3222 Nibbled to death by minnows

Tuesday, April 19, 2011

Love means seeing someone’s wounds and broken places and loving them not only in spite of them, but also because of them.

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The old expression is "I'm being slowly nibbled to death by ducks." I laugh when I hear it, because it reminds me of our vacation on a narrowboat on the canals in England.

We would tie up at night along the tow path in the countryside, and then we'd be kept awake all night by loudly baa'ing sheep and a strange sound coming from the hull of the boat. It sounded like we were rubbing against rocks. I'd get up and go check that the bumpers were in place and that the lines were holding us tight to the canal side, and I'd poke with the push stick to make sure we weren't in a shallow spot, and I'd notice that the sound stopped when I was on deck, and started up again as soon as I went back to bed.

We quickly learned that we should tie up near cows, not sheep. Sheep are LOUD! And they baa all night as a safety thing. Cows sleep. It took a while, though, to find out that the scraping sound was ducks nibbling the algae on the side of the boat, and there was nothing we could do about that. (I'd have expected fish, not ducks, doing the nibbling, but fish sleep when it's dark, too. Ducks don't.)

So, anyway, minnows now.

I have so many big things to do. Like clean out the old house, finish painting here, move furniture down, and so on. Unfortunately, that's stuff that can be put off. I'm being held up by little things that have to be done RIGHT NOW! OR ELSE!

The Angel worked on my taxes over the weekend, and electronically filed them Sunday evening. Again, he filed them before I reviewed them. He does that every year, and every year I find something wrong and we have to file an amended form, and we have this "run it past me first even if that means we have to file for an extension" discussion. He sent me a copy by email. After they were filed.

Yep, errors. A bunch of stock was listed as short term gains that should have been long term, because TDAmeritrade reported them as short term because they counted from the time the distribution account was opened by the executors of my late father-in-law's estate, but I actually owned the stock dating from the time of death, which was a year earlier. Stuff like that.

Anyway, I ended up owing a few thousand over the estimated tax payments I'd already made, and The Angel arranged for payment to be made by direct transfer, on Monday, from my checking account. Yeah, we've done that before, but back then I owed only a few hundred. ACK!

I spent early Monday scrabbling to make sure there was enough money in the account to cover the transfer. I have the new account here, and that's what he used. But that account has a debit card (I hate the very concept of debit cards, and resisted as long as I could because I KNOW what's bound to happen), and no matter how I try, I'm very bad at keeping track of when I use the debit thing, and for how much, so "balance" is a rather hopeful but nebulous concept.

It was going to be close. Very close. Uncomfortably close.

I also have several accounts back at the old upriver address: one checking and savings pair used for PayPal only so I have tight control over debits, one checking and savings for everyday, and one savings for business use.

I have online access to the old accounts. Browsing through them to figure out where to get some money to cover the taxes and for the rest of the month, I noticed that I'd been debited $2 every month since October on all the savings accounts for "Bad Address". Huh?

The morning was spent moving money around. Much of the afternoon was spent trying to figure out what was wrong with the address on those accounts. I had changed the address on what I thought was all my accounts in person with a teller back in early November, and I had later verified it online.

I'm getting the monthly statements for one of the accounts, which include checking, savings, and signature loan info all on one statement, at the new address. The monthly statements didn't show the Bad Address fee being charged on that savings account, even though it did show up online. How's that for weird?

I wandered around the website, and could find no other address stuff. I had done everything I was supposed to do, or could do, for changing the address. I called the bank. This is what the guy on the phone told me to write:

Dear Folks,

I have two checking and three savings accounts with you under the name [Me], SS# nnn-nn-nnnn (Phone aaa-xxx-xxxx).

I recently moved from [old address], to [new address].

I have online access to my accounts, and all of them show up in the list on the online summary page. I changed the address in person in the [old location] office, and then I went online to the "Self Service" tab, then to "Personal Options", to "Personal Information", to "Change Address", and verified that the address was correct.

THE PROBLEM: The address change apparently did not take effect for ALL my accounts. I have been receiving the hardcopy statements for [account#] checking and savings at the new address, but not for the other accounts. Worse, I have been assessed a monthly $2 fee on the ALL savings accounts for "Bad Address". See especially savings account [other account number] for an example.

I spoke to B[....] in the call center, and he spoke to W[....], who agrees that it definitely wasn't my fault, I did what I was supposed to do, so the fees should be refunded, but that I needed to write an email (or letter, or whatever).

Please ensure that the address is changed on all accounts under my name, and refund the fees.

I appreciate your attention to this matter.

[Me]

This is what I got back:

I have refunded your accounts for the charges and I will send you copies. I will also be sending you a form to have notarized. Please print this e-mail and take it to a notary with your signature on it. I will be sending you the form for the notary to sign. I will send it in today's mail with a postage paid envelope so you can return the paperwork to me.
Thank you,
[Her first name]
Branch Manager

There were no attachments.

Ok. I went online and checked, and the fees have been refunded. But why do I have to print "this email", sign it, and "take it to a notary with your signature on it"? (She's snail-mailing the real forms. And why do they have to be notarized anyway?) And does she really not know that you have to sign in front of the notary? Or is it just unfortunate wording? Also, the branch manager when I'd last been there was a very intelligent, business-like, impressively tall and handsome black guy. What happened to him? Why is this fool with poor communication skills now in charge?

There's been some stupid thing like this every! single! day! for the past three weeks, that keeps me from getting the real work done. Minnows. Not even the size of ducks.

I'm being nibbled to death.
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3221 The hospital bill

Monday, April 18, 2011

There are those who will believe only what they see,
and those who will see only what they believe.
The potential for reward is far greater if we are neither.
-- Silk --

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I got the bill from the hospital stay today. I cannot BELIEVE it! I went in through the emergency room Saturday noonish, and left Tuesday early afternoon.

$17,004.00

That's SEVENTEEN THOUSAND!

I don't know for sure how much of that will be covered by insurance. Almost all of it, I think, but I shudder to think of what it would mean if I had no insurance.

When Jay was battling the brain tumor, 1998-2001, he had an MRI with contrast about every other month or so. The MRIs were about $800 then. They said then that a CAT scan (or CT - the terminology seems to be changing) would have been cheaper, but wouldn't show what they wanted to see.

My CAT scan was $1891. Holy crap! That's at least three times what it was ten years ago!

They cultured my urine twice. Total for two cultures - $1134.00! That's totally ridiculous.

I am fully aware that different patients are charged different amounts for the same services, depending on what insurance they have, and what deals the insurance companies have struck with the hospitals and doctors. That's what "in network" means. It means your insurance company has a deal with that provider.

When I was working for The Company in St. Louis, one of my customers was the billing department of a large hospital, and I read computer core dumps when they had a problem. I could see what the hospital expected to receive from all sources. I was incensed to see that some people were charged as little as 20% of what others were charged for the exact same procedures.

Guess who was billed the highest?

People without insurance.

They'd have to pay as much as five times what an insurance company would pay. That looks to me like the uninsured were SUBSIDIZING insurance companies. The hospital had to make up the difference somewhere, right?

And guess who paid the second highest?

Medicare. Apparently the federal government doesn't set limits on what they'll pay like the insurance companies do.

Gah!

I wonder if my bill is so ridiculous ($567 for one urine culture? My doctor's office sent it out to a lab, and charged $50 for the same thing) because Medicare is now my primary payer, and The Company is now secondary, and they know they can get away with it with Medicare?
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3220 Ominous Pain

Saturday, April 16, 2011

Make the lie big, make it simple, keep saying it - and eventually they will believe it.
-- Adolf Hitler --

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Well, this is not good. Remember the pain in my lower left back that turned out to be a blocking kidney stone and kidney infection, and landed me in the hospital in White Plains on April 2, where I got a four-day stay and a stent in the left kidney? Today I have a pain in the exact same spot, but on the right.

The appointment with the local urologist isn't until next Thursday.

This might get interesting.

