Lament of the Unlaboring - Poetry for a Thursday Afternoon

I set a goal this month to write some poetry.  What appeared, as less than perfectly metered as it is, is based in my present lack of employment situation.

But, really, it's the likely the feeling of many, if not all, of the over 9 million unemployed in the United States.  So, while it's not my nicer, more cheery poetic lines this time, it's still poetry people can relate to.

I'll work on something more holiday cheer-filled for next week.

Lament of the Unlaboring

Idled
Unwanted
Abilities abound
Abilities ignored
So many attempts
With no responses
Knowledge and skills of a lifetime
But no interest in any by anyone
I know that I'm special
With so much to offer
But how can I prove I'm worthy of a chance
When I can't be seen among the crowd

 ©12/09/14 Lauren Swartzmiller

Friday Night Illustrative Humor

Bundle Up - It's going to be  bumpy season

You can take it from a meteorological point of view.
You can take it from a financial impact point of view.
You can take it from a political climate point of view.
You can take it from a current events point of view.
You can take it all from some kind of prophetic point of view
of the winter months ahead.

But, really, I’m just chilly and my friend is simply reflecting that.

Maybe.

(Apologies to the late and great Bette Davis for twisting her famous line from “All About Eve” to my Protestor’s needs)

My Scouting for Food Drive Tradition

Every year for many years, I’ve given non-perishable foodstuffs during the Boy Scouts of America Scouting for Food campaign.  The bags to fill are left at the doorstep, in my area on the first Saturday of November, and they’re picked up the following Saturday and the donated goods given to local food pantries.  It’s a good deed that helps more than one person who might need it right now.

The very first year I donated food for this drive, it started out with an accidental purchase.  There had been a sale on a particular company’s soup at my grocery store and I grabbed a bunch of cans of my favorite variety, at least I thought it was my favorite variety.  It turned out there were two cans of clam chowder in my rapid snatch and purchase and if ever there were a wrong soup for me to buy, this was it.  Clams, oysters, and mussels will send me to the hospital for treatment of a food allergy.  The clam chowder was side by side with my favorite soup and the pictures on the label are similar.  Okay, if I had actually read the label, this never would have happened.  But, my tradition of giving might have waited for a later year, too.

Yes, I could have taken them back and exchanged them for what I wanted or gotten a refund.  I’m a receipt-keeper from way back.  But, my shopping day happened to coincide with the first day one of those bags showed up attached to the knob of my front door.  Soup was one of the items on the list they were looking for, so into the bag went the clam chowder.  But, those two cans looked so lonely sitting in that bag by themselves, so I added more in the week that followed.  By next Saturday, the bag was robustly full and my two cans of clam chowder had lots of company by the time they were picked up and it made me feel good knowing that my mistake was helping someone else.

Since then, I always had a bag waiting for a Cub or Boy Scout to come pick up and, in my own grand tradition, there’s always been two cans of clam chowder in the mix.  There's always been one bag, but I always try for two.  For a few years, there were as many as five food-filled bags waiting on my porch.  The year they didn’t drop off a bag at my house, I left them two bags with a big Boy Scout logo printed out and attached so they wouldn’t miss it.  The year someone forgot to collect bags along my street, I picked them up and dropped them off at the central collection site.  I’ve reminded and cajoled people into helping with this worthy effort.  I’ve blogged about it (like now); my words aren’t read by many, but if they encourage somebody to fill the bag with donated food items rather than throw it away, then my blood, sweat and tears of composition weren’t wasted.

This year, things are pretty lean for me.  I’m not working and need help putting food on the table myself.  But with the little money I had, I managed to put together a bag of food items for my local troop to scout for.  I bought things on sale, I bought store items, and I even went without a few things so that I could do this.  It’s important for me to remember that, no matter how bad I think it might be, somebody needs this help more than I do and if I can help, I should.

And I did.

And yes, there were two cans of clam chowder in the bag.  You can’t break with tradition.

Train Ride - Some Poetry for a Thursday Night

This is dedicated to my dad, Jim Swartzmiller, who rode the rails as a fireman in his earlier years, long before a family and programming at IBM came into his life.  But, his love of trains remained constant and it stayed with him for the rest of his days.

Give me a civilized train ride

far across this wonderful countryside

with sights and scenery gently passing by

on quiet, smooth rails before I die

Let me dine on proper plates

on a table properly set

a full night's rest on a pull-down bed

nostalgically comfy as it can get

Yes, it will take longer to arrive where I want

whether a new place or a familiar haunt

but bring back the trains of my youth to me

and let me wear my joy for all to see

                                                                        © 10/16/2014 Lauren Swartzmiller

Subtle Transformation

 

Grey day

No wind

No rain

No birds to break the silence

The green of summer still thrives

But some leaves begin their fall

The change of season begins slowly

Shorter days

Longer nights

We adapt  

We evolve

Lauren Swartzmiller

© 08/02/14

Responsibility Comes in All Ages

Yesterday, my beloved eldest cat, Sadie, died.  I found her near my porch, her back legs paralyzed and a deformity to her hip.  It was apparent she had been hit by a car.  She was in pain and there was nothing I could do to help her.  I had no way to take her to the vet, much less the money, to have her mercifully put to sleep.  She lived another hour and a half before finally succumbing to her injuries.

What was also apparent was that somebody had to have moved her closer to my porch, but didn’t bother to knock and say “I hit your cat – I’m sorry.”  I never heard her cry out because she couldn’t take a deep breath (broken ribs, possible collapsed lung), she had a soft meow to begin with, and my hearing’s not what it used to be.  She could have been there only a few minutes or she could have been there a few hours before I found her. 

