#77 Medicals

I've been getting ominous letters from The Company (the more I use that term, the more it sounds like the CIA, or the Mafia).  November is the time to choose the medical plan for the next year.  The first letter complained that the costs were going up again, and that they were dropping some HMOs from the available list. (Last year, my "contribution" to the cost of the plan tripled.)  The second letter said that they weren't able to find any cost-effective HMOs in my area, so I would have to consider another format. 

I think they think they are softening the blow before they send out the November packets.  Yeah.  Like I will be pleased to find that it's not as bad as I feared, huh?  And they wonder why there's a movement to unionize.  

So I guess I should hurry up and take care of any medical business within the next two months.   I've got some moles I'd like checked, I'm overdue for all the standard stuff, and I need to follow up on the opthamologist visit from last winter.   Sigh.

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I'm very smart when I actually think about something, but when something just drifts past in the stream of my mind, I can be really stupid.  I mean really "duh...."   I guess that's my main stupidity - an inability to pick the right pieces of flotsam to think about before they hang up on a snag somewhere and change the course of the stream for the worse.  

Several years ago, the medical community was saying that the worst thing you can do when you have back pain is to lie in bed.  They said you should stay up and moving as much as possible, and that would shorten the duration of the pain.  Drift.... Snag....  

So when my back would go out, I'd feel guilty about lying on the heating pad for days at a time.  But I had to, because my legs simply flat-out didn't work - the nerve signals weren't getting through - or the slightest movement caused excruciating screaming spears and firestorms of pain.   Then, as soon as possible, I'd try to get up and hobble around.  

I was in the drugstore yesterday, shopping for a better back support. (My old one is too small since I've gained weight, so I've been using the adjustable one the hospital had given Jay after his back surgery, and it has so many straps it's a pain to put on.)  Right next to the supports was all the medications and "Heet"-type creams for back pain.  I was browsing through them when I suddenly realized that they were all for strained muscles!   

Strained back muscles!!!  That's what they were talking about when they said the best thing was to keep moving!  It hadn't even occurred to me that simple strained muscles could cause pain!  Sheesh!  That's minor!  That kind of thing wouldn't even slow me down.  

What I've got is vertebrae that shift or twist out of place, disks that bulge, calcium deposits that grow too large, or break and move.  I've got pressure on nerves caused by HARD stuff!  That was the click I heard and felt when I bent down to feed the cat 15 days ago - something shifted.       

If I take this to a doctor, they will do a lot of very painful tests, then they'll recommend surgery.  Back in the '70s they wanted to fuse the bones in my neck, between the shoulder blades, and just above the tailbone.  I would not have been able to bend or rotate my spine at all. 

I have found that the best preventative is to keep the muscles in my back strong - strong enough to hold everything together, and strong enough to pull it all back in place when something does get out of position.    

 I think things are pretty much back to normal now - I can stand, walk, and sit, although doing any one of them for too long will cause problems.  Most of the stabs I feel now are due to residual inflammation, I think.  Yesterday I was feeling pretty good, and then after I went to bed, I was lying on my side with my knees drawn up, and I raised on one elbow and reached down past my knees to pet the cat goodnight, and screamed.  So whatever is going on, it's not finished yet.   

But I will never again feel guilt about lying on a heating pad for as long as I durn well want!

#76 Nails

I never have to decide to cut my nails.  They just grow, and eventually one breaks, and then I trim them all to match.  For some reason, for the past three months or so, none broke, so they just kept growing, and growing. They stay fairly straight, they don't hook, so they're not inconvenient.

And then they got weirdly long.  I had a difficult decision.  To trim, or not to trim?  I was curious as to just how long they'd get.  Cold weather is coming, and when they get cold, they snap easily, so they wouldn't get too much longer.

The decision was made for me this morning.  I was popping some bubble wrap, and the left middle finger was inside the wrap, and I snapped the nail along with a bubble.   It had been just a hair shorter than the ring finger nail. 

I thought I'd memorialize the remainder before I cut them down.

#75 Eclipse Confessions

I was talking with Jay's eldest sister on the phone earlier this evening, and she pointed out that Jay was giving me a red moon, a lunar eclipse, for my birthday.  A few minutes ago, I found this note from her in my email:

"... I saw that the next lunar eclipse will occur on Mar 3, 2007.  From your birthday to Jay's.  How do you think he arranged that?"

I whooped with laughter (scared the cat).  That's Jay, all right!  It's soooooo cool.  Elegant, even.  I guess he just needed to make doubly sure we got the connection (although he is off by two days.  On the other hand, I always had to fill out the medical forms for him, because he could never remember his birthdate.  He always thought it was the third.) 

Actually, I was a bit disturbed when she said "a red moon".  My ancestors come from mining villages in the valleys of Wales, and blood on the moon was ominous - a sign of impending death, with very good reason.  From working in the mines, a lot of people had lung problems.  Homes were heated with wood or coal fires, and if there was a fog or atmospheric inversion, the air got very bad in the valleys, causing the moon to appear red.  People died because they couldn't breathe when there was blood on the moon.  So I was happy to see that the eclipsed moon tonight was not red, but a dusky tangerine, with a bright yellow edge on top. 

[Later insert. Flash - late news is on TV - they are saying it was red.  Maybe it was red everywhere else, but in MY front yard, it was dusky tangerine at full eclipse.] 

During the eclipse, Orion, my constellation, was just rising above the trees below the moon, and the Pleiades, Jay's constellation, was between the two.  The Pleiades are in mythology the daughters of Atlas, whom Zeus hid among the stars to save them from the pursuit of Orion.  Later, when Orion was courting Diana, the sister of Apollo, Apollo tricked Diana into killing Orion with an arrow.  In sadness, Diana placed Orion in the heavens.  Tonight, Apollo (the sun), Diana (the moon), the Pleiades (Jay's stars) and Orion (mine) were all in accord. 

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I made reservations today for that Hawaiian cruise in August of 2005.  They had cabins with private balconies, or with ocean views, or interior cabins.  I opted for a balcony cabin.  Costs a bit more, but this way I can have a cigarette when I want without smoking in the room, which I prefer not to do.  Also, the prices were based on double occupancy, but single occupancy wasn't double the price - so if they don't find me a roommate, it's not too terrible.  I'm almost hoping now that they don't.

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I keep hearing and reading about all these, uh, controversial? political ads - but we never get to see any of them here, except little bits as part of newscasts, when they are especially nasty.   It seems that the political campaigns don't bother to pay to show them in states that are considered foregone conclusions.  I haven't seen a single complete presidential campaign ad.  Not one.   How dare they consider ME a lost cause?  I'm insulted.