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I mentioned my admiration for the conduct of the Japanese people. Here's an article that says it well: http://www.goiit.com/posts/list/community-shelf-10-things-to-learn-from-japan-1094859.htm
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3219 Blah

Saturday, April 16, 2011

First rule of leadership: Everything is your fault.
-- A Bug’s Life --

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I am very unhappy today, very unusual for me. I don't know why I just can't get anything going. The thermostat says it's 73 in here, and I'm wearing closed shoes, socks, jeans, and a long-sleeved flannel shirt, and I'm still freezing. My fingers and my nose and toes are almost numb. They want to curl up and hide somewhere warm. It's dreary and drizzling and cold-windy outside. I've been pretty productive the past few days, got a lot of little things done, which was very satisfying, but today I can't get started on anything, and there's so very much to do. There's nothing on TV, nothing on the radio, I don't want to watch any DVDs, and reading a book is just too much effort. I should have eaten lunch two hours ago, but didn't feel like putting anything together.

I'm just blah.

I've got that old feeling I'd had so many times in the distant past, where I want to go home, but I'm not sure where "home" is. I want to curl up next to someone strong and warm.

Sigh. Rain rain go away. Silk needs the sun to come out and play.

I've got a can of New England clam chowder around here somewhere....

3218 Thoughts on despair

Saturday, April 16, 2011

Credentials on the wall do not make you a decent human being.

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In a recent post I took issue with the declaration that this is the greatest nation in the history of the world (or maybe the phrase was "that the world has ever known", whatever).

I'll back that up.

The US spends less on infrastructure than any other developed nation, by far. Other nations spend three to five times as much.

Our dams, roads, and bridges are deteriorating.

Generating plants of all kinds are aging and inefficient, and we aren't seriously considering the development of alternate sources of energy.

Railroads are falling apart. We have no high speed rail. Every time it comes up, it's stomped down. In Europe, you can get anywhere you have to go by train and bus, quickly and cheaply, and even in Asia trains are efficient. And fast.

All of our materials are transported all the way across the continent by truck! That's incredibly inefficient, given how little one truck can carry, the amount of gasoline it requires to do it, and the amount of additional wear on the roads. Trains can do it quickly and cheaply, with trucks used only for local delivery.

We may have good doctors and hospitals, and medical research, but only if you are rich. The average citizen can't afford decent medical care. And even if you can afford it, many treatments and options available in the rest of the world aren't allowed here.

We don't take care of our elderly. It's a scandal the way we turn our backs on them.

All we're really good at is making money and waging war. And the top 1% makes all the money while the bottom 50% does all the dying.

This is not "great".

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I have enormous admiration for the Japanese people. In all they've been through, the devastation, the dislocation, note that there has been no looting. None. A shortage of food? Rather than grab and run, they share. Looting from destroyed homes and stores? They have actually gathered salvageable bits and pieces and put them in small bins in reclamation centers, where people can go and look for their belongings and claim them. They have centers where people are cleaning found photographs and then posting them on a bulletin board so people can find them. People stand very patiently in long lines, waiting for food distribution. No pushing, crowding, or shoving.

And then there are the people who volunteered to work in the damaged reactors, with the certainty of early death, but no promise of reward beyond the knowledge that they are helping the country and their people. I can't imagine that anywhere else.

The Japanese people are working together for the good of all, and they don't seem to be aware there is any other way to act.

(Yeah, ok, I know about what they did in China, and in WWII, and whatever else "Jap Haters" want to bring up, which is also an outgrowth of the culture. Go away.)

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Every single time I have gone north to the old house, The Hairless Hunk has seen me, even if I didn't see him. It's getting creepy.

I drive past his house on the way to my house, and I always automatically look to see if he's working in the yard, or if his vehicle is there. Mostly I don't see him --- but he always sees me. Often he passes going the opposite direction on the road. It's weird.

Last Tuesday, I took the tax documents to Piper's office in the village, but I didn't go to the old house, which is 2 miles farther north. I was in the village, in Piper's office, then walking with Piper up the street a little less than a block to the diner, then back down to my car outside Piper's office, then I left to head back south.

The next day, I got an email from THH that he'd seen me in the village!

It's like he has a GPS tracker on me or something. ESP. Strange.

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I guess everyone has heard by now about the young woman who drove her car, with her four children in it, off a boat ramp and into the Hudson River in N3wburgh, NY, last Tuesday evening. The oldest of the four kids was 10, and he managed to get out of the sinking car and swam to shore.

And people are wondering why?

She was 25 years old (although I've also heard 24). The oldest of her four children was 10. That means she was pregnant at 14 (or 13), which means she likely has no education, training, or skills to support herself and her children. She was married to the father of her youngest three, but I gather he was not living with her. She had recently moved to N3wburgh, into an apartment in a slummy area of God-forsaken N3wburgh (if you've ever been there, you'd know what I mean. The newspaper describes it as a "humble river city").

According to neighbors, she was a good mother, and had a job. There was apparently a "domestic dispute" that evening. She finally had confirmation that her husband was not only cheating on her, but had been a serial cheater all along.

This is speculation, but I think I can figure it out. The husband had probably left her wherever they had lived and "went north" to find work, so he could support her and the children. That happens a lot. She probably moved to N3wburgh because she didn't like the separation. He'd been able to hide the girlfriend(s), but now he couldn't. He didn't want to move in with her. She suddenly realized that she couldn't count on him any longer.

What else is there to understand? Her world collapsed and she could see no other possibilities.
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3217 Observe

Wednesday, April 13, 2011

Two people can look at the exact same thing and see something totally different.

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It has been said many places that Obama's presidency has unearthed the shallowly-buried bones of racism. Yeah. I remember when John F. Kennedy was elected, as the first Catholic president. A lot of people muttered then, too. Like that the Pope would be the actual unelected president. Americans in general are third graders, still using playground rules. They don't like or trust anyone who's different.

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I drove 2.5 hours north yesterday to deliver the tax stuff, had coffee/tea with Piper, and then drove back south. The weather was nice while I was in the village, but the drive all the way up and all the way back was in pouring rain.

I got annoyed because I'd be potting along just fine, and then a huge truck would pull in front of me, and throw so much spray I couldn't see. So I'd slow down and drop back a bit, and because (*) there was now a wide space between me and the truck, another car would slide over into the space behind the truck, and then he couldn't see, so he'd slow down and drop back, and because ... repeat from (*). That's how traffic slows from 65 to 45. I wish those damn trucks would get some mudflaps or deflectors or something.

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On the drive, I heard some senator or something on the radio say something about this being "the greatest nation ever in the history of the world". My eyes were rolling so hard I almost had to pull over.

In history? Ever? Um, what about the ancient Chinese dynasties? The scientific and mathematical advances of the Arabic world and the Golden Crescent? How 'bout the Roman Empire? The British Empire? ...and more.

I get annoyed when I hear people say, "The rest of the world wants to be just like us! They copy our culture!" Bull poopy. It's not our culture or lifestyle or even our system of government or economic system that's getting exported, and certainly not because it's so admirable. It's corporations exporting their products, pure and simple. The American penchant for jeans didn't get adopted because we're so wonderful. They got adopted because they got advertised and SOLD. Unfortunately, we believe our own advertising.

In all those other nations that influenced the world, the great fall came right after they stood up and said, "We're wonderful. We're the greatest!" That's the first sign that they're about to get kicked in the teeth.

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Quick lesson for Spring:

Do you know the difference between a shovel and a spade? A shovel has a straight end and usually curved up sides to hold the material, and is used to move stuff from one flat place to another. A spade has a pointed end with shoulders next to the handle to push with your foot and is used to dig holes. So you'd use a spade to dig the hole for planting a tree, and then a shovel to fill the hole.
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3216 Taxes

Monday, April 11, 2011

We don't have to change friends if we understand that friends change.

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I finally finished pulling together all the various pieces of paper for the income taxes. Wasn't easy.

Were you aware that when you sell stock, the 1099-Bs the brokers send you (and the Feds) have the total of the sale on it, but not the cost basis? You have to provide that yourself. Otherwise you end up paying taxes on the entire proceeds, not just the profit. Not to mention getting to deduct losses. And I sold a LOT of stock (60 lots of various sizes from 57 different companies) in 2010 to buy the car and the new house, and most of it I'd purchased 10 to 20 years ago.

That's stupid. They know exactly when I bought it and how much I paid for it. Why can't they just list the cost basis too?

I had the information, of course. Finding it was the problem. Some was here, some was up north at the old house. I was certain that I had brought all the files down south, but I couldn't for the life of me find them - until yesterday afternoon, when I opened a drawer in the "unused" side of the new desk, and there they were.