I’m pretty sure I know who hit her, but I doubt he’ll ever come forward and admit it.  In some respects, this person is like the grade school kids who, for the first time, invaded my yard and started whacking at plants with sticks yesterday.  They ran away when noticed to avoid being caught, to avoid being discovered instead of owning up to the damage and apologizing.  I don’t know if the story about George Washington cutting down the cherry tree and then confessing to it is true or not, but I would take such an honest person as my neighbor or neighbor kid anytime.

My loving responsibility to Sadie was to be with her as she passed and I was.  She had me beside her, with comforting words and scritches all the while as she died.  My final loving and responsible act was to bury her and say goodbye.  My final act with regard to Sadie’s death will be to forgive the person who hit her.  That will happen, just not right away.  Guess I’m a bit flawed, too.

It is in our actions of honesty, responsibility, compassion, forgiveness and positive action that our true nature as a human being comes through.  I don’t expect my weed-whackers of yesterday to understand that yet, for they are still in the process of learning such lessons.  But, I kind of expect adults to at least try to get it right, setting an example for the next generation.

Deconstructed Stone Soup

From the "Stone Soup" storybook
of my younger days

A few days ago, I found myself waiting for someone in a car in a parking lot that looked out over the main road just before it ended at an intersection of highway and other street beginnings – very metaphorical.   The area’s busy in both vehicle and foot traffic and it was interesting and actually quite relaxing to watch.  But, after waiting for almost an hour, I found my relaxed mind started to wander.  First, it was to where people were going and what they were doing once they got there.  Then, I started getting existential, thinking about my life and where I was heading, what my place was in things, how I perceived my role in making things happen, etc.

For some reason, my mind started to look at it from the perspective of making stone soup.  For those unfamiliar with this old folk story, it’s where a person or persons come into town with only a cooking pot.  They’re hungry, but the townspeople, for one reason or another, are unwilling to share what they have with the stranger(s).  The strangers go to a stream, fill the cooking pot with water and drop some stones in to cook.  One by one, the villagers ask what they’re doing and the strangers reply that they’re making stone soup, which is delicious in its own right, although items added would only enhance the flavor.  The villagers find themselves willing to share a little of what they have and the stone soup becomes a wonderful meal for all to enjoy, a recipe of cooperation.

So, here’s the question, not just for me, but for anyone in any given situation.  Breaking  down, or deconstructing, the making of stone soup, what is the role you play?  Are you:

• The one with the vision, hungry for more, who can see how, with a little guile, cooperation, and input from others, something they want can be accomplished?
• The one who understands the visionary’s idea and has the knowledge of what’s required and the talent to start to bring it together?
• The ones who bring a little or a lot of what’s required to make the soup great?
• The one who stirs the pot and keeps the fire going?
• The one who documents what went into the soup, in case they ever want to do it again?
• The one who may or may not choose to eat, but knows somebody has to clean up after these people?
• The one who takes one taste, decides they can do better, and goes off, successfully or not, to make their own version?

For me, I’ve successfully played all but the first and last of these roles during my lifetime, playing the second and third roles most of the time.  Am I happy with that?  For the most part.  I like to think that I could play the one with the vision, but I find I’m better at bringing someone else’s dreams to life than my own.  There’s nothing wrong with that role, either.  The visionary may have the best idea in the world, but not be able to see what’s required to get things moving and keep them going, as well as any contingency plans in case the path from Point A to Point B of their plan needs to make a detour.  There will always be a place for those who help move dreams along.

Why does this come up on Independence Day, you ask?  Take the above roles and apply them to our forefathers, who had the vision of an independent country in mind and brought it into existence.  Not an easy task, but they managed, and that vision continues and allows the freedom of vision to continue to flourish.  There’s a role to play in every idea, and cooperation between all the roles will make it happen.

So, go forth and celebrate the Fourth of July, a symbol of one whopping pot of excellent stone soup if ever there was one.

Please Don't Help Them Add to My Spam Folder, Sir

Dr. Oz Grilled In Congress, Admits Weight Loss Products He Touts Don't Pass 'Scientific Muster'

I knew it was going to come to this.  There's a whole lotta modern day snake oil sales-folks out there.  He's not one of them, but he was inadvertently helping them.  I don't care how passionately you believe in what supplements can do -- until there's some serious scientific evidence to back it up and not just casual observation or anecdotal reports, please don't parade them across the TV screen in front of people looking for ways to feel better and be healthier in an easy to swallow pill or capsule.

A Few Less than Syrupy Thoughts about Cats from a Cat Lover

Why, oh why do cats have to barf underneath the bed, almost smack dab at the center point, without my knowledge until a day or so later when my nose has to follow the odor to its offensive source?  It's like needing to find the remains of their last hunted critter after the same time period.  Trust me, ain't nothin' like the smell of decomposition - ew.  In those moments, I'd be much happier if they left them outside where they caught them instead of bringing them indoors to half-enjoy or abandon.

I'm not even appreciative of when they bring in dead game and leave it at my desk or next to the bed.  That's supposedly the highest compliment your cat can bestow upon you, hunting down dinner and leaving it for you.  Aw, that's so sweet, but Mommy isn't fond of mouse, mole, chipmunk, snake, or any type of small bird except maybe Cornish game hen.

Then, there are the moments of live game "fun".  I'm never sure whether it's just that they want to extend the thrill of the hunt for a while longer or if they're too well fed and just have no talent for it.  Either way, all the above named kitty trophies have occasionally arrived alive inside my home.  Through the years, I've tried rescues, snatching them from the cats and releasing them outdoors, trying to care for them, and even once taking one to a wildlife rehabilitator.  These efforts are rarely successful.  They may not be the greatest hunters, able to kill their prey quickly and cleanly, but sadly, they can do a lot of damage to a little bird, reptile or mammal.  Dead or alive, though, the wildlife goes back outside once I take over.