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At the tail end of a Mensa party a month or so ago, there were four of us left sitting in the dark on NJKC's porch - we three Musketeers, and a man (a lost hippie) that we have all known for 20 or more years.  Someone mentioned a young woman who was a new transfer, who was a bit hard to take.  I said that I was annoyed with her because she had a sweet husband whom she treated like dirt.  Well, that opened a can of worms.  I had not attended the regional gathering, so they told me about how she spent the RG weekend chasing after everything in pants. (Gossip!  And I confess I listened!) 

I don't remember exactly how the conversation went after that, but I was saying something about how it is possible to be at least discreet, and I gave an example.  Now, you need to know that I have a spotless reputation in this group.  Or had.  I may have blown it that evening. 

I told them about the time I was sitting at the lunch table in the main Company cafeteria one day, and I suddenly realized with horror that of the six men chatting happily at the table, I had slept with five of them!  One of them was my ex-husband, so of course everyone assumed I had slept with him, but none of the five knew anything about any of the others.  I sat there a little bit stunned, because not only did they not know each other well, worked in three different buildings (with their own cafeterias), and had never lunched together before, they represented the sum total of my local Company-connected sexual experience.  All at one table, all at once, entirely by chance, and all completely unaware.  It was a very strange (and I must confess, powerful) feeling. 

I didn't realize what I had said until the silence after I stopped speaking stretched out much tooooooo loooooong.  I could almost hear the gears in the other three minds clanking to reevaluate my reputation, and in one of the minds, casting for missed signals and opportunities.   Oops. 

To explain:   #1 had been in 1968, before I married the ex-husband.  #2 was the ex-husband, whom I married in 1970.  #3 was in about 1982, when #3 and I were friends, we each had no one else, so for a short while we had each other, until he decided he wanted more, and I decided I wanted less.  #4 was a single incident in 1990, when I  realized I was madly in love with Jay, so bad it was messing up my mind, but we hadn't been together yet and it didn't look like we ever would be, and after so many "dry" years I didn't know whether it was "A MAN" I wanted or Jay himself, so I had to check, and ...  #5 was Jay, whom I married in January 1994, a few months after that lunch.   Now it doesn't sound so bad, eh? 

But so much for discretion.  I think I blew it.  (Is this an "exception that proves the rule"?)

#74 A Crystal Jar

In a few days, it will be three years since Jay left. At his memorial service, the pastor said something about putting "memories in a crystal jar". I liked the thought, and decided to do exactly that. I have a crystal jar on the bookcase in the livingroom, and I have filled it with tiny slips of paper, like from a fortune cookie, each a memory of something special about Jay.

• The way he played video games with his tongue and whole body

• When something (a hammer, a pen) wasn’t where he expected to find it, he said "It escaped!", and seemed truly surprised

• He always tried to think honestly about his feelings, never hid anything from himself or me

• He never tried to talk me into skiing, never indicated in the least that he missed it

• Twinkling eyes

• He supported me against his father’s strong disapproval when I found the McDonald’s outside Versailles

• He couldn’t spell worth a damn

• He gave me the clouds and the moon

• "Carrot cake is a vegetable, right?"

• He loved Pleiades, volcanoes, and meteor showers

• In many ways, he was like my beloved mice - quiet, made nice warm nests, worked hard, personally very clean, and, like a mouse, he left the remnants of his tasks scattered behind him

• How huge he looked behind the windshields of his tiny cars - one wondered how he would ever unfold to get out

• The way he pronounced "oops"

• The mountain of his shoulders in bed, the angle of his hip

• When he stood at the bar of the Marlboro Inn in his three-piece dark suit, among the hunters and farmers - how tall he seemed, how impressively broad his shoulders

• After his diagnosis, he joked that he didn’t understand all the fuss - after all, his illness was just "all in his head"

• The way he could snatch flies right out of the air - and always released them outside

• He explained that there are things that are very clear and understandable, until you try to explain them - there are some things that just shouldn’t be looked at too carefully

• He was unaware of how big and powerful he was - he was timid about walking the streets of Binghamton after dark

• He never complained. Not once. No matter what

• His delicate tapering hands

• The way he gave off heat when he slept

• How playful he was

• The dangerous toiletries

• When he worked on something, he made a terrible mess of his environs, but the work itself was done neatly, delicately, and perfectly

• He acknowledged male hormonal urges and prohibitions - even better, he was able to describe male attitudes and thought patterns so that a female could actually understand and sympathize with them

• The way he couldn’t resist "improving" everything he bought

• How confident he was of his ability to understand/handle/fix anything

• Everybody says you have to work hard and constantly at a good marriage - it wasn’t work for him, he did what came naturally, and it was good

• The way his uni-eyebrow and beard were all one piece, and his nose hairs blended into his mustache

• The way his tongue helped him concentrate

• How sensitive he was to my moods, and always said and did exactly the right thing

• Joy in little things, like Ninja and Baby plowing a figure 8 in deep snow - "Just what I  always wanted - a doggy choo-choo!"

• That silky spot behind and below his left ear

• How soft and liquid his eyes could get

• Lying on the ground looking at stars

• Pizza! Pizza, pizza, pizza!

• He was so clean about his body that it took me ten years to discover that he had a severe problem with seborrhea on his scalp, face, and ears.

• He remembered perfectly everything he heard or read

• Music confused him - too much information all at once

• Elfin hairs on the outer curve and lobes of his ears

• His absolute joy in yummies

• LOUD!!! sneezes

• He never got petulant when I consistently beat him at word games like Super Boggle, and he played happily because he knew I enjoyed them

• His delicate artist’s touch

• The wonderful lopsided smile when he saw me coming down the hall at the rehab center

• In the last months, when he was having hallucinations and delusions, he listened to me and believed me, even though everything he "saw" and felt told him differently

• Near the end, he said that one of the things he appreciated most about me was the way I so thoroughly understood him. He didn’t realize that was only because he opened himself so completely to me.

• Incredible force of will - he hung on until I told him it was time to go.

• The cloud formation a few days after he died - his face, with a winking moon eye

• The meteor shower a few days after he died - I got up at 5 am and went out to the deck only because I knew he would want me to, and I counted >50 in the first 2 minutes, then I stopped counting. Later, the newspaper and the astronomy club reported a peak of 30 per hour! I got a private show. I truly believe he arranged it for me.

Is it any wonder I'm still in love with him?

~~Silk

#73 The patent

The Company had applied for a patent on an inventory management system that Jay was the major designer and programmer on in the late '90s.  He was not an employee of the Company at the time, having been "laid off" in 1994 (3 months after we married), but was working as a contractor.   It's funny - he got more respect as a contractor than he'd ever got as an employee.

