Tuesday, 01/31/06
I'm reading the documentation on the installation CD for the new external hard drive. Found a new requirement - it insists on having Pentium III. But you have to open the box and read the users' guide on the CD to discover that. I don't know what this thing's got. Also, the instructions on what to do if the CD doesn't start up are on the CD! And only on the CD. Sheesh. Doesn't anybody have a usability testing department any more?
--------------------
Later. Ok, I installed the external hard drive device driver, and the software for automatic backups. It was quick and easy, I guess. Then I hooked up the cables for the drive, plugged it into the wall and into the USB port, and waited. The instructions seem to think that Windows will eventually "find" it (in two minutes or so), after which I am supposed to push the "backup button" on the drive to "finish the installation".
I waited twenty minutes, and Windows didn't find it. So then I pushed the backup button anyway, hoping an interrupt from the device would call Windows' attention to it, but --- still nothing. So I did a shutdown/restart. Windows checks devices on startup, right? Still nothing.
I had unplugged a camera from the USB port a few days ago. Could that be causing the problem? When I put the new display on here, and when I hooked up the new printer, Windows found them right away. What can I do now?
Sob.
I'm also worried that by pushing the button when Windows wasn't paying attention, I may have screwed up the remainder of the installation process.
Sigh....
Tuesday, January 31, 2006
#551 No News
Tuesday, 01/31/06
For several months now I have been avoiding the news. I don't watch TV or listen to the radio, I skim the newspaper, and I barely glance at the headlines on the computer. I seem to have done it unconsciously - just one day I noticed that I was avoiding news reports. It seems like as the stress went up with Roman, I needed to reduce stress everywhere else, and I find news reports to be major stressors. It's not that I don't care what's happening in the world outside my home, it's that maybe I care too much.
Despite all my careful avoidance, the Hamas/Israel thing, and the Iran thing, have bled through, and I sometimes have small moments of near panic. I'm afraid for my child, and for the grandchildren I don't even have yet. I don't understand why it all has to be so hard, when it could be so easy.
Nearer to home, there's the proposal to build several thousand condos and townhouses on the west bank of the Hudson. That makes me breathe heavily, too. The infrastructure around here is already near collapse, but - there's money to be made, so I'm afraid it will happen anyway. Money rules.
I want it all to go away.
For several months now I have been avoiding the news. I don't watch TV or listen to the radio, I skim the newspaper, and I barely glance at the headlines on the computer. I seem to have done it unconsciously - just one day I noticed that I was avoiding news reports. It seems like as the stress went up with Roman, I needed to reduce stress everywhere else, and I find news reports to be major stressors. It's not that I don't care what's happening in the world outside my home, it's that maybe I care too much.
Despite all my careful avoidance, the Hamas/Israel thing, and the Iran thing, have bled through, and I sometimes have small moments of near panic. I'm afraid for my child, and for the grandchildren I don't even have yet. I don't understand why it all has to be so hard, when it could be so easy.
Nearer to home, there's the proposal to build several thousand condos and townhouses on the west bank of the Hudson. That makes me breathe heavily, too. The infrastructure around here is already near collapse, but - there's money to be made, so I'm afraid it will happen anyway. Money rules.
I want it all to go away.
Monday, January 30, 2006
#550 Decades
On Death
I believe that you don't die of natural causes until you have finished your path (and I'm beginning to believe it for unnatural causes, too). There is a path you will take in this life, and when you come to the end of that path, you go on to the next. This doesn't mean predestination, you do still have free choice on absolutely everything. Sort of like a test you've signed up for. You can study hard and go in and work very hard on the essay questions and the multiple choice, or you can shrug and guess, or you can just put the pencil down and refuse to participate. You could have signed up for one part or all the parts. But at the end, the test is over when all the sections you chose time out, and whatever you have done, you get your score at the end. Not to say that life is a test, but like a test, certain subjects are shown to you, you have free will throughout, and you learn or you don't within the structure, as you choose. When the path/test is over, you leave, having learned or not. You go on to the next phase, which is determined by this one.
So don't cry for the deceased. They have simply transformed, graduated, moved on. Wave goodbye. Know that if you cry, you cry for yourself and the loved ones. If that person was an intersector to you, and you didn't take advantage of that intersection, if you chose for some reason, possibly even a good one, not to learn from them what you could when you could, then cry for yourself.
On Decades
(Only loosely related to the above....)
My life seems to have divided itself neatly and sharply into development decades.
I believe that you don't die of natural causes until you have finished your path (and I'm beginning to believe it for unnatural causes, too). There is a path you will take in this life, and when you come to the end of that path, you go on to the next. This doesn't mean predestination, you do still have free choice on absolutely everything. Sort of like a test you've signed up for. You can study hard and go in and work very hard on the essay questions and the multiple choice, or you can shrug and guess, or you can just put the pencil down and refuse to participate. You could have signed up for one part or all the parts. But at the end, the test is over when all the sections you chose time out, and whatever you have done, you get your score at the end. Not to say that life is a test, but like a test, certain subjects are shown to you, you have free will throughout, and you learn or you don't within the structure, as you choose. When the path/test is over, you leave, having learned or not. You go on to the next phase, which is determined by this one.
So don't cry for the deceased. They have simply transformed, graduated, moved on. Wave goodbye. Know that if you cry, you cry for yourself and the loved ones. If that person was an intersector to you, and you didn't take advantage of that intersection, if you chose for some reason, possibly even a good one, not to learn from them what you could when you could, then cry for yourself.
On Decades
(Only loosely related to the above....)
My life seems to have divided itself neatly and sharply into development decades.
- 1944 to 1954 was confusion and loneliness.
- 1954 to 1964 was physical pain.
- 1964 to 1974 was emotional pain.
- 1974 to 1984 was enormous emotional and psychological growth, the awakening.
- 1984 to 1994 was stability and learning about, opening to, love.
- 1994 to 2004 was love, loss, and the growth of strength.
Sunday, January 29, 2006
#549 The Little Lady Stomps NYC
I had a very good visit with Daughter and "the leading candidate for son-in-law", Hercules.
Saturday evening we went to see Stomp, something I've wanted since I first saw them on TV in the mid 90s.
Getting there was half the fun. We planned to drive to a Park-'n-ride and take a bus into the city, but Daughter had been called into work, and was going to catch the same bus that Hercules and I would be getting on further down the line. We planned to catch the 5:18 bus, but it mysteriously disappeared, never showed up, so we ended up on the 5:40, which made time tight. There was all kinds of cell phone coordination to make sure Daughter would be on the same bus ("Ok, I'm on it, you should see us coming over the hill any minute....") I was prepared for her and the bus to vanish, as mysteriously as the first one.
The bus ride was fun. We were in the front seats, up next to the driver and the doors, so I got a good view as we were headed into the Lincoln Tunnel, and the driver cut across four lanes to go through the far right tunnel. I watched in fascination as he nudged cars out of the way, and marveled at itty-bitty cars that refused to give an inch, drivers bent far over clutching the steering wheel with full nelsons and red faces and refusing to acknowledge this behemoth bearing down on their flank. Daughter and I were bouncing up and down in our seats, cheering on our driver and congratulating him on every victory. Heck, we were in a hurry! The driver grinned.
We had mapped out a subway trip from Port Authority to the theater, involving two lines, but the lost bus cost us too much time, so we took a taxi. (Our driver's name was Paul Mensah, which Hercules thought was prophetic, or funny, or something. He wove us in and out of traffic like he was headed for a touchdown.) I was surprised that there were so many people on the streets. My only other experience with Manhattan was when I took a series of Company classes in the late 80s, and on weekends then, nothing was open, and no one was out - but Hercules says it was where I was - just south of Central Park. Not exactly Broadway and Times Square weekend-wise.
We made it to the theater almost in time (meaning they let us stand in the back until the first number was over, so we didn't miss much). I was surprised at how small the Orpheum is. For the next hour and 45 minutes I smiled like I haven't in months. My favorite part was the water-cooler jugs. Loved the sound of them.
When the show was over, I found a Ukrainian restaurant right next door selling pierogies, and I couldn't walk right past Ukranian pierogies. Then we decided instead of taking the two trains to Port Authority, we'd walk to the green one (on the subway map), take it two stops, and walk the rest of the way. Cool. Walking after pierogies. That means I could have a hot dog from one of those street carts, too! Whoo!
At one point we walked past a big building, and Hercules said "That's the Empire State Building", and I said "Oooo, can we?" so we did. It was pretty windy up there, but that's ok, it wasn't too very cold that evening. I was so jazzed that one of the security guards asked me if I was ok. He probably thought I was "on" something, but I was just enjoying everything enormously. I hopped up and down a lot. Sometimes I even broke into skipping. (Even if Daughter was acting like she was bored with the world and embarrassed by me.)
We walked through Times Square, where I got my real NYC steam cart hot dog (rather bland, actually, but only $2, and the bun was good), and Hercules showed me where he worked - we went into the building lobby and looked at the directory on the wall - and then we arrived back at the bus station. I thought my NYC experience was over. I was wrong.
There were about 24 people calmly lined up at the bay doors (#321), when two slick teenagers came out of the men's room behind us, looked at the line, discussed the situation (within our hearing, the idiots) and decided to cut line. They went out the doors of bay #322 and around the piece of wall and waited outside the #321 doors. They'd be first on the bus. There were three beefy middle-aged men in line just in front of us who didn't take too kindly to that. They referred to the young men as "the Gotti boys" (which worried one of the men, until I amended it to "more like Gotti cousins", to laughter - it's attitude, not blood). Hercules pointed out that the four of them ought to be able to escort two wimpy kids off the bus if it did turn out that seats were in short supply.
So we get on the bus, and sure enough, the two young men have appropriated the long back seat, and are lying on it, taking up the whole thing. And since we were near the end of the line, the annoyed men were in seats near the back. And, well, I couldn't see or hear much, but at least one of the older men, backed up by the others, went back there and told the kids that if they were so sick they needed to lie down, that they should get OFF! the bus NOW! and go get some medicine. He repeated it, in a very gentle and concerned, but firm, voice (but I'd have loved to have seen his face) until they "got it" and sat up. The other men then loudly and pointedly directed people back to the bench seat until it was full.