I look forward to spring and summer.  The cats go out and explore again, but more importantly, they're out of my face.  When it's cold out, I rarely hear the cat door swing or get a meowing request at the door to go out and play in the snow.  We're all cooped up together and getting on each other's last nerves.  I relish it when my bed becomes mine, all mine again.  They don't stay out all the time, but for some reason, they discover that there are other places in my home to curl up in.  Until about October, that is, when the falling leaves cause the return of cat life to the great indoors.  Guess where?

Until then, however, the feline hunting parties will continue.  Whether they bring in game for me or for themselves, I will be ultimately responsible for critter rescue and release or disposal.  Oh, I could keep the cats inside all the time and I'd never have to deal with dead or half-dead mice, etc. again.  But, I suspect having the kitty-kids indoors 365 days a year might be too stressful for a group that's been accustomed to an indoor-outdoor existence their entire lives.  It might also be detrimental to my mental health as well.  I'm really not a crazy cat lady and I'd like to keep it that way.

And regardless of whether they're indoors or out, I'd still have to deal with cat barf under the bed.

Hey, Facebook–Listen to This

An acquaintance of mine posted on their page about some privacy changes that Facebook put into place at the end of April.  I read the article they linked to and then a few more on the subject.  While for the most part, the changes are positive and based in concerns previously brought to and finally acted upon by Facebook, there is one new little ditty that seems to have put a few folks on edge.

It seems that Facebook has embedded some coding in their smartphone app which has the ability to turn on the mike and listen in to what’s going on within hearing distance of said phone.  While this seems to be directed more toward smartphones, I wouldn’t be surprised if it was extended beyond them to tablets, laptops, etc. at some point.

They’re trying to gather information about what shows and songs you might like to enhance your Facebook experience.  They claim they’re only collecting data in the aggregate and won’t be giving you and your background noise a specific listen.  It’s harmless. 

And people were getting upset when they heard the NSA was collecting information on phone calls and e-mails.  At least they had our country’s security as their reason for collecting metadata.  Facebook doing the same thing to get me and my relative handful of FB friends to listen or watch something and, ultimately, buy something, is actually more annoying to my sensibilities. A government agency reaching into our private lives for the sake of trying to keep us safe versus a private company doing similar for the sake of crass commercialism.  Neither one is a very savory notion, but given the choice between the two, I’d prefer the former.  This choice flies in the face of free enterprise, I know.  You can always say no or ignore any recommendation that Facebook throws at you with regard to watching and listening opportunities, purchases, etc., but you can’t ignore the government.  I still prefer the NSA have my metadata than Zuckerberg’s marketing division.

Neither the article or the Facebook privacy settings page gives any indication that this can be changed or this listening ability blocked.  The basic options in this situation, of course, are not log on to Facebook or to ignore the possibility that your phone mike may be live.  Chances are it won’t be, but you might never notice.  If member numbers significantly dwindle as a result of people’s concerns about this audio invasion, then it's a bad business decision and maybe, just maybe, Facebook will discontinue the practice.  I have my doubts, however, and I wouldn’t be surprised if other companies developing apps for our smartphone/internet enjoyment followed suit. 

Anyone potentially listening in on me wouldn’t hear the radio or TV, or really anything terribly interesting or juicy.  They’d hear birds chirping outside my screened window and a fan or two running on warmer days.  They’d likely hear me talk to myself and my cats.  They might even hear me read my writings out loud to make sure they make some kind of sense.  My background noise is as boring as my existence, so I don't care all that much about anyone possibly listening in on my laptop’s mike, at least at the moment.

But as a practice for the rest of the internet population, I do wish everyone, including Facebook and anyone else who might be listening, reconsider any mode or amount of audio surveillance.

Unsung

This is dedicated to all the people who work without fanfare.


You may see us or not
You may not know what we do
But know that our jobs
Are meant to serve you

We do our work well
Our knowledge and experience complete
And most people don't know
For we are the discrete

We make things go right
In ways that most do not know
Quietly earning our paychecks
And without a big show

We toil in the background
Hands and heads to the task
And a trust in our abilities
Is all that we ask

Our jobs are anonymous
Unheralded in story or song
But if our work is done right
Then nothing goes wrong

                                                                             Lauren Swartzmiller 04/15/14                        

Poetry for a Monday Morning

Some may remember this little ditty.  I actually scared someone with it one time who seemed to take it a little too seriously.  Some people just don't get coffee humor.

Relax and enjoy.

Morning Coffee Haiku

I start the day the same old way
I have my coffee without much to say
Caffeine is my friend and it's yours, too
For I tend to babble without my brew
Intelligent talk and making sense
Come sometime after first sip, hence
Back away slowly and no one gets hurt
And patiently wait for me to be more alert
                                                                                                                                                                                   ©Lauren Swartzmiller 09/04/2010

Too Much Time on my Hands

A discussion with someone yesterday keeps prompting this philosophical wax-covered riddle to run through my brain like the tune "Three Blind Mice".

if ignorance is bliss
and knowledge is power
but power corrupts
where is the middle ground
when the knowledge is easily accessible
and one's own curiosity is insatiable?

I feel like I'm going to have a breakthrough moment like that person in "Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy" who figured out the answer right before the planet got destroyed.  That would be my timing.

No, no herbs were smoked, no alcohol consumed, no peyote popped, no pills ingested to bring this on.  It's pure, unadulterated absurdity of my own making on a Thursday.  Imagine what Friday's going to be like.

Three blind mice, three blind mice, see how they run, see how they run ....

The XP Hermit

I’ve been a Windows XP user for over 10 years.  Come tomorrow, when support for the XP operating system will have withered and died, I’ll still be an XP user, at least in part. 

I have three computers.  Do I need three?  Not really, but I like having a backup so that if things go wrong, there’s still a computer available to me for both work and play.  It was two at one point, an older (11 years) desktop and a newer (5 years) laptop.  Although one ran Windows XP and the other Windows 7, I was able to get them to interact enough to trade files, which is all I needed.