So now I have to get the stuff to The Angel. We'd already agreed that he'd file for an extension for me, but I was worried that maybe I hadn't paid enough estimated taxes, so I wanted to have at least rough numbers.

I did better than that! He ought to be able to do my taxes in an hour from my summary sheet alone.

I'll leave it up to him to figure out whether I was a resident of NJ for any part of 2010, and if so, how much of 2010. That will be interesting....

After I finished the tax packet, I started calling urologists, so I can get this stent and stone taken care of. I can feel the stent in my bladder, and it's starting to get annoying. The earliest office appointment I could get is the 21st. That's awfully close to Daughter's due date, but frankly, due dates are arbitrary anyway, and I don't suppose any other date would be any safer.

Today was beautiful, so Daughter and I went for a ride with the top down, walked around a classy little village a half-hour down the road, and had dinner at this place: http://www.nauvoogrillclub.com/. The building was stunning - art deco lighting fixtures and Frank Lloyd Wright-esque inside walls. (The photo on the site is not the most interesting view.) The food was excellent, but two iced teas, two appetzers, two entrees, and two desserts came to almost $90, so I won't be dining there often. (The individual prices weren't that bad - I'm wondering now if there wasn't maybe a mistake in the bill. Wouldn't be the first time....)
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3215 Raccoon Palace

Sunday, April 10, 2011

No matter how good a friend is, they're going to hurt you every once in a while and you must forgive them for that.

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A few days ago, my neighbor George mentioned raccoons in my back yard. "They live in the 1950 Dodge buried in your bank."

Huh?

My back yard goes out fairly flat until it hits a steep cut that goes down to a tiny foot-wide creek that drains into the lake down the street. Then it goes up again to the yards of the people behind me. I was aware that someone in the past been dumping junk down the bank. George says the builder, when he tore out the little house that had been here, dumped a lot of the heavier material there, then filled over it to make my back yard. Standing on the bank, I could see cinder blocks, chunks of concrete, a rusted water heater, and several tires embedded in the bank. But a whole 1950 Dodge? You've GOT to be kidding!

George took me to a lower part of his yard, where I could see across the bank rather than down it, and sure enough, there's the top of a CAR sticking out of the dirt. You can look into the broken-out windshield, and see the steering wheel.

George says raccoons live in it, have been living in it for years.

Oh good grief!

The car:
It's half buried. You're looking at the driver's side roof and windshield, and you can see the hood to the right. (Does that look like a 1950 Dodge to you? It looks older to me, or more foreign, because it's so square. Maybe it's a truck?)

This next one illustrates why I can't see it from the top of the bank, in my yard. These photos were taken from George's yard.

This one is from the top of the bank, in my yard. Four tires, a water heater tank, and a chunk of foundation from the demolished house:

I own all the way to the top of the bank on the other side, so all that landfill is MINE! Joy. I can't wait for the local EPA to come and demand that I clean it up.

3214 Believe your instincts

Saturday, April 9, 2011

It’s not the load that breaks you down. It’s the way you carry it.
--Lena Horne --

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I mentioned in a previous post the hospital roommate, and her telling the surgeon on Tuesday about how she'd been complaining of bloating and a "wrong" feeling in her abdomen for almost a year, and how her complaints had been ignored or attributed to whatever was convenient.

Her situation is much more serious than mine, with lethal consequences, but the story is similar.

Over at least the past year and a half, close to two years, I'd been complaining that my morning urine was very dark, and smelled very bad. It lightened after I'd been up for the day and drinking water, but the strong "wrong" smell remained. It was so bad smelling I was almost ashamed to use public bathrooms. No other symptoms.

I'd use those urine test strips occasionally, especially after time with The Man, just to check, and they'd say UTI, so I'd go to the doctor, they'd use the same strips and say "UTI", and prescribe four or five days of twice-a-day antibiotic, and that would be it. It didn't fix the darkness or the odor.

The darkness and odor had started shortly after I started taking the thyroid supplement, so I thought maybe that was it. On the trip to Morocco last April, I didn't take the thyroid pills with me, because it was easier not to take a prescription through customs, and because I thought I'd find out if that's what was causing it. Oddly, it turns out, the odor did lessen. It shouldn't have, but it did, so of course I thought I'd found the cause. When I resumed taking the thyroid pills, the odor came back.

At least twice, possibly three times in the past year I had pain in the same area as last Saturday's, with a bit of bowel and bladder urgency and some nausea, but it wasn't so bad, and it went away after a few hours. It usually occurred after I'd been lifting and loading boxes for the move, so I naturally figured it was just my back. And, it was simply too low for kidney, so that never even entered my mind.

For the past six or eight months I've had a feeling that there was something very wrong in my abdomen. No particular reason, just that feeling of something "off", of foreboding, of impending doom. And for no reason in particular I settled on my liver and kidneys, instead of any of the other vulnerable organs hanging around in there.

I mentioned it to my doctor this past February. She poked at my tummy, and that was it. I walked out of there with another 4-day prescription for a UTI antibiotic, and she took me off the thyroid suppliment, saying I didn't seem to need it any more.

The urine darkness and odor continued, and the feeling of impending abdominal doom increased.

I don't think my complaints of the constant dark color and odor, or my concern that something wasn't right in there, were taken seriously. I did ask once if it was the thyroid supplement doing it, and was told no, but there was no further attempt at explaining it.

I'm a bit annoyed by that.

I've probably had the kidney infection (not just bladder infection) for two years, and stones for at least the past year. Luckily, the doctors said that the kidney seems to be functioning even though it was blocked and very swollen, but I wonder how much longer I could have gone with the infection if it hadn't gotten blocked by a stone and thrown a fit. How long before the kidney died.

Moral of the story - when your body says something's wrong, something's wrong! Kick and scream until someone helps you figure it out.
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3213 Daughter Takes Charge

Saturday, April 9, 2011

Caring isn’t what you feel, it’s what you do. If you don’t do, you don’t care.

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Friday night at the hotel I fell asleep with pillows piled all around me, while reading a book. I woke Saturday morning all twisted over to the side. My back hurt. This is normal. I have four areas of my back with delicate disks. It usually works itself out in an hour or three with a little stretching and some aspirin to take down the inflammation and swelling around the nerve. Once every four or five years it goes out so badly that I can't straighten up or walk. Then I find a comfortable position and stay in it for a few days until the inflammation settles down.

A pinched nerve in the back can cause other problems, depending on what that set of nerves does - like shutting down peristalsis and the "bladder-is-full" nerves, or exactly the opposite, causing a sense of urgency in those areas, or as with Ex#2 causing incontinence. My right foot and ankle still have some residual numbness from a back attack in 1983, when the nerve was pinched so badly it died, and shooting pain down my left hip is common.

So naturally, I thought that's what this was. I washed and dressed to go downstairs because there was a presentation I wanted to attend. I didn't put any makeup on because I felt pretty rocky.

A half hour into the presentation I was back in my room, panting from the pain. If you put your hand around that large muscle on your hip bone with the fingers pointing toward your spine, the pain would be right under the tips of your fingers. Too low for kidney, right? Has to be spine, right?

The urgency hit, both. Over and over, until bowels and bladder were absolutely empty, but I still felt like I had to go. The pain was so bad I was unable to stop moaning and panting - deep deep fast breaths - and I knew the panting could cause nausea, and sure enough - after five trips to the bowl I was throwing up only foamy yellow water.

This was bad. Real bad. I'm too far from home to hurt this bad. Today is Saturday. I have to get home, now.

I thought of a dozen ways to get both me and my car home. I knew I couldn't drive myself (even though I did drive myself to the ER in 2002 with the gall bladder attack with almost the same degree of pain and throwing up, but that was a 10-minute drive, and this is two hours). I could ask some Mensans for help, but that would be complicated, because I couldn't accept leaving Hal all alone here - at $12 per day for parking, and the possibility of towing once I left the hotel.

I called Daughter and asked if she had any plans for the day, and if not, could she and Hercules come get me, and yeah, I need both of you because someone will have to drive Hal home for me too, I can't leave him in the hotel garage. She said she'd come, but that I should call 911 and go to the hospital. I said I didn't want to do that. She said ok, and she'd be there in a little over two hours.

I guess I sounded pretty bad to her, because within minutes hotel security was at my door, followed by a hotel manager, and I could hear the ambulance siren coming down the street. Yeah, Daughter had made some calls.