I was fascinated, especially because of the "Limbo" book I'm reading about the differences between blue collar or working class and white collar or middle class (in the cultural, not financial, sense). This was a very blue collar thing. According to the book, most men in the blue collar neighborhood feel strongly that it is their duty to correct and guide younger men in the proper way to act, and they're not going to let little snot-noses like this get away without proper instruction. That man was talking to them like he was their uncle, who was very disappointed in them, and I suspect they were from the same type of neighborhood, because they TOOK it like he was an uncle. It was a confrontational, territorial, and no-nonsense enforcing of the rules for behaviour.
Cool.
The cap on the evening came this morning, when Hercules presented me with a DVD of the Stomp show, which he had picked up in the lobby while Daughter was visiting the restroom and I was following my nose to pierogies. He also made a CD of the audio portion, which I listened to as I drove home. Twice through.
A good weekend. I'm happy.
Saturday evening we went to see Stomp, something I've wanted since I first saw them on TV in the mid 90s.
Getting there was half the fun. We planned to drive to a Park-'n-ride and take a bus into the city, but Daughter had been called into work, and was going to catch the same bus that Hercules and I would be getting on further down the line. We planned to catch the 5:18 bus, but it mysteriously disappeared, never showed up, so we ended up on the 5:40, which made time tight. There was all kinds of cell phone coordination to make sure Daughter would be on the same bus ("Ok, I'm on it, you should see us coming over the hill any minute....") I was prepared for her and the bus to vanish, as mysteriously as the first one.
The bus ride was fun. We were in the front seats, up next to the driver and the doors, so I got a good view as we were headed into the Lincoln Tunnel, and the driver cut across four lanes to go through the far right tunnel. I watched in fascination as he nudged cars out of the way, and marveled at itty-bitty cars that refused to give an inch, drivers bent far over clutching the steering wheel with full nelsons and red faces and refusing to acknowledge this behemoth bearing down on their flank. Daughter and I were bouncing up and down in our seats, cheering on our driver and congratulating him on every victory. Heck, we were in a hurry! The driver grinned.
We had mapped out a subway trip from Port Authority to the theater, involving two lines, but the lost bus cost us too much time, so we took a taxi. (Our driver's name was Paul Mensah, which Hercules thought was prophetic, or funny, or something. He wove us in and out of traffic like he was headed for a touchdown.) I was surprised that there were so many people on the streets. My only other experience with Manhattan was when I took a series of Company classes in the late 80s, and on weekends then, nothing was open, and no one was out - but Hercules says it was where I was - just south of Central Park. Not exactly Broadway and Times Square weekend-wise.
We made it to the theater almost in time (meaning they let us stand in the back until the first number was over, so we didn't miss much). I was surprised at how small the Orpheum is. For the next hour and 45 minutes I smiled like I haven't in months. My favorite part was the water-cooler jugs. Loved the sound of them.
When the show was over, I found a Ukrainian restaurant right next door selling pierogies, and I couldn't walk right past Ukranian pierogies. Then we decided instead of taking the two trains to Port Authority, we'd walk to the green one (on the subway map), take it two stops, and walk the rest of the way. Cool. Walking after pierogies. That means I could have a hot dog from one of those street carts, too! Whoo!
At one point we walked past a big building, and Hercules said "That's the Empire State Building", and I said "Oooo, can we?" so we did. It was pretty windy up there, but that's ok, it wasn't too very cold that evening. I was so jazzed that one of the security guards asked me if I was ok. He probably thought I was "on" something, but I was just enjoying everything enormously. I hopped up and down a lot. Sometimes I even broke into skipping. (Even if Daughter was acting like she was bored with the world and embarrassed by me.)
We walked through Times Square, where I got my real NYC steam cart hot dog (rather bland, actually, but only $2, and the bun was good), and Hercules showed me where he worked - we went into the building lobby and looked at the directory on the wall - and then we arrived back at the bus station. I thought my NYC experience was over. I was wrong.
There were about 24 people calmly lined up at the bay doors (#321), when two slick teenagers came out of the men's room behind us, looked at the line, discussed the situation (within our hearing, the idiots) and decided to cut line. They went out the doors of bay #322 and around the piece of wall and waited outside the #321 doors. They'd be first on the bus. There were three beefy middle-aged men in line just in front of us who didn't take too kindly to that. They referred to the young men as "the Gotti boys" (which worried one of the men, until I amended it to "more like Gotti cousins", to laughter - it's attitude, not blood). Hercules pointed out that the four of them ought to be able to escort two wimpy kids off the bus if it did turn out that seats were in short supply.
So we get on the bus, and sure enough, the two young men have appropriated the long back seat, and are lying on it, taking up the whole thing. And since we were near the end of the line, the annoyed men were in seats near the back. And, well, I couldn't see or hear much, but at least one of the older men, backed up by the others, went back there and told the kids that if they were so sick they needed to lie down, that they should get OFF! the bus NOW! and go get some medicine. He repeated it, in a very gentle and concerned, but firm, voice (but I'd have loved to have seen his face) until they "got it" and sat up. The other men then loudly and pointedly directed people back to the bench seat until it was full.
I was fascinated, especially because of the "Limbo" book I'm reading about the differences between blue collar or working class and white collar or middle class (in the cultural, not financial, sense). This was a very blue collar thing. According to the book, most men in the blue collar neighborhood feel strongly that it is their duty to correct and guide younger men in the proper way to act, and they're not going to let little snot-noses like this get away without proper instruction. That man was talking to them like he was their uncle, who was very disappointed in them, and I suspect they were from the same type of neighborhood, because they TOOK it like he was an uncle. It was a confrontational, territorial, and no-nonsense enforcing of the rules for behaviour.
Cool.
The cap on the evening came this morning, when Hercules presented me with a DVD of the Stomp show, which he had picked up in the lobby while Daughter was visiting the restroom and I was following my nose to pierogies. He also made a CD of the audio portion, which I listened to as I drove home. Twice through.
A good weekend. I'm happy.
Friday, January 27, 2006
#548 Long Drive
I'm in central NJ, at Daughter's place. I left home at exactly 3 pm. Traffic was the worst I've ever seen. The trip that ordinarily would take two hours and fifteen minutes took four hours and twenty minutes, and the last three hours worth, there were no convenient rest areas. I thought I'd burst. But, I'm here.
Gas here, by the way, is 30 cents per gallon cheaper. I don't understand why. New York swears it's not a state tax. They claim the difference has to do with port charges. Well, why doesn't New York bring their gas in through the same ports as New Jersey does, and then just truck it into upstate New York? It's not like there are interstate duties.... Somebody's ripping us off!
Gas here, by the way, is 30 cents per gallon cheaper. I don't understand why. New York swears it's not a state tax. They claim the difference has to do with port charges. Well, why doesn't New York bring their gas in through the same ports as New Jersey does, and then just truck it into upstate New York? It's not like there are interstate duties.... Somebody's ripping us off!
#547 I Am Jung?
You scored as C.G. Jung.
You are more of a spiritualist than would be immediately apparent. Some of your notions are questioned by the cynical, but deep down you know the human consciousness is more than the flesh and tissue can account for.
You tend to take a scientific observationist look on matters the average person wouldn't even begin to analyze.
You personally are responsible for most of the ideas that are floating around in modern psychologist's/psychic's paltry little skulls. On the down side, you tend to be associated with that asshole Freud.
C.G. Jung 75%
Dante Alighieri 58%
Stephen Hawking 50%
O.J. Simpson 42%
Elvis Presley 33%
Mother Teresa 33%
Friedrich Nietzsche 33%
Sigmund Freud 33%
Jesus Christ 33%
Miyamoto Musashi 25%
Adolf Hitler 25%
Charles Manson 17%
Steven Morrissey 17%
Hugh Hefner 8%
What Pseudo Historical Figure Best Suits You? created with QuizFarm.
You are more of a spiritualist than would be immediately apparent. Some of your notions are questioned by the cynical, but deep down you know the human consciousness is more than the flesh and tissue can account for.
You tend to take a scientific observationist look on matters the average person wouldn't even begin to analyze.
You personally are responsible for most of the ideas that are floating around in modern psychologist's/psychic's paltry little skulls. On the down side, you tend to be associated with that asshole Freud.
C.G. Jung 75%
Dante Alighieri 58%
Stephen Hawking 50%
O.J. Simpson 42%
Elvis Presley 33%
Mother Teresa 33%
Friedrich Nietzsche 33%
Sigmund Freud 33%
Jesus Christ 33%
Miyamoto Musashi 25%
Adolf Hitler 25%
Charles Manson 17%
Steven Morrissey 17%
Hugh Hefner 8%
What Pseudo Historical Figure Best Suits You? created with QuizFarm.
#546 Criminals with Gall
In the stupid criminals catagory: The owners of a stolen laptop have found a way to catch the thieves using eBay. Check out this eBay listing (it will be available for three months, unless eBay takes it down sooner, which is possible, it's getting a lot of publicity, and it does break the rules, so look quick). Scroll past the boilerplate to get to the meat, and then further to the emails.
I got up early this morning, planning to go to the spa before heading to NJ, but I've got a serious ache in my right calf, toward the outside front, just above where the nerves are dead. One of the problems with fibromyalgia is that when you have pain somewhere, you don't know for sure whether it's the usual for-no-reason pain, or whether you've injured something. I'm afraid that one of these days I'll drop dead of a ruptured internal something-or-other, and my last thought will be "Gee, this is getting harder and harder to ignore...." (You'll recall that I went to the ER with the exploding gall bladder not because of the pain, but because I was vomiting blood. My cousin Ray/Skippy had a gall bladder problem a few months after mine, and he was able to ignore the pain too long, and it damaged his pancreas, and he died. That's why I was so worried about Roman's mother - she tends to ignore inconvenient pain, too. But she's home now and doing well, so that's over, I guess.)
Therefore, in the interests of safety, and a little bit of lazy "any excuse is a good one", I skipped the spa today.
I'm heading for NJ to visit Daughter this afternoon, returning Sunday. Saturday night we're going to Stomp, at the Orpheum. I thought our seats were in the balcony - they were slightly more expensive, but I figured that with Daughter and I both being so short, if people stood up at all, with the balcony seats on a slope, we'd be still be able to see. But the tickets have arrived, and they're in the orchestra. My memory is confused. But at least they're on the aisle.
Now, pardon me while sell the next lot of Exxon, ignore the clench in my stomach while I do it, and then go pack. (I don't know why I always plan the timing of these trips so that I'm driving through the metro areas at rush hour. Mutter, mutter.)