In May of last year, the network card on the desktop was fried by a lightning strike nearby.  Surprisingly, nothing else was damaged and I could still use it.  But, my two computers could no longer “talk” to one another and exchanges between them became a thing of the past.  Shortly after that, though, I received a free laptop.  Well, a free laptop with keyboard damage and a slowness issue its previous owner no longer wanted to deal with.  It was an older model and also running Windows XP, but it more than met my needs.  So, for the cost of having a new keyboard installed and a few hours of my deleting a bunch of software that was clogging up both memory and drive space, I had a third computer, although the newest member got stored away as a “just in case” machine as I continued to use the other two.

Cut to late last year, when Microsoft officially announced it was dropping support for the XP operating system.  I was like most XP users, without the funds to upgrade to a bigger, better, faster machine.  But unlike other XP users, I was fortunate for one thing.  The laptop was purchased back in the days of job and extra funds. At the same time, I also bought Windows 7 software.  It was intended for the older desktop, but I found out after buying it and opening the package that the desktop would need so many hardware upgrades that buying a new computer made more sense.  I didn’t want to do that, so the software sat unused until this year.

I didn’t try to load it onto the XP laptop when I got it because I figured it would be similarly unable to handle the new OS.  Well, that was wrong.  On a whim last week, I tried it and it worked.  It required over 100 updates  and 5 hours of frustratingly waiting for them to download and install and restarting it over and over and over, but it was worth the aggravation.

So, Windows 7 is now the two-thirds majority in the house.  If Microsoft follows the same timetable for dropping operating system support that it did for the XP, I’ve got at least a decade before Windows 7 obsolesces.  The younger laptop will likely be able to handle an OS upgrade, but the most recently acquired laptop probably won’t. 

As for the desktop unable to upgrade and still running Windows XP, it’s alive and well and will continue to be so off the internet grid even after tomorrow.  It won’t get updates for any software anymore, but since it’s not communicating with the outside world and doesn’t do much beyond word processing, a few spreadsheets and some games, it’s no big deal.  It’s isolated, but still very functional. Eventually, it will meet its demise, its innards recycled and its shell, sadly, likely ending up in a landfill somewhere.  But for the time being, it will continue on in spite of Microsoft’s choice to drop it like a hot potato.

It’s a hermit, not by choice, but by necessity, and it’s a working hermit at that. 

On Being Kicked Out of the Land of Windows XP

If you haven’t already heard, Microsoft will no longer be supporting the Windows XP operating system as of April 8th of this year.  Computers running Windows XP will continue to run.  It’s not like you’ll turn on your computer on April 9th and be greeted by a death rattle and a blue screen saying, “Goodbye, I’ve gone to that big OS place in the sky.”  It only means that Microsoft won’t be writing anymore software to protect it against cyber-villains who love to find vulnerabilities in any operating system and take control of it for their purposes or just ruin your day by accessing and deleting or rewriting  everything precious to you.  Yes, it is potentially that bad.

You might think that up-to-date anti-virus software is the answer.  Partly, but not completely, and none of the AV software developers are guaranteeing continued support of XP beyond 1-2 years.  Microsoft wasn’t writing those updates for giggles.  Computer attacks come in different forms and they’re not all in a way that even the best AV software will catch.  Even at their most perfect, all operating systems have flaws, little cracks in their programs that hackers just love to find and exploit.  That’s what those updating patches were for, to fill those cracks, and after April 8, they’re not going to be coming to an XP computer near you.

So, no more updates, no more security patches.  Windows XP has reached its expiration date and like a can of soup that’s marked as should have been eaten two years ago, you use it now at your own risk.  You might ask why Microsoft would do this to so many people, folks who may not be able to afford to upgrade to something still supported by them or buy equipment with their newest operating system bells and whistles built in.  I’m sure there’s an official statement as to why, but let me give it to you simply.  Microsoft is a business and one of the things they do is create operating system software.  You want bigger, better, faster, they can make it happen, but it’s at a price.  Yes, price, cost – MONEY.  They’re providing updates free of charge.  It’s damned nice of them, but it’s not profitable for them to continue to write software code and provide it free for every operating system indefinitely.  How are they going to make any money when you’re forever happy with what you have? 

Some call it keeping up with the cyber-times, creating a better computer experience and keeping the hackers at bay in the process.  Maybe, but much as it’s been 15 years of Microsoft supported bliss for all of us Windows XP users– yes, I said “us” – I think you can also throw a bit of planned obsolescence into the mix as well.

Celebrating the Vernal Equinox

This winter season has been less than ideal.  Even those who loved it weren't overly happy with it.  I mean, how happy can you be with it when you have to dig to your car, dig out your car, dig through the five foot ridge of snow left at the end of your driveway by the highway department, and traverse questionable quality roads just to go to your favorite winter sports activity?  Let's take a moment to think about having to get too much snow off the roof before it collapses.  Let's contemplate how much time was spent clearing ice and using enough salt on roads and walkways that we could start our own ocean.  We won't even discuss the extra heating costs brought on by too many visits by polar air even as far south as Texas and Florida.  We needed it to end and as of this posting, it officially has even though you may not be able to tell yet.

So, let's talk spring.  Let's talk about longer sunny days and warmer temperatures.  Not too warm as to be oppressive, just warm enough to remind us that Mother Nature is really not a bitch.  There's a whole lot less snow trespassing on my property than there was even a week ago.  I can see brown, I can see green, and right now, they're the most beautiful colors I've seen in several months.  There are buds on bushes and trees. Birds are singing to claim their place to nest and raise their families again.  It's renewal, pure and simple, and it's not just renewal of a natural cycle in the northern hemisphere as our planet orbits the sun, but also renewal of a joie de vivre for most folks, something which tends to hibernate a bit from late December until now.