Anyway, the patent application process started about the time he got sick.  In early 2001, when he was getting treatment at Staten Island, after he lost his sight, I would read the documents to him on the rehab center patio (the only place we could get enough privacy).  Then I'd drive the 2.5 hours home, type up his comments and send them to his ex-manager, drive back to SI the next day, and we'd go through the next 30 pages or so.  His insights were important because he was the only person who fully understood the system and what was unique about it, and I was amazed that he could still perform so well, given that he had lost so much.

Since then, his manager has been keeping me updated on the progress of the patent.  I suspect it's against the Company confidentiality rules, but this patent is a kind of memorial to Jay, and I think she understands that it's important to me. 

Her last note made me cry.  She wrote: "We still remember Jay fondly, and we still use a lot of his code.  His code is complicated, elegant, yet durable.  What a combination!" 

That is a perfect description of Jay's mind - complicated and elegant.  Unfortunately, his brain was not as durable as his code.

In the response to the "Examiner's rejections on the grounds of prior art", she wrote, "We have not seen any prior art that addresses the above problems and provides a total solution in the manner shown by [... name of application deleted].  The solutions to these problems are neither simple nor obvious to anyone with ordinary skill in the art."                  

 Ah.  Jay.  You were amazing. 

#72 More Little Bits

I've had cats who liked some strange food.  Smokey loved cantaloupe.  She'd climb your leg if there was one in the grocery bag.  My father used to tease her by putting a whole cantaloupe on the floor.  She'd wrap herself around it and roll it all over the place, trying to get her teeth into it.  She also loved spaghetti sauce. 

Siddy Kitty loved cheese, ice cream (a lot of cats don't like the cold), and PEAS!

Thunder seems a lot more particular.  I even have to coax her to taste cooked chicken.  So I was very surprised to discover that she likes sour-cream-and-onion-flavored Pringles potato chips!  I was eating some in bed the other night, and she came up and asked "What's that?"  If you break pieces off and hold them out for her, she'll chomp them right down and ask for more.  Very neatly, too - no crumbs.

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It is now 12 days since I got the henna hand, and it's faint but still there (except for the heel of my hand, where it remains pretty impressive).  But because of my back I haven't washed dishes or soaked in a bubblebath since last Friday (6 days), so this wasn't a very good test.

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It seems that we now have to keep our houses germ-free.  You are a bad housekeeper and a bad mother if there are any germs lurking anywhere in your house.  It's just an advertising campaign to sell us more stuff, but I'm afraid people are actually buying into it (like having to wash your hair every day! - what a major triumph of advertising that was!)  Companies that market stuff are not required to be socially responsible.  I'm afraid "Eeek-a-germ" will spread, and we'll raise a whole generation of kids with no immunity to anything.  Promise me, Daughter, that when you are raising my grandchildren you will allow them to eat dirt, wade in the ditch after a storm, catch frogs, kiss strange dogs, and play in the cat's litter box.

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When I did that "things I like about us" bit, I left out a few good things: 

We are honest.  When given too much change, we give the excess back. 

We respect other people's property and feelings, even that of strangers.  Graffiti artists get no praise from us.  

We do random actsof kindness as a matter of course.  We automatically assist a struggling stranger.

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I almost got into trouble last week with that "random acts of kindness" bit.  There was a young Jamaican male in the grocery store obviously overwhelmed by the myriad choices of skin creams and balms.  His English wasn't very clear, and what was on the shelves apparently didn't look at all familiar to him.  I asked if I could help, and at first he said he was looking for something for a rash (Calamine lotion?  Antiseptic?) but then after some trial and error, I figured out that his problem was razor burn.  

So once I got him fixed up with the right stuff, ........... I couldn't get rid of him!  I think he either fell instantly in love with me, or figured it was worth a try, anyway.  Maybe I could be nice in other ways, too.  I was really getting schmoozed.  Major pressure.  I took off and zoomed up and down the aisles, taking corners on two wheels of the cart.  He'd have had to run to keep up with me.  I hid out in frozen foods until I saw him leave.

Sigh.  Random acts are so much easier with a husband at your elbow.  

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I have never understood the phrase "the exception that proves the rule".  How does an exception prove a rule?  Doesn't an exception DISprove a rule?    ?????    More stuff I don't understand.  Maybe the name of this journal should be "I Don't Understand".

#71 Lots of Little Bits

A woman wrote recently that she was in a class when someone mentioned that there are now Pringles with facts printed right on the chips.  Someone else wondered what happens when you eat text.  She was proud that she came up with an answer,  "Alphabet poop!", and was rather confused when no one laughed.  They gave her strange looks.  She wondered if PHD candidates don't appreciate potty humor.

Having seen that same reaction to some of Jay's humor (and only occasionally to mine - I'm just not that fast), I think I can explain it.  If the question had been phrased as "What do you get when you eat text?", then she would have got a laugh.  But phrased as "I wonder what happens when...", that leads to philosophical musing.  And when peoples' heads are off pondering the metaphysical, jerking them back to the potty results in a thud.  It's just not appreciated.

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I usually have soaps in the background in the afternoon.  Some things I've noticed-

There has been a spate of imminent (as opposed to immanent or eminent, gratuitous vocabulary lesson) birth, at the pushing stage, where the mother-to-be is in some precarious position, like on a cliff ledge, or a snake pit, or a crashed car, with one or two people in attendance, and in every case she is wearing skintight jeans or slacks, and nobody, but nobody, ever suggests that maybe she should take her pants off!  The writers and directors must all be males, or at least not mothers.  Every woman in the audience who has ever given birth has to be squirming!  You get that pushing feeling, everything down there has to be clear!  Outta the way!  There ain't gonna be nothing to impede the action!  Don't matter what kind of audience you've got!  Those pants are gonna be off!

All the soaps seem to be centered on super-rich people who live in mansions.  What cracks me up is that they never call it a house, or refer to it as home.  It's always "I'm going back to the mansion".  Marlena, on "Days" for example, never goes to her apartment - it's always referred to as "the penthouse".  Sheesh.  Worse, I've noticed a tendency to give the houses fancy names, so instead of lines like "Are you saying someone broke into your home?" or "...someone broke into your house?", we get "...someone broke into Bel BlingBling?" - like it's a store or something.   If I'm going to keep up with the Joneses, I'll have to come up with a fancy name for my house.  I'm considering "La Mouserie". 

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I got a flyer for a Hawaiian cruise - fly from here to Hawaii, a few days in a hotel, then onto a cruise ship to visit several of the islands, total of 11 days, almost everything included, for a hair over $2,000.  August of next year.  Through Bloomsburg University alumni association.  I am very very tempted.  The only problem is that it's based on double occupancy, and of course, there's only me.  Anyone else interested?  I'll have to call sometime within the next week or so to reserve.  I assume they could put two singles together - maybe I would luck out and not get assigned a roomie.