I got up early this morning, planning to go to the spa before heading to NJ, but I've got a serious ache in my right calf, toward the outside front, just above where the nerves are dead. One of the problems with fibromyalgia is that when you have pain somewhere, you don't know for sure whether it's the usual for-no-reason pain, or whether you've injured something. I'm afraid that one of these days I'll drop dead of a ruptured internal something-or-other, and my last thought will be "Gee, this is getting harder and harder to ignore...." (You'll recall that I went to the ER with the exploding gall bladder not because of the pain, but because I was vomiting blood. My cousin Ray/Skippy had a gall bladder problem a few months after mine, and he was able to ignore the pain too long, and it damaged his pancreas, and he died. That's why I was so worried about Roman's mother - she tends to ignore inconvenient pain, too. But she's home now and doing well, so that's over, I guess.)
Therefore, in the interests of safety, and a little bit of lazy "any excuse is a good one", I skipped the spa today.
I'm heading for NJ to visit Daughter this afternoon, returning Sunday. Saturday night we're going to Stomp, at the Orpheum. I thought our seats were in the balcony - they were slightly more expensive, but I figured that with Daughter and I both being so short, if people stood up at all, with the balcony seats on a slope, we'd be still be able to see. But the tickets have arrived, and they're in the orchestra. My memory is confused. But at least they're on the aisle.
Now, pardon me while sell the next lot of Exxon, ignore the clench in my stomach while I do it, and then go pack. (I don't know why I always plan the timing of these trips so that I'm driving through the metro areas at rush hour. Mutter, mutter.)
Thursday, January 26, 2006
#545 I Think, Therefore I'm Not
Thursday, 01/26/06
Coffee with Piper yesterday, and he explained why it was a good idea to sell the IBM stock now, and not wait for it to go up. He convinced me, what he said made sense at the time, but durn if I can reproduce his argument now. If I try I just end up back where I started. So - I submitted a sell order for all but the jointly owned shares last night. No turning back now. And no stomach clenching on that one. I even went ahead and sold more than he had recommended.
When I get the checks we'll buy short-term tax-free municipal bonds. The bonds won't grow in principle like stock does, but the interest income will be higher than the stock dividends, and we'll reinvest the excess income. The plan is that over the next three years, I'll be selling old stock, and some will go to bonds, some to indexed mutual finds, and some to individual stocks. He says I should have no more than 8% in any one company, and no more than 15% in any one industry (unlike the 55% I have now in oil!). That way if anything crashes, I don't get hurt too badly.
At the spa today, the last day of my free trial, I signed up for a month-to-month membership. So I'm sorta committed, at least until it warms up and dries up outside and I can walk again. Those machines are making a noticeable difference in tone (my bat-wings are already firming up!), but they don't seem to be helping with the weight loss, not like walking does. I've been very pleased that my pulse rate has been right on target.
You know what's weird? My behind is losing padding and getting firmer - and sitting is actually not as comfortable as before! I have to keep shifting my weight to get comfortable. It's like the chair got harder.
As evidence that my eating habits have changed, I got a handful of potato chips out of the pantry this evening, and they were stale! I'd never tasted a stale potato chip before....
I bought the external hard drive, 200 GB worth. It will probably be next Monday or Tuesday before I can try it.
Roman called last night, very late (yes, Daughter, as per that article you sent me, it does seem to average every two days), and we had an extremely satisfying 90 minute conversation. I don't mind the way things seem to be going now, and I am content with it. I think part of my problem is that the past few months he had seen a bad side of me, what with the jealousy and anger and all, and it seemed very unfair. Now he is seeing a better me, and that kind of makes it all ok. Just so he knows the better me. That's fair.
One of the dumbest things: When I shut down AOL last night, I shut it down under an alternate screen name (id) instead of the main screen name (id). When I connected to the internet this morning (BizOnline), I hadn't started AOL yet, McAfee (which is not supposed to be running at all - even the icon says it's disabled) put up a little window saying that there were updates available. So I answered ok, go get'em, thinking it was just virus definitions. McAfee went to its site, and proceeded to download a whole new McAfee, and it kept addressing me in its messages by the alternate AOL id. Duh?
Now, let me get this straight. McAfee is sitting there mulling the universe, it concludes that the current AOL id has never downloaded McAfee, so it concludes that it itself does not exist? "I think therefore I'm not"?
After that finished, I tried running a scan, just to make sure McAfee was ok, I mean nobody said they were replacing files with the same name or anything (although if they are stored under different AOL id folders, would they notice?) and apparently something must have got doubled, McAfee-1 and McAfee-2 got into a pissing contest, and I lost.
I can't run it from the toolbar icon any more. It hangs the system. But if I click on Start -> Programs -> McAfee, then it runs just fine.
Just more stuff I don't understand. That pile seems to be growing lately.
Coffee with Piper yesterday, and he explained why it was a good idea to sell the IBM stock now, and not wait for it to go up. He convinced me, what he said made sense at the time, but durn if I can reproduce his argument now. If I try I just end up back where I started. So - I submitted a sell order for all but the jointly owned shares last night. No turning back now. And no stomach clenching on that one. I even went ahead and sold more than he had recommended.
When I get the checks we'll buy short-term tax-free municipal bonds. The bonds won't grow in principle like stock does, but the interest income will be higher than the stock dividends, and we'll reinvest the excess income. The plan is that over the next three years, I'll be selling old stock, and some will go to bonds, some to indexed mutual finds, and some to individual stocks. He says I should have no more than 8% in any one company, and no more than 15% in any one industry (unlike the 55% I have now in oil!). That way if anything crashes, I don't get hurt too badly.
At the spa today, the last day of my free trial, I signed up for a month-to-month membership. So I'm sorta committed, at least until it warms up and dries up outside and I can walk again. Those machines are making a noticeable difference in tone (my bat-wings are already firming up!), but they don't seem to be helping with the weight loss, not like walking does. I've been very pleased that my pulse rate has been right on target.
You know what's weird? My behind is losing padding and getting firmer - and sitting is actually not as comfortable as before! I have to keep shifting my weight to get comfortable. It's like the chair got harder.
As evidence that my eating habits have changed, I got a handful of potato chips out of the pantry this evening, and they were stale! I'd never tasted a stale potato chip before....
I bought the external hard drive, 200 GB worth. It will probably be next Monday or Tuesday before I can try it.
Roman called last night, very late (yes, Daughter, as per that article you sent me, it does seem to average every two days), and we had an extremely satisfying 90 minute conversation. I don't mind the way things seem to be going now, and I am content with it. I think part of my problem is that the past few months he had seen a bad side of me, what with the jealousy and anger and all, and it seemed very unfair. Now he is seeing a better me, and that kind of makes it all ok. Just so he knows the better me. That's fair.
One of the dumbest things: When I shut down AOL last night, I shut it down under an alternate screen name (id) instead of the main screen name (id). When I connected to the internet this morning (BizOnline), I hadn't started AOL yet, McAfee (which is not supposed to be running at all - even the icon says it's disabled) put up a little window saying that there were updates available. So I answered ok, go get'em, thinking it was just virus definitions. McAfee went to its site, and proceeded to download a whole new McAfee, and it kept addressing me in its messages by the alternate AOL id. Duh?
Now, let me get this straight. McAfee is sitting there mulling the universe, it concludes that the current AOL id has never downloaded McAfee, so it concludes that it itself does not exist? "I think therefore I'm not"?
After that finished, I tried running a scan, just to make sure McAfee was ok, I mean nobody said they were replacing files with the same name or anything (although if they are stored under different AOL id folders, would they notice?) and apparently something must have got doubled, McAfee-1 and McAfee-2 got into a pissing contest, and I lost.
I can't run it from the toolbar icon any more. It hangs the system. But if I click on Start -> Programs -> McAfee, then it runs just fine.
Just more stuff I don't understand. That pile seems to be growing lately.
Wednesday, January 25, 2006
#544 Yes! Yes! I Have One!
Wednesday, 01/25/06
At last Thursday's dinner I mentioned that my computer is more than ten years old, probably twelve, since I remember being jealous when we bought both Daughter and Father-in-law new PCs when Daughter was in college, but Jay wanted to keep this one, and I'm so afraid it will overheat some day and I'll have a head crash and lose everything. I have no backup. None.
The guys told me that what I should do is get an external hard drive, and dump everything to it periodically. Sounded good to me, so I went shopping for one this afternoon, after my workout on the spa machines (man, is my left arm sore!)
I found a mature salesman who seemed to know what he was talking about. It seems that an external hard drive will connect only to a USB port. He said that my hardware is old enough that I may not have one, so he showed me what it looked like so I could go home and look. Also, the external hard drive works only with Windows 98 SE (Second Edition) and up. Do I have 98, or 98 SE? I dunno. So I had some homework.
"Now," I asked him, "just in case, if I don't have a USB port, or 98 SE, what can I do?" Apparently not much. I'm beginning to realize that I'm going to have to upgrade soon, or I absolutely won't be able to transfer files at all. So, just in case, what if I buy a new processor? Would I be able to transfer files from the old CPU to the new one?
The answer to that is apparently yes - since that can be done (in many hours) over a parallel connection. He showed me the software that you install and run on both machines, and then it transfers the files, and it will work with parallel and on Windows 98 (non-SE).
Um, but there's still a problem, I said. I already have a good display, keyboard, and mouse, and prefer not to buy new. So how would I go about running that program on both machines at the same time? That stumped him.
When I got home, I got out the flashlight and crawled under the desk, and Yes!! we do have a USB port! The camera is plugged into it. I don't know if it works, though, because the few times I tried to work the camera the code said it was offline, no matter what buttons I pushed on it. But the light on top of it flashes on IPL, so I don't know. It used to work - Jay put it in the front window and took pictures of deer in the front yard, and stop-action streams of sunrises. Well, that's a problem for later. It's enough for now that I do have a place to plug the cable in.
Next I checked the system level, and Yes!!! it IS Windows 98 SE! I'm in business!
If there was anyone standing on my front porch this evening to hear all the "Yes! Yes! Yes!!!"ing, they'd have thought I had finally brought a man into the house.
At last Thursday's dinner I mentioned that my computer is more than ten years old, probably twelve, since I remember being jealous when we bought both Daughter and Father-in-law new PCs when Daughter was in college, but Jay wanted to keep this one, and I'm so afraid it will overheat some day and I'll have a head crash and lose everything. I have no backup. None.