But, the start of spring is different for everyone.  It isn't just a date on the calendar.  For some, it's the disappearance of the snow.  For others, it's longer days.  For still others, it's warmer days and nights.  Some say it's spring when flowers bloom.  There are those with unique takes on when the season arrives.  I particularly like the tradition of when a car falls though the ice on a lake that spring is declared (they reclaim it every year). Unfortunately, that group of folks may be waiting into May for that to happen, given that the ice has been estimated to be at least 2-3 feet thick.  My neighbor's take on it is when he can retrieve the ladder that he had to thrust into a snow pile for roof snow debulking without having to walk through the white stuff again to get to it.  I hope he doesn't need the ladder before then.

As for me, my start of the season just happens to coincide with the day that spring astronomically arrived. We might have cold temperatures again, but they won't be near, at or below 0°F and they won't stay cold for very long. We may have snow again, but it won't be hanging around for very long. Flowers may be slow to show themselves, but they will eventually and they'll make me smile whenever it happens. Regardless of the timing of the signs that say it's spring, they'll only be reinforcing what I know and feel.

For really, spring is a more a state of mind than it is a physical place in the universe.

The Recovery Phase

Well, it’s been a month since my VW Golf’s clutch went to the floor and returned no more.  The experience left me shaken, hobbling, without a working car and unsure what was going to happen next.  Well, here’s Part 2 of the story.

First, there’s my post-dragged condition.  Immediately following the incident, I was a dirty mess and not in the good, sexy way.  There was dirt and salt along the entire right side of my clothing and, of course, my hip was caked in it where friction had yanked my jeans and panties down.  I even had about two tablespoons of ice-deterring gravel and salt in my right shoe which contributed to my limping.  In the urgent care facility, they tried to cover the floor to catch as much of it as possible, but there was still a winter sand and salt cleanup of the room after I left, I’m sure. 

After examining me, ordering x-rays of my right hip and left knee (both negative) and doing the preliminary cleanup on said areas, I was sent home with antibiotic ointment and the works to do a few dressing changes once I really got to get clean.  I was still working on my huge event-induced adrenalin rush even as my best friend picked me up and took me home.  I told the nurse who did the initial evaluation that my pain level was 5 out of 10.  To be honest, I wasn’t really feeling pain at that point, which is normal under the effect of adrenalin.  Once it started to wear off, though, that number turned out to be quite accurate, although it briefly had a moment of being a 7-8 pain level as the shower water hit my injured hip for the first time – yeowch.

Self-examination of the areas post-shower revealed that there was an angry red area on my hip slightly larger than a football which had lost its entire protective layer of skin.  There was also evidence of embedded dirt even though I had managed to scrub most of it off.  The left knee, which had been wedged up next to the door, was clean, but managed to have a few cuts and some bruising where door edge met knee joint.  There was also some numbness to that area, which was mildly concerning but not enough to warrant having it rechecked.  Ointment, bandages, then rest.

Let the world know now that I am a side-sleeper.  It wouldn’t be a problem except that I tend to sleep on my right side.  For the first week, it was impossible to turn onto my right hip without being reminded of that 5 out of 10 pain level.  I learned to sleep more on the left side, with only experimental turns onto the right until I found the discomfort had decreased enough to return to the preferred side down.  However, there was another hazard.  I have cats.  I have cats who have no issue with walking on me like I’m part of the bedding.  I have one cat in particular that likes to pop up and perch on – yes, indeed – my hip.  After several episodes of my screeching, followed by expletives deleted, this particular 8 pounds of feline flesh and fur figured out not to do that until I said it was okay. 

The knee stubbornly remained numb on the outside even as the cuts at the center of the numb area healed.  However, I was able to bend and straighten the knee without pain or difficulty, so I focused attention on my problem child of a hip on the opposite side.

Cut to present day, when all but one of the bandages are off.  The wound debridements I had to do were less than fun, but necessary.  The area on the hip has gone from ugly red and tender to pink and pretty much normal.  There is one last 4x6 adhesive bandage that covers the area at the hip-thigh crease, but it’s not there to just cover the last of the deeper cuts.  It’s there to remind me to keep my hands off.  They’re at the itchy phase and driving me crazy!  If you ever wanted to run a coat-hanger under a plaster cast, you know what I’m talking about.  As far as the knee, the only evidence that anything happened are the two thin healed lines where the cuts were.

For those who wonder about the car, it’s still sitting at the garage while I wait for the replacement title for it to come from NYSDMV.   The last time I saw it was shortly after that huge storm that dumped about two feet of snow.  They very nicely shoveled out my car and I cleaned out all my possessions.  The money still isn’t there to repair it and I know the car has other problems that will need to be addressed, at least one of them shortly after the clutch and/or transmission repair.  I love my 1998 VW Golf, but at 15 years old and having one too many mechanical issues, it’s time to let it go. 

For the moment, I share rides and even get to occasionally borrow a car to drive.  But, more importantly, I’m walking.  Losing regular use of a car is something of a blessing in disguise.  Public transportation is more than a mile and a half from my home and taxis are expensive.  Although the hill I live on makes the return home a challenge, I like walking right now.  I’d forgotten how much I enjoyed being inconvenienced by needing to walk to where I needed to go.  There are times when a car is necessary, of course, and others when it’s simply preferred.  Eventually, I’ll have to buy another car.  But for now, I’m almost completely healed and enjoying my recovery phase.

But, stay tuned.  I suspect there will be a Part 3, with a happy ending to this story, if you’re up to reading about it.  It may be down the road a bit, though, no pun intended.

I Bet/Hope I Couldn’t Do That Again

It started out a nice normal day in my world.  I took the clothes to the laundromat and threw them in to wash, drove over to get my work and was heading back to put my clothes into the dryer.  Just as I stopped before exiting the parking lot, I pushed the clutch pedal down and it went to the floor, didn’t come back up and the car stalled.  Anyone who is familiar with 4 and 5-speed vehicles knows this is not good, including the mechanically disinclined me.  My VW wouldn’t budge and I was partially blocking traffic.  After putting on the emergency brake and the hazard lights, I walked back and talked with two men who tried to explain to the dumb greying brunette what happened and that it needed to be towed.  Well, duh – like I couldn’t figure out it needed to be towed.  They also suggested what to do to get it into a parking space, but every time I tried to get it to move, either forward or back, it would stall almost immediately. 