I gave up to the pain and the experts and let it all proceed. ER, CT scan, xrays, grateful for pain meds, grateful for the urologist willing to come in. Immensely grateful that within minutes of my saying I was freezing, I was wrapped in the most wonderful hot blanket, that held its heat for the longest time.

The anesthesiologist planned to use that "twilight" stuff, but I told him either we went with a simple sedative, or completely out, because the last time I got that other halfway crap, I had no short term memory for literally years. I do handle full anesthesia well. I rebound from the deep stuff quickly.

The kids arrived before I went to the OR. They stayed in my hotel room Saturday night, and actually went to some of the activities and programs Saturday night and Sunday morning, with Daughter wearing my id badge. Hercules returned home Sunday evening, and fed Jasper. The hotel was willing to extend the room through Monday at the Mensa group rate for Daughter (on my credit card). Daughter drove Hal back Monday evening. She said that after the first few miles, she enjoyed driving him, but once she got home she chickened out and didn't attempt to put him in the garage.

[At one point, a doctor asked me if I would be sure to do something-or-other. I said, "You met my daughter. Do you think there's any chance I won't?" He laughed.]

We didn't know when I'd be discharged until it actually happened late morning on Tuesday. I considered renting a car one-way if possible, or finding a bus/train combination, or a limousine, since I didn't have to worry about Hal. I called Daughter, and she said she'd come get me, but I wouldn't be until later because she had some appointments.

She picked me up around five-thirtyish, I think. Or six-thirtyish, maybe. I forget.

What she didn't tell me was that one of the appointments was with her OB. She's 80% effaced and 2 centimeters dilated. The doctor said "See you in two weeks." I was shocked. If she'd told me that during the phone call, I might have faked an aide coming in with the news that they'd found a limousine service for me!

Yeah, moving down here was a good idea.

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When I was young, I had extremely low blood pressure, like low 70s over mid to high 30s. It climbed slowly, and lately it's been like 123-128 over the low 80s. I've been very unhappy with that.

In the hospital, it was consistently mid-70s to low 80s over low to mid 40s.

Shocking!

It wasn't just from lying in bed. I was up and roaming the halls (speed walking, actually) when I wasn't hooked up to an IV, right out of the OR, and I wasn't on any meds other than the antibiotic. Actually, I now recall that I used one of those machines in a drug store a few weeks ago, and it registered so low I thought it was broken.

I'm anxious to check it now. My own cuff and stethoscope are in the Suzuki at the old house, so I can't do it myself. I need to find one of those machines again.

I wonder what caused that, why it has fallen so much in the past year or so? The new diet, maybe? I hope it's a good thing, not another ominous sign we're ignoring.
.

3212 Bits and Pieces

Friday, April 8, 2011

Omission is the greatest form of lie.
-- George Orwell --

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

Predictions:

Remember when I said that Nature's mothers reject their babies only when the babies are unlikely to reach reproductive age? So Knut the polar bear probably had something wrong with him that his mother could sense? Turns out he had a congenital brain malformation that caused him to stop breathing. One point to me.

Remember when I said that although the Egyptian military seemed to be friendly toward the revolutionaries, it seemed to me that the army brass was just using the movement, and would be unwilling to give up power once they got it? According to Lisa Goldman, a journalist currently in and blogging from Egypt, the Army is "acting in an increasingly repressive manner." See her report at http://lisagoldman.net/2011/04/03/1276/. Two points to me.

--------------------------------

Annoying People:

We have all known at least one person who made us cringe when we saw them coming. There's usually something a little "off" about them, an intellectual or social deficit of some kind, that isn't their fault exactly, they try, but it's just "off".

They are very aware of their alienation and desperately want to be liked, to be friends, and it's painful to them because they don't know why it's not working, so they try harder to be friendly and helpful. They give too much. They're like puppies, panting, watching you for reactions, licking your hands and frantically wagging their tails, which is endearing in a puppy, but not in a human. It's beyond simple neediness.

It's so sad. Their attempt to get past the passive alienation turns it into active alienation.

You don't dare take pity and let them in (you can't even say "thank you" when they give), or they'll smother you with their gratefulness. You'll never take another free breath unless you can be cruel enough to cut them off.

--------------------------------

Something I wish I'd never heard:

In the hospital, I acquired a roommate on Monday. She'd had major surgery Monday morning, and arrived in the room early Monday afternoon accompanied by her husband. Within minutes, her children and their spouses and her sister arrived. (They were pretty loud. I kept thinking please let the woman rest!) Anyway, I heard her say several times as people arrived, and a time or two to phone calls, "It was cancer, but the doctor said they got it all. But they want me to do chemo anyway, so they put in a port." People congratulated her on the "got it all".

Very early the next morning she got a phone call from her sister, who had gone straight to the ER from our room the night before and was admitted with diverticulitis. She was on the floor directly below us.

A bit later, but still before breakfast, her surgeon came in to talk with her.

Now, I understand that when there are two beds in the room, sometimes there's not much privacy, especially if the person in the other bed can't just get out of bed and leave. But I had been walking all over the floor, and when he came in I was standing at the window. He had to have seen me when he came in. Given what came next, I think he really should have asked the nurses if I could easily leave the room. I wish he had. But then, surgeons are not noted for their sensitivity.

The curtain between the beds was partially closed, so I couldn't see her and she couldn't see me. I was unaware of what was to come next, or I would have left then, but it quickly became too late. He confirmed that she had ovarian cancer, stage three, and she would start chemo as soon as her incision was healed. She said "but you got it all, right? The chemo is just in case?" He said, "well, we got all we could see, but with ovarian cancer, there are always cells that have traveled and set up camp elsewhere, and we can't see them." "So the chemo is to kill them?" "Well, it won't get them all. The chemo will just give you maybe another three years."

(What the hell? Has he never done this before?)

She said, "you mean I'll die in three years?" The shock in her voice, and what must have shown on her face made him backpedal fast. He said, "well, maybe five. Or even seven. Who knows?" But even I didn't believe that. He sounded too panicked. He was also fool enough to point out that she was actually lucky (yes, he did use that word) because there are many cancers that would have given her even less time.

She talked about her son's new baby. She talked about how she'd been complaining about bloating for the past year or more, but doctors always blamed it on something else, like her trip to Mexico. How maybe if someone had believed her, had taken her seriously....

I didn't know what to do. I wanted to climb out the window. What could I say after the doctor left? I'm a coward. I decided to pretend I'd been still asleep.

Now, what happened next caused me to have enormous - make that the biggest word possible - respect and admiration for that woman.

Almost as soon as he left she got another phone call. She pulled herself together and chatted happily, suggesting that whoever had called, when they came to visit, should visit her sister, too, "she's right below me, if I stomp on the floor she'd hear it, isn't that amazing?", and "yes, cancerous, but they got it all". During breakfast, her other sister, the ICU nurse (at another hospital) visited, and again she was cheerful, and didn't mention the prognosis. Given her reaction with the surgeon, I don't think it was denial. It was more like she just wanted to keep it to herself for now.

After her sister left, the priest arrived. She looked at him and said, "You here for last rites?" and her face fell. I left the room.

And then her husband arrived, with the son, daughter-in-law, and their 3-week-old baby. Again, no slightest hint of anything wrong. I went for walks several times while they were there, and every time I returned, they were still being happily raucous.

She must have enormous amounts of strength. I don't think I could have done it.

They discharged me somewhere between noon and 1 pm, and I left as soon as they let me. Went to the drugstore down the block to fill the antibiotic prescription, and then waited for Daughter in the lobby. When I had left the room her visitors were still there and I didn't say anything to her beyond goodbye.

I'm a hopeless clod.
.

3211 What Classic Movie Am I?

Friday, April 8, 2011

The hardest memories to rewrite are the ones stored before language, before there were words to describe them. Those are the ones that continue to influence our reactions for the rest of our lives. We may be aware that there's something unreasonable going on in there, but we don't know what it is, because it isn't in words. We reason in words, but we react without words. And even when we reason, it's built on a foundation of no words, something we can't describe, and therefore can't easily change.
-- Me, in post #2179, 12/23/08 --

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

What Classic Movie Are You?
personality tests by similarminds.com

Every time you take the test you get a different set of questions. I took it several times with the maximum number of questions, trying to answer as honestly as possible (except some statements make it confusing, like "People find it difficult to read me, and that's fine with me" - well, what if I DON'T think people find it difficult to read me? That kind of thing.), and it came out the same every time.
.