The guys told me that what I should do is get an external hard drive, and dump everything to it periodically. Sounded good to me, so I went shopping for one this afternoon, after my workout on the spa machines (man, is my left arm sore!)
I found a mature salesman who seemed to know what he was talking about. It seems that an external hard drive will connect only to a USB port. He said that my hardware is old enough that I may not have one, so he showed me what it looked like so I could go home and look. Also, the external hard drive works only with Windows 98 SE (Second Edition) and up. Do I have 98, or 98 SE? I dunno. So I had some homework.
"Now," I asked him, "just in case, if I don't have a USB port, or 98 SE, what can I do?" Apparently not much. I'm beginning to realize that I'm going to have to upgrade soon, or I absolutely won't be able to transfer files at all. So, just in case, what if I buy a new processor? Would I be able to transfer files from the old CPU to the new one?
The answer to that is apparently yes - since that can be done (in many hours) over a parallel connection. He showed me the software that you install and run on both machines, and then it transfers the files, and it will work with parallel and on Windows 98 (non-SE).
Um, but there's still a problem, I said. I already have a good display, keyboard, and mouse, and prefer not to buy new. So how would I go about running that program on both machines at the same time? That stumped him.
When I got home, I got out the flashlight and crawled under the desk, and Yes!! we do have a USB port! The camera is plugged into it. I don't know if it works, though, because the few times I tried to work the camera the code said it was offline, no matter what buttons I pushed on it. But the light on top of it flashes on IPL, so I don't know. It used to work - Jay put it in the front window and took pictures of deer in the front yard, and stop-action streams of sunrises. Well, that's a problem for later. It's enough for now that I do have a place to plug the cable in.
Next I checked the system level, and Yes!!! it IS Windows 98 SE! I'm in business!
If there was anyone standing on my front porch this evening to hear all the "Yes! Yes! Yes!!!"ing, they'd have thought I had finally brought a man into the house.
#543 What I Did on a Break
Wednesday 01/25/06
On a break
I didn't write about it when I did it, because I was embarrassed about having done it, and I didn't know what to think about it, but I've pretty much settled my mind about it, so here goes.
Wednesday of last week, I made an impulsive and unannounced visit to Roman. I knew he would be teaching a morning class in Wappingers that day, and he'd been under so much pressure lately, I was worried about him. I wanted to see for myself how he was. I could meet him outside the building at noon, after class, but then he'd feel forced to make some excuse re lunch (he was headed back to LI that afternoon), so I decided to catch him on the break, which would be around 10:30 am, for maybe 15 minutes. No pressure, and a neat time limit.
I arrived at about 10:15 and sat on the floor in the hall with my book. He called the break at 10:45, and a few students left the room (I think there were three in the class). I walked into the room, and he was sitting in a student chair next to a woman about our age, and talking about his fancy new camera (the one I gave him less than two weeks before "taking a break", the gift he has not offered to return, the cad). He looked up and saw me, and turned beet red. I've never seen anyone, let alone him, so red. I don't know whether he was startled to see me, or whether he was embarrassed to be caught flirting, or to be caught talking about my gift so cavalierly to impress another woman. Whatever. It was actually kind of funny.
We moved to the other side of the room, where he told me the latest about his mother, and I told him he didn't have to worry about me messing him up with the other woman (the one at home, not the one in the classroom, but I didn't say that), and he hugged me, and then we moved out into the hall, where I got several more hugs, the cheek-to-cheek kind, and he even shifted his head a bit once and kissed me in front of my ear, which I wish he hadn't done, that's confusing. So I was satisfied - he looked very good, I could stop worrying about him. I was afraid he'd be all haggard.
I hope he realizes that I won't say anything to "her" about him and me, but by damn, if he picks up with another woman, I WILL tell "her"! At this point I'm sort of on her side, and if he screws around again, it's me and her against him, by damn!
I wonder now if he glances at the doorway every time he calls a break, and I wonder if it's with hope or dread. I really don't know which I'd prefer.
Fur Storage
You're supposed to care for your furs by putting them in a cool slightly humid fur vault over the summer. Then in the winter, you get them out to wear, and they'll be hanging in a closet in your house all winter. That doesn't make any sense to me.
I've got some pretty fox and mink jackets (and one full-length, full skin, fox coat that I can't wear because I look like a walking igloo in it), (and before you get all excited, I bought all of them used, at auctions, so I did not create a market, and I did not pay a lot, about 1/7 their retail value). Two years ago I looked into summer storage for them. Ick! It would cost over $300 for me to store them, and that didn't include the hats. That's when I started thinking about it, and decided the whole arrangement didn't make sense.
Hot dry air is bad for them, right? So in the summer, when your house is air conditioned and a bit humid, you pay to store them? And then in the winter, when your house is full of dry heated air, you hang them in your closet? That doesn't make sense to me. It's exactly backward. Maybe it made sense before air conditioning, but not now.
So I've set up a canvas wardrobe in the basement, and that's where they live all year round. The canvas breathes, it's cool all the time, and it's not exactly humid, but not as dry as upstairs.
So there, Ms. Oppenheimer!
On a break
I didn't write about it when I did it, because I was embarrassed about having done it, and I didn't know what to think about it, but I've pretty much settled my mind about it, so here goes.
Wednesday of last week, I made an impulsive and unannounced visit to Roman. I knew he would be teaching a morning class in Wappingers that day, and he'd been under so much pressure lately, I was worried about him. I wanted to see for myself how he was. I could meet him outside the building at noon, after class, but then he'd feel forced to make some excuse re lunch (he was headed back to LI that afternoon), so I decided to catch him on the break, which would be around 10:30 am, for maybe 15 minutes. No pressure, and a neat time limit.
I arrived at about 10:15 and sat on the floor in the hall with my book. He called the break at 10:45, and a few students left the room (I think there were three in the class). I walked into the room, and he was sitting in a student chair next to a woman about our age, and talking about his fancy new camera (the one I gave him less than two weeks before "taking a break", the gift he has not offered to return, the cad). He looked up and saw me, and turned beet red. I've never seen anyone, let alone him, so red. I don't know whether he was startled to see me, or whether he was embarrassed to be caught flirting, or to be caught talking about my gift so cavalierly to impress another woman. Whatever. It was actually kind of funny.
We moved to the other side of the room, where he told me the latest about his mother, and I told him he didn't have to worry about me messing him up with the other woman (the one at home, not the one in the classroom, but I didn't say that), and he hugged me, and then we moved out into the hall, where I got several more hugs, the cheek-to-cheek kind, and he even shifted his head a bit once and kissed me in front of my ear, which I wish he hadn't done, that's confusing. So I was satisfied - he looked very good, I could stop worrying about him. I was afraid he'd be all haggard.
I hope he realizes that I won't say anything to "her" about him and me, but by damn, if he picks up with another woman, I WILL tell "her"! At this point I'm sort of on her side, and if he screws around again, it's me and her against him, by damn!
I wonder now if he glances at the doorway every time he calls a break, and I wonder if it's with hope or dread. I really don't know which I'd prefer.
Fur Storage
You're supposed to care for your furs by putting them in a cool slightly humid fur vault over the summer. Then in the winter, you get them out to wear, and they'll be hanging in a closet in your house all winter. That doesn't make any sense to me.
I've got some pretty fox and mink jackets (and one full-length, full skin, fox coat that I can't wear because I look like a walking igloo in it), (and before you get all excited, I bought all of them used, at auctions, so I did not create a market, and I did not pay a lot, about 1/7 their retail value). Two years ago I looked into summer storage for them. Ick! It would cost over $300 for me to store them, and that didn't include the hats. That's when I started thinking about it, and decided the whole arrangement didn't make sense.
Hot dry air is bad for them, right? So in the summer, when your house is air conditioned and a bit humid, you pay to store them? And then in the winter, when your house is full of dry heated air, you hang them in your closet? That doesn't make sense to me. It's exactly backward. Maybe it made sense before air conditioning, but not now.
So I've set up a canvas wardrobe in the basement, and that's where they live all year round. The canvas breathes, it's cool all the time, and it's not exactly humid, but not as dry as upstairs.
So there, Ms. Oppenheimer!
Tuesday, January 24, 2006
#542 Limbo (the book....)
Tuesday 01/24/06
I am reading Limbo, subtitled Blue-Collar Roots, White-Collar Dreams, by Alfred Lubrano. It's about the role of class in American society, specifically about what happens to people from blue collar families when they cross over into a white collar life. Along with the different approach to college, the problems of "fitting in" socially, he points out that children of the working class are taught to "sit down and shut up", more so than children of the middle class. They expect conformity and supervision. In the working class home, there is less conversation, and what there is is more concrete, less about ideas and opinions than in a middle or upper class home. One is expected to "follow the line". This is powerfully reinforced by neighborhood peers.
College often opens their eyes. They go home with all kinds of new ideas and ways of thinking and looking at things, and it often causes them problems with the family.
As adults, people with blue collar roots tend to obey the rules, and rarely buck the system. They "talk straight", and expect straight talk, while in the white collar world, people rarely say what they mean.
I am only about a third of the way through the book, and my head is spinning.
My father was a officer in the Air Force. Through my high school years he was the base commander, which made us the top of the heap. Especially where we lived - on the top of a mountain in the middle of nowhere. Heck, when I was younger, he was with the embassy in Canada (he wore suits, not a uniform), and because my mother was intelligent and beautiful and a much admired hostess, I many times ate Sunday lunch at our dining room table with the ambassador, who frequently just "dropped in". So I thought that we were white collar, middle class.
I was wrong. And it explains so much.
Neither of my parents had gone to college. My father got into OTS and flight training school during WWII by scoring highest of the candidates on what was essentially an IQ test. My paternal grandfather was a traveling salesman, and my maternal grandfather was a railroad engineer (as in he drove the train, not designed it). So I come from solidly blue, thoroughly working class, collars, and I never realized it before.
I think a lot of my father's anger and frustration was due to the fact that he didn't fit in socially with the other officers, his peers. He just wasn't smooth enough, just didn't use the same vocabulary and approach. I know he was widely respected for his abilities, he was often sent to problem bases as temporary commander to straighten them out, and he worked on Project Bluebook for a while, and yet his promotions always took that little bit longer to come.
I recognize the resistance to college described by Lubrano. I went only because I won all those scholarships and grants. My parents didn't even consider college until after I won the awards, which meant I applied very late (June, to be exact) and wouldn't have gotten in were it not for my test scores. None of my four siblings went to college, although they were all capable of college work. As is pointed out in the book, a "real job" was considered more important.