I then decided that I was going to push it into a parking space by hand.  It wouldn’t be the first time I’d done that to a car.  I got out to push, then looked back to see that the emergency brake was still on.  Well, no wonder the car kept stalling. 

Now, the intelligent woman whose head was on straight, wasn’t worried that she was blocking traffic, wasn’t rushed by clothes that would simply sit and wait until she got back, and was feeling frustrated by this newest car expense to take a bite out of her budget would have gotten back in the car, taken the brake off and tried again to hobble the car out of traffic and into a safe spot to wait for the tow truck.  Yeah, that smart woman’s brain had disengaged in that moment and I leaned into the car and released the brake.

Do you know where this is going?

I had forgotten that there’s  a slight incline to get out of the parking lot.  You’d never notice it to walk it, but it is definitely there and the car began to roll backwards on it.  It picked up enough speed that I couldn’t jump back in to stop it.  Now, the smart woman might have let go at this point and let gravity do its dirtiest.  However, the smart woman’s brain was in panic mode at that point, thank you, and I ended up being partially dragged under the driver’s side door and snagged by my old lady jeans to its lower edge.  I knew that the car was heading for someone else’s car (I found out later it belonged to a coworker) and I desperately yanked on the steering wheel, hoping to minimize the impact.  As it turned out, I had managed to avoid the collision and my little car, with my body acting as a braking wedge, came harmlessly to a stop behind the car next to that one, about 25 feet from where the nightmare started.  Problem was, I was still wedged under the door and wasn’t sure if the car would move again once I unsnagged my jeans and moved.

I started to scream for help as soon as the car started to roll.  Did anyone come running?  Nope.  It wasn’t until about 30 seconds after the VW and I stopped that a man walked over and calmly asked what had happened.  Was he kidding?  He apparently didn’t see what had just happened and couldn’t figure it out for himself.  He was going to call 911 and get an ambulance on the way, but I knew I was all right and declined.  I asked if he would put the emergency brake back on and once he did that, I unwedged myself and got up, markedly shaken, but alive and walking slowly. 

I found my jeans had been pulled down to my thigh by the friction.  Oh, that friction.  My underwear had been ripped to shreds on the right side, the jeans were muddy and gritty, but intact (way to go, Land’s End®), and my hip-length jacket was similarly dirty, but also in one piece. 

Then, there was the wearer of said apparel.  In this rare moment, I was thankful to have my girlish hips well padded with fat.  After being evaluated by the urgent care facility in the same building where I work, I found that underneath all the mud and grit, I had a serious case of road rash  and nothing more.  Oh, I’ll probably have a colorful bruise about the size of a football develop on my right hip over the next few days and maybe one on my left knee where I was caught by the door as well.  I’ll probably be sore as hell, too.  But that’s the extent of my damage, no one else was hurt and no cars were injured in this event. 

Well, almost none.  There was still my car with the clutch pedal still flattened to the floor.  It was towed to the garage to be evaluated tomorrow.  I suspect there is more repair work required than I can afford and that the car is worth.  I can’t afford to buy another car, either.  Walking and public transportation seem to loom large in my future for the time being.

I have that clueless stranger to thank for his helping hand to brake.  I have my best friend and her husband to thank for coming to get me, take me to get my laundry and then take me home.  I have three coworkers to thank for getting my car into a parking space to await its tow.   I have the attendant at the laundromat to thank for putting my clothes in the dryer when I called to explain that I had "an incident with my car."  Finally, I have the staff at Emergency One, the urgent care place, to thank for their care and infinite patience in evaluating and treating me.  Some would say there is another more intangible being to thank in all this as well, and I would have to agree with them.  No major injuries to self and no damage done to others, other cars or property.  And just as a final note, with the car engine off, the power steering wasn’t working, yet in my panic, I managed to turn the wheel and in the right direction to prevent any further heartache.  Coincidence?

Anyway, that’s the story of my Monday, which started ordinary and ended not so ordinary.   How was your day?

Chicken-Scratch 101

The one thing that separates us from all the other species – really bad penmanship.                                                                                                                                                   Paraphrased from “NCIS”


While I was at the laundry late last week, I got this great idea for an essay for my blog.  I got it all written in the time it took for my clothes to dry, but it may be a while before anyone sees it.  Yes, there were scratch-thrus and scribbles, changes of mind and word.  But, the real issue was that I found I couldn’t read it several days later.  Inspired as I was, I wrote so fast and furiously, it became illegible in spots, especially toward the end.  I always used to say that if I could read a doctor’s scrawl, I could read anyone’s.  I’ve now been proven wrong and by my own accursed cursive words.

I can blame it on arthritis, which I have, and that after about 5-10 minutes of writing, my hand starts to ache to the point where I write faster, and messier, just to get it over with.  Perhaps I can even blame it on too much time keyboarding my words instead of taking the time to neatly write what I have to say pen to paper, the muscles used to write perhaps weakened by disuse.  Regardless of the reason, I still have two pages of relatively well thought out topic that practically need a forensic specialist to decipher.  Either that or an expert in hieroglyphics.

They say that the practice of handwriting anything is becoming an archaic activity, a lost art being replaced by e-mails and texting in computer-generated fonts.  Yet, it’s still being taught to our youngest students by parents and teachers alike.  Apparently, someone other than myself sees that there are times when this old-fashioned method of communication still has its place in our modern world and there are still going to be times when it’s necessary or simply preferred.

But, it still needs to be readable.