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I get very annoyed when people use "decimate" to mean almost everybody killed (or whatever).  "Decimate" means "one in ten", or only 10%, which is a heck of a lot less than what they want to imply.  I wonder if they confuse it with "devastate".

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I've been reading a lot of other journals ("blogs").  There are some terrific amateur writers out there, people who can turn a phrase, evoke a scene, transmit the idea without all the words I need, and some have really subtle or wacky humor.  What's sad, though, is that they don't seem to have learned anything about punctuation (not that I am a good example), and they all seem to have trouble with homonyms.  Sight/site.  Peek/peak (they don't seem to have ever heard of pique, although a lot of things do peek or peak their interest).  When we (we oldsters) were kids, we read a lot of great writers, who took care with the language, and we absorbed vocabulary and punctuation along the way.  I think today's young people are reading perhaps asmuch - but they are reading what each other writes, unedited, and they are just propagating and reinforcing illiterate errors.   

Because of my dyslexia (or whatever it is being called this week) I tend to read every word, and read literally, so grammar, vocabulary, and punctuation errors in an essay make reading it very difficult and even painful for me.

It's not limited to the internet.  I am now reading Simon Lazarus, a professionally published, mainstream novel by M. A. Kirkwood (touted as "the modern Catcher in the Rye").  It's entirely in first person, so I at first tried to take all the errors as a character delineation device.  But when I came to the line "I leave the library this afternoon with shreds of my dignity in tact", I shrieked, sobbed, grabbed a pencil, and started to correct the text.  It's also full of dangling participles that leave me wondering who did what.  Where the heck was the Bookman Publishing company editor who let this monstrosity get by?  Do they really think that SpellChecker eliminates the need for an editor?  It's actually a very good story, but it's so darned painful to read! 

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The "Get-out-and-vote" TV spots keep saying that "this is the most important election in a generation".  Hmmmm.  Short memories.  Must have been written by a 25-year-old adman.  But even so, I should think that the 2000 election was more important than this one!  Otherwise, this one wouldn't be so important.

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I was thinking the other day that all the fireworks I've seen have been in relatively clear skies - high clouds, maybe, but clear where the fireworks were going off.  I wonder what fireworks in a light to medium fog would look like?

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Reese, to Malcolm, on "Malcolm in the Middle", when Malcolm is distressed because a neighbor kid has been telling lies about Malcolm:  "You can't clear your own name.  You can only ruin someone else's."   So true.

#70 Back Out - 2

My back is out again.  I thought the last time was not very long ago, so I checked the journal entries, and it was like the first of July, so that's not good, but not so very bad.  This one is a different spot, too.  The last time was the small of my back, which affected everything in my abdomen.  This time it's just above the tailbone, so it's just pain there and down my legs (every so often my ankles catch fire). 

When I woke up Saturday morning, my back was feeling fragile.  I took a load of stuff to the recycle center, and had intended to ask one of the (three) workers there to help me (I could carry the bags of paper at hip height without too much strain, but was worried about lifting them overhead to dump them into the bins), but for the first time ever, there didn't seem to be anyone else around.  So I did it myself.

After I got home, I bent over to feed Thunder, and I felt something snap.  I spent the rest of Saturday and Sunday in bed.  I could make it to the bathroom and kitchen if  I supported my upper-body weight with my hands on my knees, and could get almost upright if I walked my hands up my thighs to my hips.  As usual, when I'm hurting the most, I forget about things like aspirin, heating pads, braces.... I just lie there and moan.

Since Sunday, I've found that aspirin and the heating pad help a little, a pair of canes will help me up from sitting or lying, and although the back brace does nothing for me, tying the belt from  my bathrobe TIGHTLY around my waist makes it possible to stand up straight.  I haven't figured out why that should work, but it does. 

I'm going to try for a bath later this evening or tomorrow.  I haven't had a bath since last Friday, and I can't remember the last time I washed my hair.  I can't stand long enough for a shower, and I was afraid that if I got into the bathtub I wouldn't be able to get out.  Jay's bath chair is in the attic, but it may as well be in China.  I smell terrible.  My only consolation is that the smell from the kitchen sink and Thunder's litter box are worse.  I've had to let dishes and poopy build up because I can't do anything that requires bending over or two hands (I need one to support me). 

I have only four cans of cat food left, so this had better be over by Monday! 

 

#69 Henna

I had my hand done at Rakkasah.  The picture is from the scanner, and I had a terrible time trying to get it in under 50 meg!  I've been trying to get a good scan since Monday, and it was getting critical because it's starting to fade already. 

The flower in the center is actually round, but I guess I squished my hand funny on the glass.

When I was talking to the guy who was doing the henna, I told him that I had tried it several times on the back of my hand, and it just doesn't take on me - even when it was done by a friend who really does know what she's doing.  He said that he has known a few cases of that, but in every case it was people who take flax oil or fish oil supplements.

Surprise.  I take fish oil, and I alternate flax oil and lecithin (which my dyslexia pronounces "lethicin", which is embarrassing).  Apparently, the oils block the stain from penetrating live skin, so he suggested that we do it on the palm instead of the back, since I'd have a thicker layer of dead skin there.

It did take very nicely, although the paste drying on the palm of my right hand made things very difficult for the last hour of the festival.  Just before I left for home (a 2.25 hour drive), he coated it with a mixture of lemon juice and sugar to "seal" it, and keep it from cracking off for another few hours.

My poor van's steering wheel was a sticky mess.  I had picked off almost all of the paste before I got halfway up the thruway - it was driving me crazy - and I stopped at a rest area to wash the stickiness off.  Underneath, the stain was a nice dark solid red-brown.  Very satisfactory.

It's supposed to last up to three weeks, depending on how fast one's skin replaces itself, but I don't think I'll make it anywhere near three.  It's already, four days in, fading on the tips of my thumb and forefinger, and in the crease between those two fingers.  I'll be lucky to make it 10 days.

If it lasted longer, I'd do it more often.  I like it.

 

#68 Mellow

Thinking about my last entry, and about how we change so much over the years. I have actually surprised myself lately by how mellow I have become, and I have a perfect example:

The Chevy I sold to the guy down the street had a serious problem. It ran even better than fine in dry weather, and it started fine and would run just as well in wet weather - for a while. But if there was enough water on the road that it splashed up from underneath, it would eventually start coughing and bucking, and would threaten to stall. The only way to keep it going once it started coughing would be to stay in the highest gear possible, and work the clutch and gas pedal together in and out, gentling it along. If it stalled, it would start again easily, and run in place, but if you got onto the wet road again, it would start coughing again.