I recognize in myself the traits common to what Lubrano calls the Straddlers - those who straddle the blue-white line.
Jay, on the other hand, was pure white collar, middle class. Maybe even upper class without the patrician overtones. He had that sense of entitlement. I am starting to understand now why some of the attitudes and thinking patterns in his family were so confusing and foreign to me.
Because, hey, I think blue collar. Wow. Who'd a thunk it!
I am reading Limbo, subtitled Blue-Collar Roots, White-Collar Dreams, by Alfred Lubrano. It's about the role of class in American society, specifically about what happens to people from blue collar families when they cross over into a white collar life. Along with the different approach to college, the problems of "fitting in" socially, he points out that children of the working class are taught to "sit down and shut up", more so than children of the middle class. They expect conformity and supervision. In the working class home, there is less conversation, and what there is is more concrete, less about ideas and opinions than in a middle or upper class home. One is expected to "follow the line". This is powerfully reinforced by neighborhood peers.
College often opens their eyes. They go home with all kinds of new ideas and ways of thinking and looking at things, and it often causes them problems with the family.
As adults, people with blue collar roots tend to obey the rules, and rarely buck the system. They "talk straight", and expect straight talk, while in the white collar world, people rarely say what they mean.
I am only about a third of the way through the book, and my head is spinning.
My father was a officer in the Air Force. Through my high school years he was the base commander, which made us the top of the heap. Especially where we lived - on the top of a mountain in the middle of nowhere. Heck, when I was younger, he was with the embassy in Canada (he wore suits, not a uniform), and because my mother was intelligent and beautiful and a much admired hostess, I many times ate Sunday lunch at our dining room table with the ambassador, who frequently just "dropped in". So I thought that we were white collar, middle class.
I was wrong. And it explains so much.
Neither of my parents had gone to college. My father got into OTS and flight training school during WWII by scoring highest of the candidates on what was essentially an IQ test. My paternal grandfather was a traveling salesman, and my maternal grandfather was a railroad engineer (as in he drove the train, not designed it). So I come from solidly blue, thoroughly working class, collars, and I never realized it before.
I think a lot of my father's anger and frustration was due to the fact that he didn't fit in socially with the other officers, his peers. He just wasn't smooth enough, just didn't use the same vocabulary and approach. I know he was widely respected for his abilities, he was often sent to problem bases as temporary commander to straighten them out, and he worked on Project Bluebook for a while, and yet his promotions always took that little bit longer to come.
I recognize the resistance to college described by Lubrano. I went only because I won all those scholarships and grants. My parents didn't even consider college until after I won the awards, which meant I applied very late (June, to be exact) and wouldn't have gotten in were it not for my test scores. None of my four siblings went to college, although they were all capable of college work. As is pointed out in the book, a "real job" was considered more important.
I recognize in myself the traits common to what Lubrano calls the Straddlers - those who straddle the blue-white line.
Jay, on the other hand, was pure white collar, middle class. Maybe even upper class without the patrician overtones. He had that sense of entitlement. I am starting to understand now why some of the attitudes and thinking patterns in his family were so confusing and foreign to me.
Because, hey, I think blue collar. Wow. Who'd a thunk it!
#541 Bits & Pieces
Tuesday 01/24/06
Tattoo Photos - Margaret Cho. She's finally done. Snake coiled around her middle, with peonies.
Stock Sale
Strength machines this morning, followed by lunch with Piper. I told him I sold a mess of Exxon Mobile yesterday as he had recommended (not without a lot of stomach clinches, scary scary), and he said the Exxon had jumped and I'm getting a better price than they had figured, so I'd better sell some IBM now to offset the Exxon and lower the capital gains tax. He thinks maybe IBM might rise a bit soon, and I'll want to sell it while it's low to take the loss.
Which I don't understand. Let's say the capital gains tax is 30%. So for every dollar loss on the IBM that I can deduct from the Exxon profits, I save $.30 on taxes. I get that. But let's pretend the IBM rises, and I don't get as big a loss on it. Let's say it goes up a dollar (but is still a loss, just a smaller loss). Doesn't that mean that I maybe don't save the $.30 tax I will have to pay on each dollar of the Exxon profits, but in total cash I'm still $.70 ahead for each of those dollars? Duh? What am I thinking wrong? I'm gonna have to drop in on him again tomorrow, I think. I think it might have to do with jumping brackets, maybe. He and Angel figured it pretty close.
But still, $.70? I don't think the bracket jump is that wide.
Wanted - An Intimate Friend
I found this in an old newspaper in the basement: "But oh, the blessing it is to have a friend to whom one can speak fearless on any subject, with whom one's deepest as well as one's most foolish thoughts come out simply and safely. Oh, the comfort - the inexpressible comfort of feeling safe with a person - having neither to weigh thoughts nor measure words, but pouring them all right out, just as they are, chaff and grain together, certain that a faithful hand will take and sift them, keep what is worth keeping, and then with the breath of kindness blow the rest away." From A Life for a Life, 1866, Dinah Maria Mulock Craik.
I want a one o' them. Maybe that's part of the purpose of this journal, to satisfy my need for someone I can talk to without having to keep the governor on the motor. Plus, if folks won't be kind enough to blow away the chaff, I can recant in here a day or two later, and it's right there together, so they can't claim they never heard it.
Mensa World Gathering
I registered yesterday for the Mensa World Gathering in Orlando in August. The gathering is seven days, but I reserved a room at the hotel (Disney's Coronado Springs Resort, near the Animal Kingdom) for ten days, thinking maybe I'll also "do" Disney after the gathering, and visit my siblings. I'm excited. The program is seven months from completion, but look at what they've got scheduled already: https://secure.us.mensa.org/members/wg06_proginfo.php
I have to decide whether I want to fly down, or drive. If I drive, it'll be cheaper, and I'll have my own vehicle for visiting, and I can play tourist on the way home, maybe visit some friends in GA and NC. But driving alone, it will probably take me a minimum of two days each way. Miss Thunderfoot won't speak to me when I get home. Gotta think about it.
Online Dating Update
My profile is still up on the online dating site. It's been viewed 118 times. That doesn't mean it turned up in searches 118 times, it means that 118 different people actually clicked on the thumbnail and went to look at the details. And if the viewer is also registered, I can go look at who looked at me.
What a mix! Why on earth would a 35-year-old hottie, who says he's looking for women 25-38, click on the photo of a 61-year-old woman? Doesn't he have anything better to look at? Almost 1/3 of the men who have checked out my profile are under 50, and looking for women their age. So I'm surprised to find them checking out me. Idle curiosity? If they got ME in their search, then they must have got a bazillion others. Shall I be flattered? Or should I be worried.
I have noticed that often when a man says he's looking for a woman about his age or a little younger, he has provided a photo. When he says he's looking for women in a VERY broad age range, he provides no photo. Makes ya wonder....
I've gotten ten or twelve expressions of interest, most from reasonable sounding guys, but almost all have been from too far away. I'm not interested in anything long distance. Even 50 miles is too far. I want somebody nearby that I can talk with and ram around with. I'm not desperate to find someone, anyone, somewhere, anywhere, who is anxious to get married. So I just reply with the distance problem. The few local guys who winked or sent email just didn't interest me, or, like the lawyer, started to smell funny.
Not a Joke
From a radio call-in show. If it were a joke, it would be a bad one, but it made me laugh.
Tattoo Photos - Margaret Cho. She's finally done. Snake coiled around her middle, with peonies.
Stock Sale
Strength machines this morning, followed by lunch with Piper. I told him I sold a mess of Exxon Mobile yesterday as he had recommended (not without a lot of stomach clinches, scary scary), and he said the Exxon had jumped and I'm getting a better price than they had figured, so I'd better sell some IBM now to offset the Exxon and lower the capital gains tax. He thinks maybe IBM might rise a bit soon, and I'll want to sell it while it's low to take the loss.
Which I don't understand. Let's say the capital gains tax is 30%. So for every dollar loss on the IBM that I can deduct from the Exxon profits, I save $.30 on taxes. I get that. But let's pretend the IBM rises, and I don't get as big a loss on it. Let's say it goes up a dollar (but is still a loss, just a smaller loss). Doesn't that mean that I maybe don't save the $.30 tax I will have to pay on each dollar of the Exxon profits, but in total cash I'm still $.70 ahead for each of those dollars? Duh? What am I thinking wrong? I'm gonna have to drop in on him again tomorrow, I think. I think it might have to do with jumping brackets, maybe. He and Angel figured it pretty close.
But still, $.70? I don't think the bracket jump is that wide.
Wanted - An Intimate Friend
I found this in an old newspaper in the basement: "But oh, the blessing it is to have a friend to whom one can speak fearless on any subject, with whom one's deepest as well as one's most foolish thoughts come out simply and safely. Oh, the comfort - the inexpressible comfort of feeling safe with a person - having neither to weigh thoughts nor measure words, but pouring them all right out, just as they are, chaff and grain together, certain that a faithful hand will take and sift them, keep what is worth keeping, and then with the breath of kindness blow the rest away." From A Life for a Life, 1866, Dinah Maria Mulock Craik.
I want a one o' them. Maybe that's part of the purpose of this journal, to satisfy my need for someone I can talk to without having to keep the governor on the motor. Plus, if folks won't be kind enough to blow away the chaff, I can recant in here a day or two later, and it's right there together, so they can't claim they never heard it.
Mensa World Gathering
I registered yesterday for the Mensa World Gathering in Orlando in August. The gathering is seven days, but I reserved a room at the hotel (Disney's Coronado Springs Resort, near the Animal Kingdom) for ten days, thinking maybe I'll also "do" Disney after the gathering, and visit my siblings. I'm excited. The program is seven months from completion, but look at what they've got scheduled already: https://secure.us.mensa.org/members/wg06_proginfo.php
I have to decide whether I want to fly down, or drive. If I drive, it'll be cheaper, and I'll have my own vehicle for visiting, and I can play tourist on the way home, maybe visit some friends in GA and NC. But driving alone, it will probably take me a minimum of two days each way. Miss Thunderfoot won't speak to me when I get home. Gotta think about it.
Online Dating Update
My profile is still up on the online dating site. It's been viewed 118 times. That doesn't mean it turned up in searches 118 times, it means that 118 different people actually clicked on the thumbnail and went to look at the details. And if the viewer is also registered, I can go look at who looked at me.
