.)  He was a nice, cute guy that I'd spent time with before as part of the group, and I offered him a ride home after we sat and talked for a while - he had coffee, I had a diet coke, we argued over songs on the juke box. 

Once we got to his place, I was getting ready for him to say goodbye and jump out, when he asked me if I'd like to come up for a cup of coffee.  Now, I don't drink coffee - it's one of the few vestigial Mormon traits I have, plus the stuff tastes like dirt, and he had just downed several cups of the stuff, so I said "I don't drink coffee."  At which point he grabbed my leg and said "No, do you want to come up for a cup of COFFEE???" 

Lightbulb finally exploded in my head - What can I say?  I didn't know that coffee was early 90s for Netflix and Chill.  It was kind of a mental whiplash, suddenly realizing that oh - I'm not sexless after all.  Someone actually did think of me as a sexy lady. (Well, as it turned out, several someones - but this was the burst of confidence I needed to get back in the game.)  And as it turns out, he made a pretty good cup of hot chocolate...