Dear U.S.P.S. - Just Get it Over With

This Sunday (1/26/2014), the price of mailing a first class letter will increase from 46¢ to 49¢ per ounce.  This three-penny increase, the likes of which haven't been seen or financially felt since June 2002, is supposedly only for two years.  Within that increase is an increase that would have happened anyway, a 1¢ up in stamp price which was in line with keeping up with increases in the Consumer Price Index.  After 2016, the price theoretically would drop back to 47¢.  Will it?  Yeah, right.

When the US Post Office became the US Postal Service in 1971, the price of a first class stamp was 8¢. Let's do some math.  With the change taking effect tomorrow, the price to send a letter will have increased slightly more than six times that happier postal times rate.  From 8 to 49 cents in a matter of 43 years.  Some would say that's not bad considering the rate of inflation that's occurred in that span of time, although the Federal government managed to keep the price under 10¢ for over 100 years.  Yes, it is still a bargain as compared to some other goods and services.  But, as the cost of postage increases, the amount left for buying food and paying bills decreases.  In the scheme of things, it may not be a big chunk of money to mail a letter across town or across country, but for those struggling to make ends meet, it still adds up.

With people already squeezing their budgets, it's no wonder the grumbling began shortly after the Postal Service announced the proposed increase in September of last year.  Mickey Barnett, the Chairman of the Board of Governors of the USPS, sent out a rambling letter in September 2013 addressed to "Dear Postal Customer" explaining the logic of the decision.  I'm a smart woman, but even I had trouble wading through those ten paragraphs.

But, I do get it.  Like any business, the USPS has expenses.  Unlike most business, the USPS has to answer to Congress for any attempt to increase income by increasing their prices. It also has to answer to Congress for any expense-cutting moves it might make.  Even its five year business plan to bring them back to a lean, mean mail-carrying machine needs to be reviewed and approved by our elected officials.  Its hands are tied.  I get it.  Pointing fingers as to when this business entity started to go wrong and who is at fault for it happening in the first place is a useless gesture.  Even with the volume of mail decreasing and competition for package delivery strong, we are still dependent on the USPS for the day to day delivery of boxes, bills, resumes, and the still handwritten cards and letters to friends and loved ones. Not everything can be virtually delivered just yet.

So, why do I say "just get it over with"?  Because I believe that the increase, which needed to happen even though we protest strongly against it, should have taken the price straight to 50¢.  If we're going to get annoyed with a three-cent increase, what's one more penny?  It brings in more revenue for them and my guess is that it still isn't going to result in any leftover funds for someone to enjoy.

And let's face it, it's easier figuring out the cost of mailing things with a nice round figure of 50 to multiply by. Yes, harder on the wallet, but easier to figure out.

Oh, come on, we know it's going to get there, anyway.

Flu Shot Versus Flu–The Lesser of Two Evils

This year, New York State sent down a mandate that required people who work in healthcare facilities either to have the flu shot or they would be required to wear a mask the entire time they were at work.  Not just when in contact with patients, but the entire time they were on the clock and on the premises.  The purpose of both options was to stem the tide of the flu season.  Okay, that didn’t work out as well as everyone might have hoped ‘cause the outbreak of flu here in the U.S. qualifies as epidemic.

Not absolutely requiring the shot is said to be an attempt to give people who don’t want to get the shot for whatever reason an alternative.  Nobody’s fooling me.  If you ever had to wear a mask that covers your nose and mouth for 8-10 hours straight, you already know how annoying and even inconvenient it can get.  If you had to wear it every day you worked, the words “absurd”, “ridiculous” “silly” and “stupid” might wander through your brain on a regular basis.  Yet, the mask must remain regardless of the mantra that those words become in your head.  Yes, it’s an alternative to getting the shot, but the inconvenience of a masked existence is also a way of getting people to comply without actually insisting on it.

Some object to the flu shot for religious reasons.  Even though I’ve heard the arguments as to why someone’s faith says that they shouldn’t take any vaccination, I still don’t get it, but I’ll respect their right to be flu shot-free.  There are also those who work in hospitals, etc. who object to getting the flu shot because they just don’t want it.  There are also some in that group who think it’s absurd to insist they get the shot when the public is still being exposed to the flu out in the great wide non-hospital world.  They’re right about that, but there’s something to the argument of taking extra steps in a hospital, nursing home or similar healthcare setting where some patients’ immune systems might not be up to par due to age, disease, or medications.

Truth is, anyone who objects to getting the flu shot, unless they’re allergic to some portion of it, is really doing so because they don’t want to be told what to do, either by a government entity or in general.  I can relate.  I’m a quiet little maverick myself and. up until a few years ago, I never got a flu shot, either.  It was when New York State required that everyone who worked in a healthcare setting get the adjunct shot for the H1N1 flu virus a few years ago that I reluctantly started lining up for the flu shot ow-ee.  Granted, my decision to cave in at that time was partly based in wanting to keep my paychecks rolling in, but compliance is compliance.  My argument was that I didn’t like the reaction I always had to every vaccination/immunization I got.  Yup, with every single shot, regardless of what it was for, I’d run a fever of over 101°F, get muscle aches and just get generally bitchy for 24-36 hours.  Then, I started to look at it from the perspective of people who got the flu and were so sick with it, some to the point of dying from it, and I decided that I could put up with my side effects on a once a year basis.  Now, I just get the shot on a Friday so no one has to listen to me whine the next day or so.

Many years ago, I had the flu.  It was just over a week of a 102-103°F fever, body aches, coughing, sneezing, sinus and chest congestion, and feeling like an 18-wheeler had run me over, slammed the truck into reverse and ran me over one more time for good measure.  Used up all my sick time and didn’t get to enjoy a hooky day from work for quite a while after that.  And yet, it wasn’t until 20 years later that I started to regularly get the shot to minimize the risk of repeating anything similar to that episode ever again.  Through the luck of the draw, I never came down with another strain of flu.  Oh, you didn’t know there was more than one?  Ha-ha – silly reader.