What a mix! Why on earth would a 35-year-old hottie, who says he's looking for women 25-38, click on the photo of a 61-year-old woman? Doesn't he have anything better to look at? Almost 1/3 of the men who have checked out my profile are under 50, and looking for women their age. So I'm surprised to find them checking out me. Idle curiosity? If they got ME in their search, then they must have got a bazillion others. Shall I be flattered? Or should I be worried.
I have noticed that often when a man says he's looking for a woman about his age or a little younger, he has provided a photo. When he says he's looking for women in a VERY broad age range, he provides no photo. Makes ya wonder....
I've gotten ten or twelve expressions of interest, most from reasonable sounding guys, but almost all have been from too far away. I'm not interested in anything long distance. Even 50 miles is too far. I want somebody nearby that I can talk with and ram around with. I'm not desperate to find someone, anyone, somewhere, anywhere, who is anxious to get married. So I just reply with the distance problem. The few local guys who winked or sent email just didn't interest me, or, like the lawyer, started to smell funny.
Not a Joke
From a radio call-in show. If it were a joke, it would be a bad one, but it made me laugh.
DARYL'S DRIVETIME, VIRGIN RADIO
Daryl Denham: In which country would you spend shekels?
Contestant: Holland?
Daryl Denham: Try the next letter of the alphabet.
Contestant: Iceland? Ireland?
Daryl Denham (helpfully): It's a bad line. Did you say
Israel?
Contestant: No.
Monday, January 23, 2006
#540 But...?
Roman called shortly after I finished the previous entry. He said something that startled me. There's so much backstory he hasn't told me. Gotta think about it for a while.
Then I went out to clear the driveway. It took two hours, because it was very wet and heavy, and when I was about halfway through it started drizzling, which made it harder. But I got it done. So freezing rain tonight won't hurt.
While I was walking up and down behind the machine, I got to thinking about "I love you, but ...." There are a lot of secondary clauses you can tack onto the end of that sentence, like "I love you, but I have to go to work." Or "I love you, but you've GOT to do something about your hair!" The first clause is a statement, and the second clause is also a statement, and rather than the second modifying the first, the first modifies the second. The first is strong. In almost all of the examples I could think of, they didn't have both the same subject (I) and object (you). The second clause veered. The two are not strongly related.
When the second clause is meant to modify the first, having the same subject and object, like "I love you, but I ... you", put almost anything in there, the second lessens the first, and usually negates the first. Negates because there should be no "but"s in love when the listener is expecting the romantic variety of the word. If you've got a "but" modifier in there, you aren't there yet. And it's unlikely you will ever get there.
"And"s are much nicer.
Off to shower. I'd still like to make it to the exercise machines today if I can.
Then I went out to clear the driveway. It took two hours, because it was very wet and heavy, and when I was about halfway through it started drizzling, which made it harder. But I got it done. So freezing rain tonight won't hurt.
While I was walking up and down behind the machine, I got to thinking about "I love you, but ...." There are a lot of secondary clauses you can tack onto the end of that sentence, like "I love you, but I have to go to work." Or "I love you, but you've GOT to do something about your hair!" The first clause is a statement, and the second clause is also a statement, and rather than the second modifying the first, the first modifies the second. The first is strong. In almost all of the examples I could think of, they didn't have both the same subject (I) and object (you). The second clause veered. The two are not strongly related.
When the second clause is meant to modify the first, having the same subject and object, like "I love you, but I ... you", put almost anything in there, the second lessens the first, and usually negates the first. Negates because there should be no "but"s in love when the listener is expecting the romantic variety of the word. If you've got a "but" modifier in there, you aren't there yet. And it's unlikely you will ever get there.
"And"s are much nicer.
Off to shower. I'd still like to make it to the exercise machines today if I can.
#539 What I Would Say to Her
Monday, 01/23/06
I got up early this morning to go to the spa and work on the machines, and found snow in the driveway. It's already above the floor of the van and still falling, so I guess I'm not going anywhere until it stops and I can clear it.
I got email from Roman last night, about 1:30 am. He has recanted on my sending flowers, says he "doesn't know why" he told me not to. I'm beginning to wonder if he might have some kind of split personality thing going. He so often says or does something, then later he's completely different. Even his face changes. I've often said to him "Is this you, or your twin brother?" Either that or he's reading this journal after he told me he doesn't. I really don't think he is. I don't know. I don't care about that any more. I had offered it to him as a way to "get to know the real me", but he wasn't interested. (Actually, what he said was "Why read it - you always tell me everything that's in it anyway.") If he's reading it now, it's not to know me, but to find out if I'm thinking of retaliation.
I want to stop writing about him and thinking about him, but he's still such a presence. It's just poke, poke, poke. I want some kind of resolution. He's so afraid I will contact "her" and tell her what's been going on. If he thinks that, he doesn't know me at all. I am very tempted to contact her, but not to destroy him. What I would say to her is:
Roman loves you very much.
He's very unhappy.
You have it within your power to make him happy.
He wants to be completely accepted into your life, but you are holding him off.
You are torturing him.
You have him in limbo.
If you love him completely, accept his offer.
If you don't love him completely, turn him loose.
But don't keep him dangling like this.
It's not fair to him.
I could do it. I know where to find her if I want to talk to her. I could write her a note. I could call her. But I probably won't. Not for a while, anyway. Not until after my feelings have changed. I reserve the right to change my mind. But mostly probably I won't.
Why?
Because there's three ways it can go. She accepts him fully, she turns him loose, or he eventually realizes she doesn't love him enough (which is my opinion, I think she likes him and finds him convenient, but not more than that) and he gives up on her.
If she accepts him fully, and they move in together and live happily ever after, I can handle that. I keep telling him all I want is for him to be happy, and that is absolutely true. I would be quite content with that result.
If she turns him loose, and if he then turns to me, I would have to reject him. Under those conditions I'd never be anything to him but second choice, and for my own health I can't allow him to do that to me. And that will tear me up.
If he eventually realizes that he can't get what he needs from her, and leaves her of his own accord, then I might consider starting over if he turns to me. Might. I don't know. I need honesty and openness, and I don't know if he's capable of learning that. He seems to me now to be naturally manipulative and duplicious. I don't think he even knows when he's doing it. Sometimes it's like the better part of himself (and there is a lot of "better part" to him) catches himself doing it and backs up, and that's when I see "the twin".
So anyway, there's nothing in it for me in contacting her, since if there was any result at all from what I'd have to say, it would be the first or second, and the second is just too painful for me to contemplate right now. Maybe it would be easier a long time from now, after I've moved on, but not now, not so soon.
So, Roman, if you're reading this, your secret is safe. Always was.
I got up early this morning to go to the spa and work on the machines, and found snow in the driveway. It's already above the floor of the van and still falling, so I guess I'm not going anywhere until it stops and I can clear it.
I got email from Roman last night, about 1:30 am. He has recanted on my sending flowers, says he "doesn't know why" he told me not to. I'm beginning to wonder if he might have some kind of split personality thing going. He so often says or does something, then later he's completely different. Even his face changes. I've often said to him "Is this you, or your twin brother?" Either that or he's reading this journal after he told me he doesn't. I really don't think he is. I don't know. I don't care about that any more. I had offered it to him as a way to "get to know the real me", but he wasn't interested. (Actually, what he said was "Why read it - you always tell me everything that's in it anyway.") If he's reading it now, it's not to know me, but to find out if I'm thinking of retaliation.
I want to stop writing about him and thinking about him, but he's still such a presence. It's just poke, poke, poke. I want some kind of resolution. He's so afraid I will contact "her" and tell her what's been going on. If he thinks that, he doesn't know me at all. I am very tempted to contact her, but not to destroy him. What I would say to her is:
Roman loves you very much.
He's very unhappy.
You have it within your power to make him happy.
He wants to be completely accepted into your life, but you are holding him off.
You are torturing him.
You have him in limbo.
If you love him completely, accept his offer.
If you don't love him completely, turn him loose.
But don't keep him dangling like this.
It's not fair to him.
I could do it. I know where to find her if I want to talk to her. I could write her a note. I could call her. But I probably won't. Not for a while, anyway. Not until after my feelings have changed. I reserve the right to change my mind. But mostly probably I won't.
Why?
Because there's three ways it can go. She accepts him fully, she turns him loose, or he eventually realizes she doesn't love him enough (which is my opinion, I think she likes him and finds him convenient, but not more than that) and he gives up on her.
If she accepts him fully, and they move in together and live happily ever after, I can handle that. I keep telling him all I want is for him to be happy, and that is absolutely true. I would be quite content with that result.
If she turns him loose, and if he then turns to me, I would have to reject him. Under those conditions I'd never be anything to him but second choice, and for my own health I can't allow him to do that to me. And that will tear me up.
If he eventually realizes that he can't get what he needs from her, and leaves her of his own accord, then I might consider starting over if he turns to me. Might. I don't know. I need honesty and openness, and I don't know if he's capable of learning that. He seems to me now to be naturally manipulative and duplicious. I don't think he even knows when he's doing it. Sometimes it's like the better part of himself (and there is a lot of "better part" to him) catches himself doing it and backs up, and that's when I see "the twin".
So anyway, there's nothing in it for me in contacting her, since if there was any result at all from what I'd have to say, it would be the first or second, and the second is just too painful for me to contemplate right now. Maybe it would be easier a long time from now, after I've moved on, but not now, not so soon.
So, Roman, if you're reading this, your secret is safe. Always was.
Sunday, January 22, 2006
#538 Comments, and Dreams
Sunday 01/22/06
I got a comment from Patrick, of Patrick's Place, on entry #522, telling me how to find the missing comments. (Wow! Patrick visited my journal? Even if it was just that entry, I'm flattered!) I did as he said, and I found all the lost comments, including the one on #509 from Little Red (thank you for your sympathy), some spam comments, and I few I need to respond to via email. So thank you, Patrick.
There was also a "lost" comment from Gabreael of Gabreael's Mind, Body, & Spirit on entry #518 Scary Dream, wherein she points out that a house usually represents us or our family situation.
Yeah, I knew that. But I've also found that sometimes, where dream interpretation is concerned, you know darn well what it's all about, it should be clear as day, but things will still obstinately hide from you for a while.