The Chevy dealership didn’t fix it. They discounted my description and ignored my request that they drive it in the rain. First trip they returned it to me with nothing done. They couldn’t see any problem at all. Of course, they didn’t test drive in the rain. Next trip, they replaced the fuel pump and filter, because they KNEW that must of course be the problem. The next time it rained, it coughed. When I complained, they refused to refund my money because "it needed a new fuel pump and filter anyway" (at 50,000 miles?!), and offered to replace more stuff - "you probably need a new carburetor" - "you’ve got crap in your gas tank" - "that jerking sounds like transmission" - they’d think of something.... They didn’t want to hear that the symptoms didn’t match their diagnoses. They just wanted to replace parts until something clicked.

So I took it to a local independent garage. The mechanic there listened to me, and pointed out that this model Chevy doesn’t have metal spark plug wires - it has carbon wires. It’s possible that there is some disintegration of the wires, so when they get splashed, they sort of short out. That sounded possible to me, it fit the symptoms, so he replaced the wires (with more carbon wires - he didn’t want to use the other stuff because he wasn’t sure WHY they were carbon, I guess), and for a little over a year, there was no problem at all, even in a near monsoon. The next time, same thing. Replacing the wires lasted a little over another year.

(I told a friend about this, and she said she’d had the same problem with one of her cars, and when they replaced the wires onetime it DIDN’T fix it, and it turned out that the carbon had gotten poofed around in the carb, so you have to clean the carburetor, too.)

After it started coughing again, I didn’t drive the Chevy in the rain for the next six months, because Jay was very ill then and I didn’t have time to fuss with it, then after we bought the van I didn’t drive it hardly at all for 18 months, then I sold it to Nick.

I told the new owner all about the problem, and all the misdiagnoses, and how merely replacing the spark plug wires (and cleaning the carb cap) would fix it, had fixed it twice, and how it needed the wires changed again.

A few weeks later, I asked him how the Chevy was doing. He said he loves it, and that it is getting right around the 40mpg I had promised. I asked if he had changed the wires yet. He said no, but that he had driven it to the Jersey shore a few days back, and it had rained, and he did experience the problem firsthand.

He then went on to say that he thought it was water in the fuel line!!!

I surprised myself.

I said "Oh. Ok."

Ten years ago I’d have set him straight in no uncertain terms. "Water in the fuel line would not be fixed by replacing the spark plug wires! Nor would it be relieved by sitting still in a parking lot! The car would not start easily with water in the fuel line! Are you ignoring everything I have experienced and told you?"

Ten years ago I would have seen it in terms of his discounting what I said, ignoring me. I would have felt slapped. I would have felt a need to defend myself, to convince him that what I said was RIGHT! And that he should LISTEN to me!

Now, I see it as his need to do it himself. He IS discounting what I’d said, but NOT because I’m not worthy. Whether I or what I said was worthy of attention or not doesn’t enter into it in the least! He just wants to play with the problem himself for a while. Eventually, maybe he’ll change the wires. Maybe he’ll kick himself for not doing it sooner. Maybe he’ll just smile and nod "She was right. How ‘bout that!" Maybe he’ll find out WHY the wires go flooey every 14 months or so. I have done my part. It’s in his lap now.

Mellow.

Or maybe I’m just depressed.

#67 What I Like about Us

Daughter and I were talking last night about self-image, confidence, etc. In the past, I’ve had a lot of trouble with that, I guess because my father spent so much effort on tearing all of us down.  I didn't feel that I was deserving.  I got annoyed with others when they weren’t perfect, because I had been taught that anything less than perfection deserved a beating. I had a lot of trouble with men, too, because I was so terribly afraid of angering them, and so anxious to get their attention and approval, again because of my father. But these days, I know that I’m actually a quite nice person, and I like me. I’m a lot less likely to demand perfection from others, because I now know I don’t have to be perfect to be perfectly nice in a interestingly flawed human sort of way.

These are some of the nice things that I know and like about me:

• I don’t gossip about others, and I don’t like others to do it around me.

• I am generous with my time and possessions. Perhaps not as much as others, but the important thing is that I’m not trying to prove or "buy" anything when I give.

• I am honest about my faults. Like when someone asks me to do something, I’ll tell them right off that I’m not very dependable where schedules or other priorities are concerned.

• I can’t be externally coerced by guilt trips.

• I take responsibility when I screw up.

• I don’t use crude language naturally, and on the rare occasion when I do use it for emphasis, I am uncomfortable.

• I am a rule-follower. Some people might consider this a fault - especially those who (whom? not sure here...) I have insisted must also follow the rules - but I understand that laws, rules, and guidelines exist for the smooth functioning of society, and that if a law is stupid, you follow it anyway while you work to change it. (A benefit: I have nothing to fear if NYS decides to use EasyPass records to catch speeders.)

• I see something good in even the most annoying people.

• I frequently compliment others, and my compliments are always true.

• I am considerate. I don’t blithely throw bumps in otherpeople’s paths for my own convenience.

• I try to understand when others do me dirty. They wouldn’t do it unless they have a problem of their own. I try to continue to be pleasant to them, and if they continue to hurt me, I will simply avoid them. To others, I may say that I don’t like being around this person, but I’ll say it in terms of my own problems with them, not that they are an inherently bad person.

• I am strong. I can do anything that’s necessary, handle anything that happens, and I remain cool when others around me are freaking (possibly from being the eldest of five). I am not averse to asking for help.

• I don’t merely appreciate truth and beauty - I search for it.

• I am not materialistic. (Ok, stop laughing. What I mean by this is that I don’t make choices based on what I get for it. What you may call materialistic about me is actually hedonism.)

• I do try to really listen to people, at least I’m annoyed with myself when my own thoughts interfere.

• I can accept a difference of opinion and suggestions from others, and my mind can be changed. I can consider the needs of others and integrate them in proportion to the effects on others.

Of course, there are faults, like my need to be in control, procrastination, sloppiness, missing social cues, resistance, impatience with silliness, etc., but why list them? If you know me, you know my faults better than I do. If you love me, you work around them.

 

Things I admire about Daughter:

• You are so very physically fit!

• I have never met anyone with your mental ability/agility. Even Jay was in awe of you.

• You understand the difference between being safe and being happy, and have chosen to be happy. (Although as your mother, itscares the beans out of me sometimes.)

• You are very aware of the social niceties (and I don’t know where you could have got that from, which makes iteven more admirable that you grew it yourself).

• You are neat and clean (which wouldn’t be something to comment on unless one knew what you came from).

• You have a soft warm heart.

• You have a cool head in emergencies.

• You are searching for a better way.

• You are not vain. (Unlike some parts of my family, your hairdresser is not at the top of your Christmas list.)

• You understand what’s important and what’s not.

• "Old soul" is not just a phrase when applied to you - you have wisdom beyond your years.

• You are fearlessly introspective.

• You are tolerant of faults in others.

• You set realistic goals and work to achieve them.

• You listen to criticism and accept it well, and work for improvement.