3210 Aaaaarrrgh!

Wednesday, April 6, 2011

Just because someone doesn't love you the way you want them to,
it doesn't mean they don't love you with all they have.

----------------------------------------------------------------

I have three dirty toilets. I have three bottles of toilet cleaner and three brushes, one in each bathroom. For months now, I have been cleaning the bowls with just plain water and the brush, or a shot of liquid soap, or a bit of bleach, because

I CAN'T GET THE FREAKIN' BOTTLES OF CLEANER OPEN!

"To open, push down and turn." Push down. Turn. Click... click... click.... Nothing. Push down harder. Turn bottle under my hand. Click... click... click...." Nothing. Push down gently. Turn. Click... click... click.... Nothing. Nothing but clicks and no rising of the cap toward, like, opening.

I don't understand.

-------------------------------------

Later, evening, same day -- I took the bottle across the street and handed it to SIL Hercules. "Here. Open this."

He laughed. It's the A&P house brand toilet cleaner. Daughter had bought a 2-pack of the same stuff a while ago and had made the same request. He'd finally resorted to punching a hole in the neck of the bottle.

I fully intend to take the flippin' thing back to the A&P and hand it to the store manager. "Here. Open this."
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3209 Interesting weekend in White Plains

Wednesday, April 6, 2011

Sometimes when I'm angry I have the right to be angry,
but that doesn't give me the right to be cruel.

---------------------------------------------

I went to a weekend Mensa gathering last Friday, at the Crowne Plaza in White Plains. I had volunteered to work at the registration desk, handing out the id badges and the programs, so I arrived early. I like working the registration desk because you get to meet almost everyone who comes in.

After my shift I hung out in the hospitality room until about midnight.

The next morning, I got visited in my room by hotel staff and security, and then got a ride to the White Plains Hospital Center (strange name...Hospital Center?) in an ambulance with sirens and lights and everything, followed by a CT scan and a bunch of stuff, and then into the OR.

My left kidney finally got thoroughly pissed (that's a pun) at being ignored for the past year and a half at least, and attacked me. It was very nasty about it. It should have obeyed that green quote above.

The short story is that there was a large stone firmly wedged in a tube (and a smaller stone further down) but they couldn't remove the larger stone because the kidney was very infected, lots of edema and general nastiness, and they didn't want to touch the stone until the infection was gone. So they put in a stent (they went in through the bladder, no cutting) so the kidney could drain, put me on four days of IV antibiotics, and kept me captive until my temperature stayed below 99 and the cultures told them what oral antibiotic would work. (It turns out all of them.)

So now I'm home. Pills four times a day for 21 days. I have to find a urologist here, and once the kidney is no longer infected, the stent and stone need to be, uh, addressed. Exactly what and how remain to be determined.

In the hospital, I walked. Round and round the halls of my section, over and over, whenever I wasn't actually attached to the IV (the IV was for 1/2 hour every six hours), until they gave me permission to widen my route, and I walked the whole fifth floor. But today I still feel wrung out. (Snork. Probably from blood loss! They drew blood like every four hours. Or sleep deprivation. You're not allowed two consecutive hours of sleep. When I left the hospital I noticed a sign in the lobby that they were having a blood drive. Hmmmmm.)

That's the me part, but I figure I should get this out now so folks don't think I disappeared.

Later, the rest of the story.
.

3208 ...and into the fray.

Thursday, March 31, 2011

Regardless of how hot and steamy a relationship is at first,
the passion fades
and there had better be something else to take its place.

--------------------------------------------------

I just started reading Michael C. Ruppert's Crossing the Rubicon. It's 675 6x9" small-type pages, not including the introduction and the preface. I've so far read the introduction and the preface and the first seven pages of Chapter 1, and I'm already fascinated.

This could be a problem. I may have difficulty getting anything else done.
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3207 Buncha Idiots!

Wednesday, March 30, 2011

Either you control your attitude or it controls you.

---------------------------------------

I'm venting here. I'm so annoyed I want to spit. If I'm ever in south Jersey, there's a certain bank manager I want to strangle.

Many moons ago when Ex#2 and I split, we owned a block of stock jointly. He got half and I got half, and we were to transfer our halves to each of us individually.

Well, I didn't do the transfer for my half, because Daughter was small, and if anything happened to me he'd be raising her, and if I left the stock joint it would go directly to him avoiding probate and tax, and that would be fine and just. So I simply had the account changed to my SS# and the dividends coming to me, and then of course I never got around to transferring them.

Cleaning out the old house I found the certificates. Of course they've split multiple times, so there are also shares in a joint "book-entry" account held at the transfer agency. Ack! I'd better get them transferred now, because if anything happened to him (and I don't see how he is possibly staying alive), I'd be the one with the probate and tax problems.

I called the transfer agent, and they sent me the form to transfer all the shares and the instructions. It's pretty straightforward. He and I each sign the form, and we each get what's called a Medallion Signature Guarantee. The medallion is absolutely required, and it says so several times, both on the form itself, on the cover letter, and on the instruction sheets. Two separate signatures as joint owners of the stock, and two medallions, one for each signature. Almost any decent sized bank can do the medallions.

So I filled out the form and sent it to him, along with a letter instructing him what to do, and the "How To" and "FAQ" sheets from the transfer agent. I even put stickies on the form with "sign here", "date here", and "medallion here" arrows.

I have to give him credit. He's trying his best. He's not the main problem, it's his local bank. (Well, he's a little bit of a problem because he doesn't know enough about the process to argue with his bank. Either that or he's already pissed them off enough on other occasions that they're just giving him a hard time -- and that's entirely possible. He does that. I can't believe the bank manager doesn't know how to transfer stock.)

Short lesson:

A Medallion Signature Guarantee and a Notary Public Stamp are similar in that you have to sign the document in front of the guarantor or notary, you have to show identification to prove you are who you claim to be, you have to affirm that you are signing of your own free will and demonstrate that you are sober and of sound mind sufficient to understand the significance of what you are signing. But there are also a few big differences.

The notary public has no financial stake in the document, and he/she can carry the stamp around in a pocket. The notary doesn't even have to know what the document is - just that the signature is that of the person signing. They'll usually accept a driver's license, and don't have to know the signator personally.

The medallion, on the other hand, carries insurance against forgery. If the signature turns out to be forged, the institution that applied the medallion is responsible for the inherent value of the document. It's a big deal.

All transfers of stock absolutely require the medallion, because the stock transfer agent never sees the actual signers, so the medallion transfers the financial responsibility to the medallion holder, who did see the signers and has the responsibility of authenticating the signator. That's why it's usually banks who do medallion signature guarantees, only an officer of the bank is allowed to use it, the medallions are kept under separate lock in the vault, and usually they will do them only for people who have a long-standing account with them.

Ok. So Ex#2 takes the transfer form to his bank, and asks for a Medallion Signature Guarantee.

The bank officer refuses.

Why? Because, says the bank manager, only sales of stock require a medallion. Transfers don't. According to him, just taking Ex#2 off the account needs only a notary stamp.

Duh? Like, uh, there's no chance of forging a signature to take someone's name off stock? No financial risk there? It's TRANSFERRING OWNERSHIP!

Ex#2 called me from the bank. I told him to have the bank manager call the transfer agent. He did. Next phone call, Ex#2 says the bank manager and the transfer agent got into an argument on the phone, and incredibly, the bank manager tried to tell the transfer agent what the agent needed to see.

Duh? Can you spell "arrogance"?

Anyway, the bank manager refuses to medallion guarantee the signature. That's the only bank where Ex#2 has accounts.

Ex#2 had the bright idea of selling me the stock for $0, "then the bank manager will do the medallion".

Duh?

First off, no contract is valid unless both parties receive "consideration", so it would have to be for, say, $1. Secondly, the sale would be reported to the feds, and, uh, do you want to talk about capital gains? You want to explain to the IRS a $1 sale of a gazillion dollars worth of stock? Look like a tax dodge, maybe? No? Ok, no selling.

More phone calls. Ex#2 lives in the tomato fields of south Jersey. There's only one other bank, in the next town over. So he went there. They won't do it because he doesn't have an account with them.

So he opens an account with them.