When I was waiting for the oil change the other day, there was a young man in the waiting room who was on the cell phone constantly. He was speaking Russian in all the calls he made. I was even able to understand a few things he said from having heard some of the older folks, back when I lived on the mountain in high school. And as I sat there, I realized that the man in the dream in entry #518 was speaking Russian.
I should have recognized it right away in the dream, but I guess I hid it.
Roman had told me his people were from Russia.
The man who was trying to get into my house was smallish and thin and dirty. Roman is not tall, but he's a bit stocky, and he smells good even after getting sweaty and not having had a shower in 36 hours (sigh...). So I think the dream man was not so much Roman himself as the situation we're in - me (small), him (Russian), her (thin), the triangle (disheveled and dirty).
Ever since he had confessed his duplicity in early November, I haven't like the way I'd been feeling. I didn't like the thoughts I had or the way I was acting. I'd never really had any experience with jealousy before, and I didn't know how to handle it. By that first week in January I was beginning to not like me. I was losing respect for myself.
For me, if you know anything about my background or history, losing love or respect for myself is not a momentary problem or a trivial thing, something I can get back easily. There was a period in my life when I had no self respect, when I was sure that there was something horribly wrong with me, that everything that went wrong anywhere around me was obviously my fault, that I was unloveable, and I deserved nothing. It took me a long time, several years of therapy and hard work, to learn that I am not a bad person, that I am important, that it is possible to love me, and that I do deserve love.
I had that dream Sunday night/Monday morning, before the Monday night I last stayed over with him.
That Monday and Tuesday I was with him, several hurtful things happened, and as usual I stood there and took it. Then Tuesday afternoon I had a flashback to a very nasty time of my life, and then and there I realized that if he didn't love and respect me enough to protect me from these hurts, then it was up to me to love and respect and protect me.
That evening as soon as I got home I wrote the email to him suggesting a backing-off, and the next evening he suggested "the break", and I was fine with that. (Well, not fine, but accepting that this is what has to be. Otherwise the me I know and love dies.)
It took me until Tuesday to get to that point, but the dream shows I was already aware that the situation was trying to break into me and harm me, and that I was going to have to do something. The weird thing is, why bother with the dream? I did consciously already know.
I got a comment from Patrick, of Patrick's Place, on entry #522, telling me how to find the missing comments. (Wow! Patrick visited my journal? Even if it was just that entry, I'm flattered!) I did as he said, and I found all the lost comments, including the one on #509 from Little Red (thank you for your sympathy), some spam comments, and I few I need to respond to via email. So thank you, Patrick.
There was also a "lost" comment from Gabreael of Gabreael's Mind, Body, & Spirit on entry #518 Scary Dream, wherein she points out that a house usually represents us or our family situation.
Yeah, I knew that. But I've also found that sometimes, where dream interpretation is concerned, you know darn well what it's all about, it should be clear as day, but things will still obstinately hide from you for a while.
When I was waiting for the oil change the other day, there was a young man in the waiting room who was on the cell phone constantly. He was speaking Russian in all the calls he made. I was even able to understand a few things he said from having heard some of the older folks, back when I lived on the mountain in high school. And as I sat there, I realized that the man in the dream in entry #518 was speaking Russian.
I should have recognized it right away in the dream, but I guess I hid it.
Roman had told me his people were from Russia.
The man who was trying to get into my house was smallish and thin and dirty. Roman is not tall, but he's a bit stocky, and he smells good even after getting sweaty and not having had a shower in 36 hours (sigh...). So I think the dream man was not so much Roman himself as the situation we're in - me (small), him (Russian), her (thin), the triangle (disheveled and dirty).
Ever since he had confessed his duplicity in early November, I haven't like the way I'd been feeling. I didn't like the thoughts I had or the way I was acting. I'd never really had any experience with jealousy before, and I didn't know how to handle it. By that first week in January I was beginning to not like me. I was losing respect for myself.
For me, if you know anything about my background or history, losing love or respect for myself is not a momentary problem or a trivial thing, something I can get back easily. There was a period in my life when I had no self respect, when I was sure that there was something horribly wrong with me, that everything that went wrong anywhere around me was obviously my fault, that I was unloveable, and I deserved nothing. It took me a long time, several years of therapy and hard work, to learn that I am not a bad person, that I am important, that it is possible to love me, and that I do deserve love.
I had that dream Sunday night/Monday morning, before the Monday night I last stayed over with him.
That Monday and Tuesday I was with him, several hurtful things happened, and as usual I stood there and took it. Then Tuesday afternoon I had a flashback to a very nasty time of my life, and then and there I realized that if he didn't love and respect me enough to protect me from these hurts, then it was up to me to love and respect and protect me.
That evening as soon as I got home I wrote the email to him suggesting a backing-off, and the next evening he suggested "the break", and I was fine with that. (Well, not fine, but accepting that this is what has to be. Otherwise the me I know and love dies.)
It took me until Tuesday to get to that point, but the dream shows I was already aware that the situation was trying to break into me and harm me, and that I was going to have to do something. The weird thing is, why bother with the dream? I did consciously already know.
Saturday, January 21, 2006
#537 Weight Update
Pretty much holding steady this past week. I guess last week's Funny Cide ice cream and this week's Third Thurday dinner have taken effect. Funniest thing - my underpants are getting baggy in the seat, and the crotch is kinda drooping. And yet, when I look in the mirror, I still see no difference. Maybe there is a little anorexia going on. Distorted body image and all that.
#536 Impotent Anger
Saturday, 4:00 pm..
More wind. PC keeps bouncing. Odd, because usually it's the microwave that's most sensitive. This time it's the PC that goes down, and the microwave clock is still ok.
I took stuff to the recycle center this morning, and I was carrying a load of cut-up cardboard when a gust of wind came up especially strongly, and literally blew me over. I'm afraid to try to get those panes of glass out of the van.
I hate wind.
I have done absolutely nothing today. I spent most of the morning and early afternoon writing an angry email to Roman, and now I don't want to send it. Cooling off period. I might still hand it to him next time I see him. We have GOT to sit down and get this over with. We are not going to be able to avoid each other, so we have to set some ground rules.
I'm just not sure what they should be.
More wind. PC keeps bouncing. Odd, because usually it's the microwave that's most sensitive. This time it's the PC that goes down, and the microwave clock is still ok.
I took stuff to the recycle center this morning, and I was carrying a load of cut-up cardboard when a gust of wind came up especially strongly, and literally blew me over. I'm afraid to try to get those panes of glass out of the van.
I hate wind.
I have done absolutely nothing today. I spent most of the morning and early afternoon writing an angry email to Roman, and now I don't want to send it. Cooling off period. I might still hand it to him next time I see him. We have GOT to sit down and get this over with. We are not going to be able to avoid each other, so we have to set some ground rules.
I'm just not sure what they should be.
Friday, January 20, 2006
#534 Strength Training!
I went to the Mensa dinner last night. There were eight of us, and it was a good group. After dinner, four of us went to the gilded Otter in New Paltz to play in some kind of national trivia thingy - I don't know what it's officially called, but there is a screen, and multiple choice questions, and you choose your answers on a keypad. I didn't do so well because I have trouble translating from my brain to my fingers, and I kept forgetting that I could change my answers. Next time...! There's a Mensa group that competes as a team in a particular bar in NYC, and they are always in the top several nationally, so we are toying with the idea of a field trip down there to meet them. Just that Thursdays could be difficult for those who have to go to work the next day.
When we left the restaurant to go to New Paltz, one of the guys asked if I wanted to ride with him, and he'd bring me back to my car afterwards. Stupid me, I said no, it's easiest for me to go home up the thruway from New Paltz. He's 45ish and and it's highly unlikely there was anything else in mind, but conversation and getting to know him better would have been nice. I need a few more male friends - male viewpoints and so on.
This morning I checked out the spa in the village. It's not like a gym - they have no treadmills (and no males, thank you) - what they have is a series of machines, each geared to work on a separate set of muscles, and you move from station to station at a set rate, to a music tape. I got a free week's trial. So I went this morning, just to see if I could do it. It was ok. I plan to go every morning for the week and see how it goes.
I was surprised to find that my left arm is a lot weaker than my right. My left leg is also weaker than the right, but that's the hip that gives me the most trouble, so that didn't surprise me.
Then I ran a bunch of errands. I got a new burn permit, picked up some new tapes for the phone machine (the 8-year old tape is getting stretched), bought and mailed some postcards for the son of a friend of a friend who is in some kind of postcard competition, bought some furnace filters, got the van a checkup and the oil changed, went to the grocery store, and some other stuff I can't remember right off. It was like 55 degrees with no wind, so it was nice to be out.
I got home around two, and found a half-hour old message on the tape from Roman. His mother is progressing, not as quickly as they had hoped, but he's satisfied that she's looking and sounding better. He said in his message he'd call again later today, and hoped I'd be in. He confuses me. I don't understand. I guess this is also strength training.
Later edit - He did call again in the evening. I was surprised that he did. I told him about dinner last night. He said he really wanted to attend, but the aide who was supposed to come to care for his father never showed up, so he was unable to leave. I was surprised to hear that he wanted to attend, since he would have had to return either that night or the next morning. That's a long round-trip drive just for dinner in a mediocre restaurant. He confuses me. I don't understand.
The town has a new bee in their bonnets - they plan to impose a 2% tax on all home sales in the town, on the amounts over the median sale price for homes in the county. The county median is $380,000 (ouch! That's twice what it was before 9/11.). The money would then be used to purchase the development rights on farmland in the town.
Quick tutorial for those not familiar with New York local governments: Municipalities are hamlets, villages, and cities. A "town" is like a sub-division of a county, and may include multiple hamlets, villages, and cities. The town board handles things like zoning, snowplowing, garbage collection, fire fighting, and such outside the individual municipalities (which usually, around here, means the rural areas). For example, I used to live just outside the village of Highland, in the town of Lloyd, in the county of Ulster. My address, however, was Highland.
Since 9/11/01, folks have been spreading up and out from NYC, driving up housing prices as they go. In the past few years, many have actually moved all the way up here (a 2.5 hour commute to Manhattan!). They buy here because they love the rural aspects - the vineyards, orchards, horses, and farms - and they seem determined to keep it that way. There isn't a single fast food joint within 13 miles of the village on this side of the river, and no place to buy a pair of stockings. (Woe to you if you get hungry after 9 pm and there's nothing at home. There's nothing open.) The original residents wouldn't mind a few conveniences, but pretty soon it won't matter to them, because they can't afford to live here any longer. The traffic in the village is getting horrible. It's near impossible to turn left during the day anymore, and because the village doesn't have real "blocks", or even cross streets, it's not like you can make three rights to make a left. It's all very strange. Well, just another thing I don't understand.