• There’s more, but it would be more useful for you to complete the list for yourself.

I can hear you adding "usually" and "mostly" and "except when" to every line - but all that’s necessary is to come down "mostly" on the plus side. No one has to be anything "always".

I can think of only one fault (which manifests itself in many many ways), and that is a tendency to be too critical of yourself and too defensive toward people with whom you are emotionally involved.  A good trait is that you recognize this.

Something to keep in mind - experiences and thoughts change you. Twenty years from now, you won’t even recognize the person you are now. But the way you are heading is up, and that’s your most admirable trait.

#66 Debate; CJD

I missed the first presidential debate (see #58), and was away at a belly-dance-festival-cum-vendor-orgy during the second.  I managed to record the second, however, and I watched it Tuesday evening and Wednesday morning - just in time to watch the third debate (I don't know why they call it a debate! It isn't!) last night (Wednesday evening). 

I guess because I had just finished watching the tape of the second, I was painfully aware that both guys were saying exactly the same things in the third as in the second debate.  Déjà vu all over again.  I was thinking "This is a waste of time.  I'm not going to learn anything new.  I've got better things to do" and yet I kept watching.

So, being me, I had to think about why I kept watching, and I'm a little ashamed of my conclusions.  You know how some people will watch the absolute boredom of car races, hoping for an accident, afraid to look away?  That's why I watched.  I was hoping for a flaming bloody car wreck.  Disappointment - I didn't get one.

Bush said his wife told him not to scowl.  She should tell him that smirking is not an improvement.

===========================

Earlier in the evening, a promo for Fox News at 10 said something about citizens in Kingston being worried about "a mysterious outbreak of a rare fatal disease, at 10".  (Jay used to hate those promos.  The reporter would say " 20-car pileup on the Northway at 11pm", and he'd say "If they know it's going to happen at 11, why don't they act to prevent it?"  He objected to they way they phrased it, making it sound like the accident was happening at 11, not the "story at 11".   "It's ONE WORD!  Why can't they say 'story at 11'"?)

Anyhow, Fox news was going to overlap the debate, so I decided to tape it.  I was going to just push the record button on the kitchen VCR at 10.  Naturally, I forgot.  So I watched a different network news at 11, and they didn't mention it at all.  Drat!  I spend a lot of time in Kingston.  What disease?!  Now I have to read the newspaper.  Blech.

Very interesting.  It's Creutzfeldt-Jakob Disease (CJD)!  According to the paper, everyone who has any information is being very closemouthed about it (patient confidentiality and all that, not to mention protecting the local restaurant economy and the hospitals...), but in the past few months at least four people have died of CJD.  Relatives of the victims and reporters are trying to find out what they might have had in common, but medical records and other information (including names of other victims and what other cases might exist) is impossible to get. 

There are several variants of the disease - among which are inherited, spontaneous, acquired from tissue transplants or contaminated surgical instruments, or from ingesting contaminated neural tissue ("mad cow").  "They" are saying this is not the mad cow variant.  No, excuse me, "they" have said it "has not been identified as mad cow" - that's a different statement!  One commonality is that two of the victims had back surgery at Kingston Hospital in the mid-1990s. 

Jay had back surgery at the Kingston Hospital in 1997ish. 

I'm going to have to read up on CJD.  Can it cause a high-grade oligoastrocytoma?  It is known that some cancers are triggered by viruses, so why not prions?

#65 Dream solution...

        Read #63 before reading this!!

Got a note from Daughter, she gives up on the dream and wants to know!  I didn't mean to let it go so long, but I got busy (durn if I can remember on what...) and went to a weekend-long festival, and just didn't get back to it.  So here it is:  

Since losing Jay I have been rather lackadaisical about my own health. (Jay had been the most health-conscious person in the world, and look where it got him!)  The cat and I are both long overdue for appointments.  I'm actually getting letters from the HMO urging me to go for a mammogram, Pap, and checkup.  The vet thinks the cat died. 

My external reason for putting it off is that I'm "just too busy", or I "keep forgetting".  The dream told me the real reason.  

When I go for a checkup, they are going to want to draw blood.  They always do.  I have a LOT of trouble with that.  I gave birth to my daughter completely naturally, no meds, no snipping, no IV, no nothing (and in the central US in 1975 this was unheard of) because I HATE needles.  It's not just the idea.  When anyone pokes a vein on me, the vein (often, but not always) goes into spasm, and it burns like I'm on fire.  The worst part of it is that no one believes me, they think I'm just fussing.  I've got tears running down my face because they're holding my arm in a bonfire, and the nurses just "Tsk Tsk".  Hey - I CHOSE a natural birth over an IV!  That should say something! 

To make it worse, the veins in the crook of my arm are very hard to find.   

That's the meaning of the snake chasing me.  Long and thin, like an IV.  Sharp teeth to puncture me.  Poison to burn me inside.  The snake didn't hurt the cat because the cat doesn't seem to mind her immunizations.  

Quite simple, really.

#64 Dream Solved!

Well, that silly dream (Entry #63) had been bothering me for four days.  I learned a long time ago, during four years of psychotherapy, that the best way to figure out a problem is to write it out.  Get it down on paper (or "paper", in this case) and read it over and over.  It's sort of like  building a 3-dimensional impersonal construct of it on the table in front of you, and then you can look at it from all angles.  Usually things become immediately clear, especially after you have got all the words just right.  You must be careful not to "color" things to make them more acceptable.  When it's all absolutely clearly and truthfully stated, the answer jumps right out at you.  Works for making difficult decisions, too.   Of course, I keep forgetting this.  I have to rediscover it every so often.

After I hit SAVE (and then saved three more times for minor editing) it took me about 5 minutes to know exactly what's troubling me.   I'm not going to tell right now.  It's really quite clear, now that I see it.

I'll wait to see if anyone has a guess or two, and then I'll explain it.

(No, it has nothing to do with sex!) 

#63 Bothersome Dream

I dream a lot.  The dreams I am most aware of are the dreams between the time that I become aware that the sun is coming up (I hear the birds) and the time I actually get up.  Most of them involve a house of many rooms, and people moving around in the rooms, sometimes people I know, but more often just strangers.  Often I decorate and furnish the rooms nicely (like, I mentally add a chair here, and a table there, and they stick in the dreams), and I'm quite comfortable there.  Sometimes I put off waking up because it's so nice there, or because interesting things are happening.  Usually the dream breaks up and drifts off like mist shortly after I'm awake, up, and moving.