But - they want more documentation. They want an official document from the transfer agent as to how many shares are being transferred, and the total value. Ok, I can understand their wanting to know what their risk is. BUT, they also want a notarized statement from ME requesting the transfer.

Duh? Why?

It's taken this whole day. A dozen phone calls hither and yon to and from Ex#2 and the transfer agency, pulling together the additional documentation the new bank wants, writing another letter explaining what I'm sending and requesting that they please allow my ex-husband to sign stock over to me (duh?). I'm surprised they haven't asked for a notarized copy of the 28-year-old divorce decree.

I had only two things I absolutely wanted to do today - take a box to the post office for mailing, and pull together the tax stuff for my accountant, and I've got neither done, and it's too late now for the post office. Yeah, I've got a cell phone, but I had to stay here near the file cabinet and the computer between all those calls. And poor Ex#2 has been doing the running around and getting the runaround.

Buncha freakin' idiots down there in south Jersey. Probably being poisoned by all that chemical fertilizer sprayed in the air. Oughta go back to cow manure.

(Grumble.)
.

3206 Jousting with big rigs

Tuesday, March 29, 2011

You can keep going long after you think you can't.

-----------------------------------------------

Hmmm. Somebody from Old Bridge is reading. Hello. 'Fess up. Was it the cousin connection?

-------------------------------

I drove north Saturday afternoon. Had dinner with some Mensa folks, and then went on to the old house. Worked Sunday cleaning it out - filled more garbage bags. There was so much recycle paper I didn't want to store it there, so I brought it on south with me. I'll take it to the local recycle center.

I also loaded some stuff to move down here, but not a lot. I think my concentration should be on throwing crap out right now.

I drove back late, got home a bit after 11 pm.

It was a good fast drive. There are few cars on the NYS Thruway or the Garden State Parkway late at night. It's mostly just big trucks.

The truckers and I did have one spot of excitement. It was somewhere just north of Newburgh (around mile marker 71), in the 2-lanes-south section. I was in the left lane coming up on a line of four semis in the right lane going up a slight hill, and was passing the hind-most truck when suddenly the three trucks ahead of him started swerving and whipping back and forth. There was something big and dark in the road ahead.

It was a little to the right of the center line, and the trucks were swerving right and left to miss it. The truck I was passing couldn't swerve left - I was there! I was afraid to slow down, because if he whipped, I'd be right by the tail of his trailer, so I slid further left and hit the gas and almost climbed the bumper of the truck ahead of him, which was now in my lane. The guy I'd been passing swung right, off the road, then back on. He's darn lucky it didn't cause him to jackknife, hitting the shoulder at that speed.

It was a big overstuffed upholstered chair! Windsor, from the look of it. Must have fallen off the back of a truck. It was tipped forward on its top and seat with its legs pointed toward us, like it was offering a jousting challenge.

Everybody slowed down to below the speed limit until we got to the rest area five miles later. Nobody wanted to be the first to find the matching sofa. All the truckers pulled into the rest area. To change their underwear, I guess.
.

3205 Missed and finally found.

Sunday, March 27, 2011

It's a lot easier to react than it is to think.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

A friend sent this link to an article about a 12 year-old kid named Jake, who is well on the way to challenging Stephen Hawking: http://www.indystar.com/apps/pbcs.dll/article?AID=2011103200369

It's interesting that he was originally diagnosed as borderline autistic, then "upgraded" to Asperger. I wonder if he's really either. It's almost as if he was born into a continuation of a previous life where he had learned mathematical relationships.

I had a very personal reaction to the article. It says that Jake "has been measured at 170 (top of the Wechsler Intelligence Scale for Children)" in mathematical IQ, and that as a toddler, he stopped talking for a year and a half. It's also mentioned that he had periods of regression.

Rather than attempt to "normalize" him, and mainstream him, his parents chose to feed his specific interest and skills.

What hit me:

• My daughter scored 168, general, not specifically math, at age 12. I was not aware until just now that 170 was the top score.
• My daughter was talking in sentences at 10 months. When she realized that her immature pronunciation made it difficult for anyone but her parents to understand her, she suddenly stopped talking. Period. She didn't say another single word until she was a bit over two (but was a master in pantomime, easily conveying even complex ideas), and then suddenly when she started talking again, she had an enormous vocabulary, including four and five syllable words with solid grammar and complex sentence construction.
  
• I noticed early that she would have a period of rapid and amazing learning (she knew colors and numbers at three months. "Which is the blue block?" "Show me five blocks." "Now show me two blocks and three blocks" - and her eyebrows would shoot up and big smile when she realized two and three is five), during which time she didn't grow physically at all, followed by a period of physical growth during which she seemed to find learning anything new to be very difficult. Sort of like Jake's regressions.

My personal reaction after reading the article:

• I noticed the parallels.
• I was horrified.
• I wondered if I had failed her in some way by not offering her opportunities in her interests.
• I tried to remember if there was any area in which she showed an early interest. Um, nothing obvious stands out, not in an academic area, anyway. She just liked to learn things, was hungry for new "experiments" and information about anything.
  
• I was aware that she seemed to have difficulty relating to children her own age. She was comfortable with much older and younger children, and adults, but she wanted to be "in" with kids her own age, but she couldn't seem to relate to them. She couldn't seem to figure out what they were interested in, how their minds worked. (The word "autistic" was so new that most people misheard it and thought it had something to do with artistic ability, and Aspberger's wasn't even on the horizon.)
• If she had any special interest at all, it was in social interaction, and it was the only thing she wasn't very good at.

This article made me feel guilty. Like I should have noticed something important, looked for her special gift, some specific thing that engaged her attention, but I don't know what.

When she was in high school and thinking of future areas of study, I thought she should head for something medical or psychological. She rejected that. I don't know why. Her teachers said she was good in math and science, and that's how she ended up in engineering. For which she was entirely unsuited.

Now the field she's in is medically and psychologically related, with an eastern slant, and she's happy. Her special talent is an ability to "read" people, inside and out, to feel and direct energy flow, and she's rather spectacular at it. Really. You have to know to appreciate it.

And that's what I missed when she was young. Without even realizing it, her father and I kept at a distance anyone she reacted negatively to, even when she was an infant. We learned over and over that she was always always always right.

Believe it or not, I ran The Man past her before I consented to date him. He laughing refers to that evening as "the interview". (Little does he know.) Her take on him was "He's ok. Have fun, Mom. But take everything he says with a grain of salt."

She was so very right.
.

3204 Hair - Again....

Saturday, March 26, 2011

Want to live a calm and happy life? Simple. Never do or say anything that could be misinterpreted or taken out of context.

Good luck with that….

---------------------------------------------------------------------

My hair is now super short. Too short.

I figure if you want to find the right length and shape, starting long and nibbling it down, the way I've been doing the past three months, isn't the way to go. Better to go too short, and let it grow into something that works.

I already know I'd like it a little longer on the top back crown and at the bottom behind the earlobe. More feminine. It'll get there. I think I like the back of the head, though. At least it's willing to lie down at this length.
.

3203 Acting

Saturday, March 26, 2011

You get what you settle for.

----------------------------------------------------

Lots of praise for Ms. Taylor the past few days. This is a very good article on why she was special: http://www.salon.com/entertainment/movies/feature/2011/03/23/camille_paglia_on_elizabeth_taylor.

Yes, I loved and appreciated her. I have a soft spot for her. There are many good things to say about her, and all of those good things were simply her, not put on just for public approval.

However!

I am now going to bring down the wrath of the world. I am going to speak ill of the dead. I'm sorry, but all this praise of her acting skills annoys me. I, personally, don't think she could act worth beans.

Maybe it's just what I expect of acting.

In everything I'd ever seen her in, I was always conscious that it was her up there, not the character she played. It seemed obvious to me that she was quoting a script. That she was "performing".

Contrast the way she comes across on screen to, say, Dustin Hoffman (in his serious roles, like in "Midnight Cowboy", not stuff like the Fockers.) You forget that's Dustin on the screen. You aren't aware there's a script. Now contrast Dustin Hoffman to Robin Williams. Robin Williams is always Robin Williams, no matter who he's playing. He "performs" the character.

Ms. Taylor's acting was in the same class as that of Mr. Williams. A performance, of a script, to direction.