Some think that because they got sick after getting the flu shot that the shot gave them the flu.  Uh, no.  Anyone who understands the immune process and how modern vaccines do their thing will tell you it doesn’t work that way.  It takes about two weeks for the immunity to kick in to the max.  If you got sick during that time, either you’re like me and had side effects which weren’t flu, or you had something that was flu-like but wasn’t influenza, or somebody already exposed you to the flu, you were destined to get it and the timing just sucked.  Get over it. 

I understand the reluctance, fellow mavericks, and if you can live with wearing a mask all the live long day, then more power to you.  But, if you have to comply with getting immunized to get into school and college, or even travel the world,  what’s having one more needle once a year?  When you stop thinking about yourselves and start thinking about the people who can’t fight the flu fight as well as you, you might want to reconsider for their sakes.  Give it some thought.

Oh, Who are You Trying to Kid?

There’s been a bit of research done that suggests that men who shave their heads are perceived as stronger, more virile, more masculine, even macho as compared to their before shaved head image.  Speaking as an appreciator of the male form in all its variety, I can honestly say that it ain’t necessarily so.

Some men with a full stock of hair will shave their heads, but it’s more commonly men who have a less than ideal hereditary hairline who will take this path.  For what?  Do you hate the hair that’s still there or something?  Maybe you’re trying to get it over with earlier than it would have happened anyway?  In either case, Gentleman, trust me – unless you’re a slave to keeping your skull skin absolutely clear of stubble, everybody knows where your line of genetically determined demarcation begins and ends. 

The study further suggested that the possible explanation as to why those who chose to shave their heads are perceived as stronger and more virile is because they chose to shave it in the first place, that it takes chutzpah to make the decision to not accept the process as it’s handed down, grab the razor or shaver and take it all off, Baby.  I get that.  It can be a solid statement of defiance against what society sadly perceives as looking older and less than perfect, with the man instead turning his appearance into something of his own choosing.  If that’s the case, then I applaud the decision.  But, if it’s because he’s only trying to disguise the fact that his hair is disappearing faster than a glacier in warm weather, then he’s doing it for the wrong reason.

I’ve always appreciated men who can see beyond the surface and can do no less for them.  I don’t care so much about what’s on or not on their heads so much as what’s in them.  Intelligence, wisdom and humor mean more to me than a full head of hair, a balding pate or a shaved skull ever could.  Like a car, the body may be a little rough, but it’s what’s under the hood that counts.

So, Gentleman, shave that head or don’t, but do it knowing you’re not impressing me as any more virile by what you look like after the choice is made.  Self-confidence doesn’t necessarily come from what we do to ourselves, so much as what we do for ourselves and others. 

On Fighting the Fight After the Fight is Gone

If I didn’t have such an issue with using my body as a canvas, I’d have a tattoo across my chest that reads “If the brain waves are gone, then let me go.”  It’s not the same as tattooing “Do Not Resuscitate”.  That suggests not even trying when there is the possibility that I could be brought back to quality existence, and I really would like someone to try once before quits is called and any of my organs which are useful are donated to help someone else continue. 

Back in the mid-1980s, my eldest sister suffered a massive internal bleed due to a ruptured spleen and she ended up in the ICU on full life support.  All the signs indicated irreversible shock, multiple organ failure and brain death.  As an EMT and also having worked in a hospital, I knew what all that meant.  My mother, who was a nurse, also knew what that meant.  We and the rest of the family were devastated, but we also knew that the only thing keeping her heart beating was the air that was being pushed in and being allowed to escape by the ventilator.  Yes, she might have continued indefinitely on the ventilator with IVs and/or a feeding tube in place.  But, we knew it’s not what she wanted.  The bleed happened on New Year’s Day and she died the following morning.

Despite my sister’s health and other issues, she was a sweetheart.  She was loving and caring and would give you the shirt off her back if you needed it.  She was a free spirit and would never let anyone tether her to tubes and machines just to keep her body going in the hope that maybe she might wake up later on. 

So-called miracles have happened when someone who was in a coma woke up months or years later, but those are exception rather than the rule.  The body has some incredible abilities to heal itself, given adequate time.  Even the brain has been known to circumvent serious injury.  Thing is, the damage can be so extensive that the body can’t deal with it all in even a normal length of lifetime, leaving the person unable to wake, dependent on others for every little thing, and unable to chose whether or not they really want that existence for the rest of their days.

For my sister, I believe she made the decision for everyone concerned when she went into cardiac arrest the next morning and didn’t respond to all the measures taken to bring her back again.  For my mother, she chose not to be on a ventilator in her final two days; she had been on one, sedated, for two weeks prior to her conscious decision.  I was her health care proxy and knew that her choice meant she was going to die, but that it’s what she wanted even in her last comatose hours.  She was a woman who preferred being able to do things for herself and that included breathing.

Every comatose person’s situation is unique.  Every family’s response is unique.  It’s hard to make the decision about whether to continue fighting or let a loved one go and anyone who hasn’t had to deal with the situation can’t really understand the anguish involved in making it.  But, I have and I do.  Like my parents, I want quality time while I’m here and if I can no longer have that, if I can no longer interact with the world in the way I have all my life, then pull the plug and the tubes and let me go.  Take what you want and fry the rest, meaning donate any viable organs and cremate my remains.  The paperwork for it all is in place and my remaining family members are aware of my choices and I’m confident they will honor them.

For anyone else facing this unpleasant situation, I ask only that you consider what your comatose family member would want, how they would want to spend part or the rest of their life and how they would want to you to be for that same amount of time.  Think of how they would answer if asked and decide from there.

“Is it true that God answers all prayers?”
”Yes – and sometimes, the answer is no.”
                                                            From the TV series M*A*S*H