I had a very unusual dream last Friday morning that scared me, and that I still can't get out of my mind.   It took place in this house, very rare in my dreams.  I was in the kitchen.  There was a very large empty glass jar on the counter to the left of the sink, and the sun was shining through the window, through the jar.  I was looking at the jar, and saw what looked like a snake's head.  I looked closer, trying to figure out what could possibly cause the illusion of a snake's head, and then I saw a second snake head right next to the first.  I moved to the side to look behind the jar, and found two live snakes behind the jar, their bodies extending along the back of the sink and on down the back of the counter.  They were those very very long very thin green tree snakes, the ones with super-pointy heads, with red and yellow eyes and mouth, like you see in "National Geographic" all the time.

I "dream remembered", if you know what I mean, that we were holding them for some reason, that someone official was supposed to come pick them up, that they were terribly poisonous, and I concluded that they must have somehow escaped from the container we'd had them in.

I jumped back away from the counter.  The smaller snake slithered further along the back of the counter toward the laundry room, but the larger one lunged straight for me.  I ran for the kitchen door, and the snake came after me.  I ran through the living room, around the corner into the dining room, and back into the other end of the kitchen.  The snake was having a little trouble getting traction on the kitchen floor, so that when I got as far as the breakfast counter, there was still about 4 feet of snake just disappearing around the corner into the living room. 

I climbed up on a stool and then onto the breakfast counter - I thought maybe the snake might have some trouble getting up there, and the phone was right at that end of  the counter - but the snake must have heard me, because it turned around in the doorway and came back into the kitchen.  Right about then Miss Thunderfoot sauntered into the kitchen to check her food dish.  She saw the snake and walked over to it.  Thunder stretched out her nose to sniff the snake, and the snake raised its head and reached toward Thunder, and  I thought  "Ok, cat's gone."   The cat and snake touched noses, sniffed a bit, and then turned away from each other.  No interest. 

Once I was on the counter, I had intended to kick the stool over so the snake couldn't use it to get up, but I was distracted by worrying about Thunder, and I forgot.  I was frantically trying to think of who to phone, who could get here the fastest, who could handle a poisonous and determined snake, I couldn't think of what to do, when the snake came straight to the stool I had forgotten to kick over, and was coiling up it, looking straight at me --- when I woke bolt upright in the bed, panting and about to scream. 

That's one dream I wish I did forget straight away, but it has been hanging on ever since.

The really weird part is that I'm not afraid of snakes.  I'm also not afraid of whatever amateur dream analyzers might think snakes mean (and they're usually wrong anyway - the only person who can interpret a dream is the dreamer).  The only things I am afraid of are high edges, spiders, psychopathic/sociopathic people, and people you can't reason with.  And I can handle edges and spiders. 

#62 "Interesting" Food

Daughter and I were teasing her young man, while we reading the menu at dinner last evening, because he has a long list of things he won't eat, and seemingly good reasons for not eating them, like seafood (cat food), mushrooms (processed manure), onions in certain combinations (overwhelms the taste), etc. 

I was lucky - Jay literally would eat anything.  He had a long list of things he "shouldn't" eat for blood pressure and cholesterol reasons, but given the opportunity, he ate them anyway.  It was my job to limit the opportunities.  Given the way things worked out, I wish I had fed him lobster and french fries and chocolate brownies with high-fat ice cream every day.   He should have enjoyed his 49 years more, with less imposed deprivation. 

So anyway, I had mentally wandered off, thinking about Jay's likes, when I overheard the young man say to Daughter, "Cheese should not be interesting!" 

That brought my head up.  

Again, he had a good reason:  he would prefer that anything that involves bacterial and fungal processes in its manufacture not end up ... "interesting"!

Funniest thing I've heard all week.  I like this kid.

#61 Moving With Custody

On "Boston Legal" last night, there was a woman who had been offered a residency at a NY hospital, but her ex-husband would not allow her to move their children out of Massachusetts.  States get excited about that.  A custodial parent is not allowed to move children away from the noncustodial parent, especially not out of the jurisdiction of the state, without the permission of the noncustodial parent and the permission of the family court.

There was an especially nasty instance locally, in the mid-nineties, when the Large Computer Company was laying off thousands of people.  A woman was told that her department was being downsized, and if she wanted to keep her job with the Company, she would have to transfer to a plant in North Carolina.  Otherwise, she would be laid off.  She was divorced, and had full custody of the children.

She wanted to accept the transfer, but her ex-husband, who also worked for the Company, would not allow her to take the children with her.  There was a big nasty family court trial where she argued that she had to go in order to continue to provide for the children, and he argued that this would adversely affect his visitation.  The court agreed with him, and ruled that she could not remove the children more than xx miles from Poughkeepsie.  (I forget how many miles, but it was something ridiculous, like 50 or so.) 

Her choices were to lose her job and keep the children here, or keep her job and give up custody of the children.  She turned the transfer down, and was laid off  (the Company used the word "layoff", but since there was no intention to rehire, it was actually "firing") - along with 8,000 other employees with pretty much the same skill set, and no other employers in the area.

Here comes the really nasty part.  Within weeks of winning the court case, the ex-husband transferred to --- are you ready? --- the plant in North Carolina.  It turns out that during the trial, he was fully aware that he had accepted the transfer, and concealed the fact.  And nobody stopped HIM from moving AWAY from the kids!? 

Now THAT's nasty.  

When ex-husband and I separated back in the early 80s, we had it put in the divorce documents that either of us was free to move, but the one who moved would then pay all transportation costs involved in visitation.  If the other subsequently moved farther, increasing the costs, then the costs would be prorated.  My lawyer was surprised when the judge accepted it.  He said it was very unusual for NY to give up control.

#60 House Shoes, SAT Writing

Remember when I said I had more than 110 pairs of shoes?  Well, my favorite 8-year-old spongy sandals (maybe $5 retail), that I wear around the house constantly, fell apart the other day.  The sole is two layers of spongy stuff, and the crisscross straps go through the top layer and are glued between the glued-together top and bottom layers.  The two layers came apart on BOTH shoes, and the straps were flopping loose on one.  I got out my trusty Shoe Goop and clothespins, and repaired them.  They'll probably be good now for another five years.   And THAT's why I have 110+ shoes.   Most of my shoes are 1/4 Shoe Goop!

====================================

An NPR radio program did a story a few days ago on how the new college board test requires that an essay be written, and they said it had to be longhand, written in the room, during the administration of the test.  Preprinted essays would not be accepted.

Now, I had sort of assumed that people who listened to and wrote letters to NPR were a bit above average in intelligence.  (I should know better than to assume.  Mensa got their biggest membership surge in history as a direct result of an article and sample test in "Readers' Digest" - an example of the reverse assumption being incorrect.) 

I have been proven wrong about NPR listeners.

The program got a lot of irate letters from people who were really angry about the story, well, actually about one aspect of the essay requirement.  The announcer read a batch of the letters aloud in a quite serious and respectful tone, but he had to be giggling inside.   