The article linked above mentions "Sophia Loren, who has the same combination of qualities" as Ms. Taylor. Well, Sophia could ACT!
.

3202 HOTW - The "Lemond Bishop" character

Saturday, March 26, 2011

We are not educated well enough to perform the necessary act of intelligently selecting our leaders.
-- Walter Cronkite --

--------------------------------------------------------------

I don't regularly watch "The Good Wife". If it's on and I happen to notice, then I do watch it.

I watched it the other night.

There's a recurring character, Lemond Bishop (that's how the show spells it, but I wonder if it should be pronounced LeMond?), a drug kingpin. A very impressive character. Apparently he has been in many episodes, but I'd never seen him before.

I was stunned. My stomach went hollow and dropped.

I don't know why he fascinated me so much. It probably had a lot to do with the similarities to The Man. Similar skin tone, same head shape, similar eyes. They both fill space the same way. They move the same way, that leopard prowl. Emotionally vulnerable when it fits, impenetrable when it doesn't, and very still and observant in between.

I know you can't assign attributes of a character to the actor playing him, so I suspect, having seen him only once, only in this role, and only in the "Ham Sandwich" episode, it's the character that fascinates me, not necessarily the actor. (On the other hand, if the things that grabbed me are not already a part of the actor, then he's one damn good actor!)

I carefully watched the end credits, to see who he was. He was not credited. I went online and searched a few zillion articles on and reviews of "The Good Wife". The character is mentioned often, but not the actor.

I finally resorted to a "The Good Wife" fan forum, and asked. I did get the answer, and the fans were surprised that not only was he not credited on the show, when they went to the actor's own publicity sites, including things like IMDb and Wikipedia, "The Good Wife" is not listed for him. There was a lot of speculation as to why.

Now that I know his name, I have found him a few places linked to "The Good Wife". Very few.

I present the Honey of the Week, Mike Colter:

Of course, Lemond Bishop was all spiffed up in suit and tie. But I kinda like thinking about a little fresh sweat on him, as opposed to talc.
.

3201 Dear Diary (skip this post)

Friday, March 25, 2011

We generate the results we think we deserve.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Ignore this entry. Skip. Back button. (Except for the green up there. Read that.)

Just noting a few things I did that may require followup,
or at least that I need to remember,
and a few things I have to do, in a place I won't lose it.
A place I look at often.
Otherwise I'll forget.
Lists on paper get lost.

3/23 Copied old photos, took most of day.
""""" Printed list of in-network doctors etc.
3/24 Canceled phone at old house.
""""" Went through photos w Daughter.
""""" Cut hair to basic shape/length.
3/25 Wrote letter to Dr. K. re history. Not yet mailed.
""""" Called McAfee and applied for refund. Check in 10 days.
""""" Called xfer agent re xfer of old joint stock, "Can sigs be separate?" Ans: yes.
""""" Wrote instruction letter to Ex#2 re xfer, mailed letter and form to him.
""""" Picked up box to mail photos. Verified address.
""""" To hairdresser to get back smoothed and shaped.
""""" Bought rake/dustpan-type pooper scooper for gum balls.

To do:
- Find warranty for microwave.
- Find procedures for getting house problems fixed.
- Do so^.
- Make appointment w. doctor, get mammo & bone scan
- Write cover letter, pack & mail photos.
- Unpack latest load from north.
- Pull tog tax docs!!!!
- Locate joint certificates.
- Letter to Nancy M.
- Letter to Bob P.
- Call Colette re FJK Jr. estate - closed.
- Clean attic, take stuff up.
.

3200 Some photos

Thursday, March 24, 2011

No matter how thin you slice it, there are always two sides.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

This is the view north from my back windows. That's a portion of a small lake in the foreground, then a strip of land beyond that that separates the lake and the neighborhood from Raritan Bay, which contains a walkway along the bay to a beach up the way a bit. After that, the bit of dark gray is the bay. Off in the distance you can see a pale strip - that's Brooklyn. It's barely visible during the day, but at night it's a blaze of light and looks a lot closer.

This is as seen from the side window in my bedroom:

My grandbaby, due in perhaps five weeks. I keep saying Daughter is huge. She doesn't look that large in this photo (taken yesterday), but actually she's normally extremely slender and willowy in the middle. She's now at least three times as deep as usual in the belly and behind region. The tummy is perfectly round, like a basketball. (Looks "boy" to me.)

I've spent much of today searching the internet for hints on how to clean up the sweet gum balls in my yard. They are downright dangerous to bare or sandaled feet, and I've heard they are very hard and can kill a lawnmower, so I have to clean them up before the first spring mowing. My neighbor George said the only way is to pick them up by hand, rake them, or use a vacuum.

I've got a zillion of the darn things in my yard. These photos are through the sliding glass doors with the sun shining on the glass, so they're not clear, but you can see all those dark brown balls, mixed in the grass and the straw from last fall's seeding.

They're all in MY yard, not in either side neighbors' yards.

I don't understand.

I looked at "rolling nut picker-uppers", and they don't work on gum balls because of the stems. (Of course they SAY they do, but the reviewers say differently.) I looked at lawn sweepers, and they don't work because they can't get down low enough. (Of course they SAY they do, but the reviewers say differently.)

I looked at lawn vacuums, and those things are huge and expensive (like $800 minimum for the smallest).

I can't rake - I know my back won't stand for that, especially with the straw woven into the grass. I can't bend over and pick them up without destroying my back, unless I use something like a pooper-scooper.

'Bout the only thing I can think of is to put a sign on the front yard offering to pay kids $2 a bucket for picking them up. Or buy a pooper-scooper.

One good thing - a website recommended using them as top mulch on garden beds, since unlike bark or other covers they're easy to pull off to work the soil and push back on, they take decades to rot, they don't block watering, and animals don't like to walk on or dig in them. Plus when your neighbors see it, they think you're amazingly inventive.

Um, anyone want a bucket or two of sweet gum balls?

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Update: There's some woman selling bags of the damn things on Etsy, for craftwork! I can do that!
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3199 Knut

Tuesday, March 22, 2011

You can do something in an instant that will give you heartache for life.

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I guess everyone has heard by now that Knut, the polar bear at the Berlin zoo, has died unexpectedly, reason unknown. (If you don't know about Knut, Google him, or check here: http://cuteoverload.com/2011/03/19/knut-a-retrospective/.)

Knut was not exactly an orphan. He had been rejected by his zoo mother, and had been raised by humans at the zoo. He was cute and playful, and quite the sensation. But as he got bigger, he had to be separated from his adoptive human parents. He was four years old, an adolescent, when he died.

Animal rights folks are all up in arms, claiming that he was obviously depressed at the lack of the human contact he'd been used to, and that's what caused his death. The zoo officials disagree, saying that he was perfectly happy and playful.

Me? I'm not at all surprised he died, and it has nothing whatsoever to do with his having being inappropriately raised by humans.

Nature loves babies. It's built into animal mothers that they will care for their babies. That his mother abandoned him at birth is highly significant.

Nature will abandon babies only if the babies cannot be raised to the point where they themselves can have babies. Nature is realistic and won't spend energy and resources on a cause doomed to failure. The reasons can be that the environmental conditions aren't right, in that there is danger, famine, stress of confinement, whatever makes it difficult to raise the young, or there is something inherently wrong with the baby itself such that it will be unlikely to live to reproductive age. Animal mothers can sense something wrong, wrongness that may not even show up in medical tests.

Knut's mother rejected him. To me, this means there was a good chance there was something wrong with Knut.

And that's why I'm not surprised he did not live to reproduce.

Nature is very stern about stuff like that.
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3198 Tea Parties Are for Toddlers

Monday, March 21, 2011

It's not what happens that's important. It's what you do about it.

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Wondering what the country might be like if the Tea Party had total control?

Read this: http://www.philly.com/philly/opinion/20110320_Tea_party_insanity_perks_in_capitols.html (then watch the movie Idiocracy).

2505 is HERE! We have already reached the age of idiocracy.

(Hey, really, read it. You'll laugh between the tears.)
(Um, and you don't perk tea. That's coffee.)
(And if you haven't seen Idiocracy, you should.)

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While driving north and south over the weekend, I listened to some right-wing talk radio. The hosts were all freaking out about perceived indecisiveness on the part of the administration regarding Libya.

Duh?