One after another of the writers offered argument after argument as to why the kids should be allowed to print the essay if they wish.  Some kids never learn cursive, and printing is just as good.  After all, hand printing is easier to read than cursive, "That's why garage sale signs are always printed...."  They wondered why the colleges would insist on cursive, and why they would be interested in the kids' handwriting, anyway, since we all know doctors and lawyers are famous for bad handwriting, but they obviously succeeded in college.  And so on.

I would have been cracking up if I wasn't so horrified at the stupidity.

This was while I was on my way to pick up NJKC for dinner Thursday evening (see previous post).  After she got in the car, I was telling her about it, in pretty much the same words as above, and when I said I was horrified at the stupidity, she responded "Yes.  I don't know why the colleges would require nice handwriting, either.  That IS stupid.  They don't teach it in school anymore.  A lot of kids print everything.  I don't see why it matters as long as you can read it."

I was dumfounded.   Sigh.

I am assuming that Daughter and the few friends who may read this understand that it was the letter writers (and, sob, NJKC) who displayed (what Daughter in her grosser persona calls) a brain-fart, not the college board.  But - I have to be careful of my assumptions, I guess....  

Oh, foo.  Let's be safe.  The letter writers were silly in assuming that the SAT was testing the student's cursive handwriting.  They misunderstood the "longhand" requirement.  The word "write" meaning "to compose" is apparently confusing to them.  The SAT wants to test the student's ability to COMPOSE AN ESSAY!!!, on the spot.  The kid can hand print, draw the letters, demonstrate the fanciest calligraphy, it doesn't matter, as long as it is on the SAT-provided paper, in the kid's own hand, produced at the time of the test, and can be read.  Sheesh!

#59 First Week in October

The first week in October always makes me nervous. 

It was the first week of October 1996 when Jay had his automobile accident.  It was the first week of October 1997 when Jay had back surgery.  It was the first week of October 1998 when he had his first seizure.  Somehow, we managed to get by in 1999, but in the first week of October 2000 we got the news that the tumor was "probably" growing again - by December 2000, when he lost the left side of the world, we were sure.  And it was the first week of October 2001 when he developed the final infection. 

So every year, during the first week of October, I try to stay close to home and not tempt fate.

Daughter is traveling this weekend, and I'm nervous.

#58 The Debate

I had set the VCR to record "Survivor" and the candidates' debate (the PBS version) while I was out for dinner last evening.  This morning, I rewound and hit Play - and got 2.5 hours of children's cartoons.  I must have set the timer for AM instead of PM.

Oh well, just as well, I guess.  Fits with my "no conflict" policy.  I just don't like all these talking heads telling me what I should think.  I prefer coming to my own conclusions, which is a little hard without having seen it.  On the other hand, I'm not exactly undecided, so probably none of it matters.

Darn!  I just wish I'd stop screwing up the VCR!

#57 Diana, Kiss, Red Onion

Lots of things to catch up on -

I had dinner last Monday evening with a friend from the Washington days whom I hadn't seen in 20 years.  Diana, Bob, and their RV were passing though on their way to Canada, so they decided to pause at an RV park near here.  I was very surprised to get her email the previous Friday - I thought I'd lost her.  She had moved about the same time that my AOL died, and when I upgraded AOL, I was unable to get to the old mail or address book, so I had never responded to her last notes. 

I was afraid I wouldn't recognize her, I know I have changed so much, but she still has the same face, same body, same hair color and style, amazing!   She even has the same concerns (chuckle...) - I asked her if she would be going to Rakkasah (www.rakkasah.com, click on "East" info), and she looked confused for a minute, and said that having sold her business (the belly dance boutique) there didn't seem to be any reason for her to go.  I go for the fun and to watch the dancers!

We ate at the Beekman in Rhinebeck, and it was very good.

_____________________________________________

I read an online advice column occasionally, and a woman had written that she had a problem in that she didn't like anything near her face, like a kind of claustrophobia, or a fear of smothering.  So little short-duration kisses were ok, but the long deep stuff made her panic.  The big problem is that her husband seemed to accept her problem, but then insisted on big long kisses at the most passionate moments, ruining it for her.

It reminded me of the one big thing I wish I had done differently with Jay.  I smoked, and he didn't, so I kind of restricted him to itty bitty kisses.  A LOT of them, but itty bitty when it came to the mouth.  One day, as he walked past me in the kitchen on his way out the door, he grabbed me (not unusual - we both did a lot of grabbing in passing), bent me over his arm, and kissed me like I'd never been kissed before.  (And I've been kissed a LOT!)  It was absolutely the best, most thorough, sweetest, lovingest, sexiest,gentlest, most wonderful kiss I'd ever experienced in my life.  And then he went out the door and off to work, leaving me standing there speechless and quivering.  Wow!  I didn't know stuff like that existed!  I melted.  I don't think he realized my reaction.  If I'd been able to get my trembling legs to work, I would have chased after him.

The next day, he had his first seizure, and life got a lot more complicated.  Our touching got less sensual and more comforting, and now I wish we'd done a lot more of that other kind of kissing before. 

_____________________________________________

Well, we all went to the Red Onion for dinner this evening, and it was very good.  I got a surprising response, too.  Lately, most of the group dinners (Ziggy's Ethnic Eatery Expeditions, and the Pizza Sig) have been getting maybe 5 people to show up.  I had 9 responses, and only one person didn't show.  The attendees were enthusiastic enough that I suggested that we do a 4-5 star restaurant every three months, starting with the Depuy Canal House in December, Cafe Tomayo in Saugerties or The Bear in Woodstock in March, and then The Would in Highland in June when they'll have the patio open.  These are places we've each always wanted to go, but couldn't go alone.  Quarterly will fit into budgets just fine.  Once every three months isn't too much work, so I'm willing to organize it.

In keeping with local Mensa tradition (FFF - Fourth Friday Feast, EEE - Ethnic Eatery Expedition, and TTT - Third Thursday Therapy), I think I shall call it QQQ- Quarterly Quality Cuisine.  (Bad pun, but I like it.) 

NJKC, having just had eye surgery, met me at the end of the bridge, where she could leave her car and I would drive the more unfamiliar route to the Red Onion.  We then went to the home of the new widow I mentioned in the last entry, and practically dragged her out the door.  She had tentatively agreed a few days ago in a telephone conversation with NJ that she would go, and NJ hadn't called her to remind her because NJ knew that if she did, the widow would back out.  So we just showed up.  Widow had forgotten (of course) and had already eaten dinner, but we dragged her out the door anyway.  "So have a salad and dessert!  You PROMISED!  You're not allowed to back out at the last minute!"  I think she ultimately enjoyed it.   

We're sort of turning into the three Musketeers, and I'm not sure how I feel about that.  It's not my style, but I think I sort of like it.