I don't claim to be on top of the news and the world situation, but even I was aware of the danger of too quick a military response. All over the Muslim world, people antagonistic to the West are putting forth the theory that all these revolts were not simply popular internal uprisings, but were carefully orchestrated by US and European agents. Even groups friendly to us are wondering if there might not be some truth to the stories. (Wikileaks didn't help us there.)

So to jump in too quickly against Moammar Gadhafi could be very dangerous to our position in the Middle East. We don't want to confirm the rumor monger's "Aha! See? We TOLD you so!" among those who would otherwise be willing to give us the benefit of the doubt and work with us.

Secondly, we are already running an unbearable financial deficit due to two wars started by the previous administration, neither of which were necessary for our safety. (Want a terrorist? Offer a few million for his head on a platter, then sit back. The glory of war that dubya wanted wasn't worth it.) So we simply cannot afford to get involved in a third war that, frankly, when you come right down to it, is none of our business.

That's why we were slow to react - not from indecisiveness, but because of diplomacy. It was necessary that the UN take the lead, and necessary that the Arab League condemn Gadhafi first. And we are offering tactical support only because - hey, in case you hadn't noticed, we're BROKE! And our military is already stretched too thin.

But hey again, truth and diplomacy and the economy be damned - any excuse to trash the president will do, and the American public (for whom, by the way, those talk show hosts have nothing but scorn, the masses whom they whip up and entertain and thereby get rich) will believe them.

Because it's more interesting to listen and bluster and and parrot than to think. Especially to think ahead and consider the real world facts. That's really hard.

(I never understood why anyone would call themselves a "dittohead" with pride. Have they no more pride than that?)

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Oh, yeah, and now that Obama has acted, they're pissed because he didn't get the approval of Congress. Well, a) technically, he didn't declare war, and b) didn't dubya already decide that presidents don't have to involve Congress in declarations of war anyway?

Or was that only for him....
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3197 Paintings

Sunday, March 20, 2011

You shouldn't compare yourself to the best others can do, but to the best you can do.

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I have a lot of stuff on the walls in the old house. Decorators say that pictures, prints, photos, whatever you frame and/or hang on the walls of a room should match the colors in the room, and groupings should have something in common. "Anything hung together should hang together."

I ignore the rules. The only thing all my wall stuff has in common is that I like each and every piece. I'm not going to not hang something just because it's the wrong color, and I'm not going to go out and buy "eh" stuff just because it picks up the color of the pillows. Or whatever. If I love it and it fits in that space, it goes there.

Yesterday I brought back two of my favorite paintings. This one
will go in the living room. (The light is hitting badly behind her head. Ignore that. Looks better in real life. And the frame isn't bent. The camera did that.)

I bought her at an estate auction a few years ago. She's an 18th century oil on canvas, 22"x28" not including frame, signed "Kolberg C". She must have hung over a fireplace, because she was so covered with oily black soot that you couldn't actually see much of her beyond the blouse, which looked gray. She was so dirty that as I was cleaning her I was surprised to find flowers in her left hand and the butterfly on the right. There were very few bids on her because the auction was held during a snowstorm, the artist seems to be unknown, she's pretty crackled, and there's a puncture wound, so I got her pretty cheaply - cheaply enough that I didn't feel bad about cleaning her myself with onions. I think she came out beautiful. I love her skin, and the puncture is in the lower fold of her sleeve, so you can barely see it.

This one is completely different, but also loved:
I think it'll enlarge if you click on it. The colors are much brighter than the photo shows. It's a little larger than the lady above. Also oil on canvas, bold brushstrokes and heavy paint in the background, very fine delicate strokes for the vixen and kits. Date unknown, unsigned (or I just haven't found the signature yet). The frame is definitely very old, and probably easily worth three times what I paid for the painting. The bidding was fierce for this one, probably because of the frame, but I won it because I loved it.

I think the foxes will go into the second bedroom, probably over the headboard.
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3196 Radiation Dose Chart

Sunday, March 20, 2011

You can get by on charm for about fifteen minutes.
After that, you'd better know something.

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http://xkcd.com/radiation/
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3195 Janice's box

Sunday, March 20, 2011

It's not what you have in your life but who you have in your life that counts.

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I went north to the old house Friday. For once, I remembered to both set the trip odometer and look at it when I arrived. 130 miles.

My goal was not so much to pack up stuff to bring back, but to fill big black garbage bags. My minimum goal was five garbage bags, and five recycle bags. I took the recycle bags to the center (open only on Saturday morning), and put the garbage bags out for pickup. Saturday morning I had filled the sixth garbage bag and was starting on the seventh (I'm being tough! Haven't used in a year? Haven't missed? Not valuable? OUT!), when I unburied a box I didn't recognize in a corner of the bedroom.

I opened it. Big mistake.

My youngest sister Janice died in April of 1999. She was one of the most beautiful women you'd ever see, with skin that reflected light, huge dark eyes, clear unambiguous smile, fluffy dark hair, and amazing eyebrows. She was also sweet, gentle, and forgiving. She never had a chance in life, because our father got worse as he got older, so the last two, Janice and Baby Brother, well, it's a long sad story but they both ended up deep in addictions.

Janice and her husband were both alcoholics. They met in AA, and at the time they married, they had both been dry for a few years. But the husband (a handsome and very talented cabinetmaker) had low self-esteem also, and I guess he was afraid he couldn't hold such a beautiful wife --- unless he kept her too drunk to leave. His jealousy wouldn't even let her go to AA for fear she'd meet someone else.

I sent her money to save their house when they'd lost another job. I sent her money when they didn't have grocery money, even though I knew they'd probably buy alcohol instead of food. Every once in a while she'd be involuntarily committed to dry out, but he'd pull her out as soon as she was allowed to leave.

I kept waiting for her to hit bottom and agree to stay in rehab regardless of what he wanted, and I offered to pay for any clinic, for both of them if necessary, but it had to be separately, and she'd have to commit to the full time. She'd have to agree to be away from his influence for the duration. She never got to that point.

They went on a weekend binge, and she died sometime during the weekend, and he was too drunk to notice. They figure she'd been dead three days before he figured it out.

They buried her immediately, so I couldn't go to the funeral. Jay'd just been diagnosed with terminal brain cancer, had surgery, and we were starting the clinical trials. I didn't have the energy to morn both Janice and Jay. There was a brief period of shock and regret for Janice, guilt that I didn't know how bad it was and didn't do more, and then I had to turn to Jay and more immediate matters.

Early in 2001, Janice's husband died. His mother, going through his stuff, found a lot of photos and papers that she said was Janice's family stuff, and she sent it to me. I'm not sure why me, when I believe our other sister had been more involved with them, but maybe because I had paid for Janice's funeral. But at that time, Jay was blind, bedridden, hemi-paralyzed, on a gazillion medications, and I was his fulltime and sole caretaker. We were in the end stretch, and again, I couldn't yet face what might be in the box. So I didn't go through it. Then Jay died, I went into a 3.5 year depression, became somewhat of a hoarder (I guess because I had lost so much, I bought bought bought anything and everything I wanted and didn't want to give anything up), I lost control of the house, and the box got buried.

I rediscovered it yesterday, and opened it.

Suddenly all the mourning for my sister that I had suppressed back then came flooding in. I cried and cried over the life she should have had, the life she could have had if our father hadn't beaten her into thinking she didn't deserve anything ... and then it got worse.

Her death certificate was in the box. Under cause of death it said "Alcoholism", and listed as a secondary cause was "Hepatitis C". I didn't know she actually had hepatitis. If I had known, I'd have taken more drastic measures to stop her drinking. I'd have gone down there and physically kidnapped her. If I had to, I'd have provoked her husband into beating me up so I could have him arrested so he'd go to jail, and then as soon as I could walk again I'd have a few days to convince her to get help, or failing that, I'd kidnap her.

I think. I don't know if I could have. Kidnapping her would be one thing. Keeping her would be another. But the point is, I didn't do anything. And so the guilt hit, and it hit hard.

I had planned to work on the old house until about 7 or 8 pm last night, but I ended up leaving at 2, because I knew I wasn't going to get anything else done, and if I were driving I could stop the crying.

I think I'm ok now. I'm able to think back to that time and what I was already dealing with, and it's easier to accept my inaction. Sometimes things are just fate.

But the green quote at the top of the page (random! honest!) will make it easier to fill more garbage bags.
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