Oh, I found out at the exercise place why I haven't seen girl scout cookies in ages - the girls aren't allowed to sell door-to-door any more. Sheesh!
When we left the restaurant to go to New Paltz, one of the guys asked if I wanted to ride with him, and he'd bring me back to my car afterwards. Stupid me, I said no, it's easiest for me to go home up the thruway from New Paltz. He's 45ish and and it's highly unlikely there was anything else in mind, but conversation and getting to know him better would have been nice. I need a few more male friends - male viewpoints and so on.
This morning I checked out the spa in the village. It's not like a gym - they have no treadmills (and no males, thank you) - what they have is a series of machines, each geared to work on a separate set of muscles, and you move from station to station at a set rate, to a music tape. I got a free week's trial. So I went this morning, just to see if I could do it. It was ok. I plan to go every morning for the week and see how it goes.
I was surprised to find that my left arm is a lot weaker than my right. My left leg is also weaker than the right, but that's the hip that gives me the most trouble, so that didn't surprise me.
Then I ran a bunch of errands. I got a new burn permit, picked up some new tapes for the phone machine (the 8-year old tape is getting stretched), bought and mailed some postcards for the son of a friend of a friend who is in some kind of postcard competition, bought some furnace filters, got the van a checkup and the oil changed, went to the grocery store, and some other stuff I can't remember right off. It was like 55 degrees with no wind, so it was nice to be out.
I got home around two, and found a half-hour old message on the tape from Roman. His mother is progressing, not as quickly as they had hoped, but he's satisfied that she's looking and sounding better. He said in his message he'd call again later today, and hoped I'd be in. He confuses me. I don't understand. I guess this is also strength training.
Later edit - He did call again in the evening. I was surprised that he did. I told him about dinner last night. He said he really wanted to attend, but the aide who was supposed to come to care for his father never showed up, so he was unable to leave. I was surprised to hear that he wanted to attend, since he would have had to return either that night or the next morning. That's a long round-trip drive just for dinner in a mediocre restaurant. He confuses me. I don't understand.
The town has a new bee in their bonnets - they plan to impose a 2% tax on all home sales in the town, on the amounts over the median sale price for homes in the county. The county median is $380,000 (ouch! That's twice what it was before 9/11.). The money would then be used to purchase the development rights on farmland in the town.
Quick tutorial for those not familiar with New York local governments: Municipalities are hamlets, villages, and cities. A "town" is like a sub-division of a county, and may include multiple hamlets, villages, and cities. The town board handles things like zoning, snowplowing, garbage collection, fire fighting, and such outside the individual municipalities (which usually, around here, means the rural areas). For example, I used to live just outside the village of Highland, in the town of Lloyd, in the county of Ulster. My address, however, was Highland.
Since 9/11/01, folks have been spreading up and out from NYC, driving up housing prices as they go. In the past few years, many have actually moved all the way up here (a 2.5 hour commute to Manhattan!). They buy here because they love the rural aspects - the vineyards, orchards, horses, and farms - and they seem determined to keep it that way. There isn't a single fast food joint within 13 miles of the village on this side of the river, and no place to buy a pair of stockings. (Woe to you if you get hungry after 9 pm and there's nothing at home. There's nothing open.) The original residents wouldn't mind a few conveniences, but pretty soon it won't matter to them, because they can't afford to live here any longer. The traffic in the village is getting horrible. It's near impossible to turn left during the day anymore, and because the village doesn't have real "blocks", or even cross streets, it's not like you can make three rights to make a left. It's all very strange. Well, just another thing I don't understand.
Oh, I found out at the exercise place why I haven't seen girl scout cookies in ages - the girls aren't allowed to sell door-to-door any more. Sheesh!
Thursday, January 19, 2006
#533 Realization
AOL (and the whole machine, for that matter) was so very healthy last night, I don't understand why I got the "full connection cannot be established" message again this morning. Bleck. Something's slightly off.
The van finally got its alignment this morning, and I picked up the new glass for the CD cabinet doors (both original pieces were broken in shipment, which I didn't find out until Monday evening, when I went to install the glass), so at least some things are progressing.
Mensa dinner this evening. It's going to be the last dinner for one of our members who is moving away, so there should be a lot of people there.
---------------------------------------------------
The realization.
I have finally faced the reason why I was so depressed for so long (four years) after Jay died.
I think I accidentally killed him.
I cared for him alone, and I did it so well the visiting nurses were impressed. I turned him and packed pillows around him, so he never got any bed sores, not even on his heels, which impressed the nurses. I exercised his arms and legs, and worked his hands and feet, so he never completely wasted, and his tendons didn't shorten. I kept track of the pressure in his brain (which could be sensed through the reservoir implant in his skull) and adjusted his steroids accordingly. I gave him eight different medications on eight different schedules, requiring different food timings. I gave him injections of anti-clotting meds every day. I washed his lower body several times a day and changed and laundered linens usually several times a day. A nurse came once a week to monitor him and take blood for Dilantin levels, and an aide came twice a week for an hour or two to wash his hair and beard, and to allow me to run errands. I spoon-fed him, and held his sippy cups, and monitored his solid and fluid intake, adjusting for bouts of violent nausea. I washed the walls when we had projectile vomiting.
I learned how to use the Hoyer lift to get him from the bed to the wheelchair and back. I learned the fireman's lift to get him off the floor when he tried to get out of the bed or chair and fell.
When he had a bad case of candida albicans at both ends and the medicine the doctor prescribed made him throw up (and throwing up was very serious because it screwed up his meds and could cause an avalanche effect), I researched the subject and found gentian violet, and it worked, and the nurses were amazed. I never left the bedroom for more than ten minutes, since that was the limit of his memory and he got frightened if he didn't know where I was. I read to him for hours at a time. I reassured him during delusions and frightening hallucinations.
But mostly, I just loved him.
The immunotherapy he'd had seemed to be working. The tumor seemed to have stopped growing. But because it was so experimental, they had accepted only candidates who had failed all other therapy and were in pretty bad shape to begin with. It was I who discovered the major flaw in the therapy - the sensitized white blood cells attacked nerve linings as well as the tumor, and essentially gave the patients multiple sclerosis. That's what had blinded Jay.
So, with the reevaluation of the clinical trial and his own weakness, he was no longer getting the immunotherapy, but the tumor had stopped growing. With excellent care, he probably could have lived longer. He was weak, blind, paralyzed on one side, with hallucinations and delusions, and no short term memory - but he never gave up his plan to beat the tumor and return to full function.
What happened?
I screwed up.
When you lie for months with little activity, and especially when the brain is no longer talking to one half of your body, certain physical functions no longer work as well as normal. I kept him full of psycillium to keep things soft and moving, and mostly it worked, but every so often there were rocks that wouldn't go that last inch or two. Then it was necessary to take things into one's own hands, literally. It was the only way. (Lest any nurses out there worry about the "spinal feedback" problem, remember his paralysis was due to a brain malfunction, not a spinal injury, so it was ok. He couldn't have a water enema because that would increase intracranial pressure, and oil didn't do anything, since it didn't soften things and the problem was mainly due to a lack of muscle pressure.)
I had done it many times. Once, when he was staying at a nursing facility in Staten Island while he was getting treatment at a nearby hospital, I had just arrived home from spending the day with him when he called from his room and begged me to come back (a 2+ hour drive), and "fix it". I got there at midnight and sneaked in when the nursing shift changed, and went to his room. When the nurses found out what I intended to do, they had a fit (they were hung up on the spinal feedback thing), then I found out that the records showed he hadn't had a bowel movement for ten days while under their care, so I told them they could either call the cops and have me dragged out, in which case I would tell the world about the ten days, or they could turn around and walk away. Then I simply closed the door and did it.
So anyway, this day at home, I did the thing. Usually it was possible to squish the rock, or split it in two, or if it was small just wiggle it out. But this time there was a particularly large and very hard rock. It wouldn't split, and it wouldn't squish. No amount of lubricant helped. I think I tried too hard. When it finally did appear, there were blood traces on it.
When the visiting nurse came the next day, I told her, and she said no big deal. The day after that, his kidneys quit, and then he became sluggish and feverish, and then it got really serious. We moved him to a hospice room in the local hospital. I moved in, too. Every three days someone would relieve me for an hour while I ran home to shower and feed the cat.
Seven days later he died in my arms.
It was always so ironic to me that it wasn't the tumor that killed him - not directly - it was a massive systemic infection that caused all his organs to shut down, one by one. Because he was under hospice care, no one did a culture to identify the infectious agent.
I think it was always in the back of my mind where he got that infection. I never allowed it to move to the front. It was only this week that the thought took shape consciously. But it explains why I was so very depressed for so very long.
I think I screwed up.
A small tear in the tissues probably would not have been a problem (his immune system was not depressed, even after all the chemo, probably because of the treatments during the immunotherapy), but I'll bet it wasn't a bacteria that got in.
I'll bet it was the candida albicans that got him. His alimentary canal was full of it. And I opened a door to let it in the rest of the way.
Having brought it up front, I think I can finally let it go. I did a good job. I tried. I made a tragic mistake. But maybe it was meant to happen, because there really wasn't any other possible outcome. It was an accident on my part, but maybe in the greater plan, it wasn't an accident.
The van finally got its alignment this morning, and I picked up the new glass for the CD cabinet doors (both original pieces were broken in shipment, which I didn't find out until Monday evening, when I went to install the glass), so at least some things are progressing.
Mensa dinner this evening. It's going to be the last dinner for one of our members who is moving away, so there should be a lot of people there.
---------------------------------------------------
The realization.
I have finally faced the reason why I was so depressed for so long (four years) after Jay died.
I think I accidentally killed him.
I cared for him alone, and I did it so well the visiting nurses were impressed. I turned him and packed pillows around him, so he never got any bed sores, not even on his heels, which impressed the nurses. I exercised his arms and legs, and worked his hands and feet, so he never completely wasted, and his tendons didn't shorten. I kept track of the pressure in his brain (which could be sensed through the reservoir implant in his skull) and adjusted his steroids accordingly. I gave him eight different medications on eight different schedules, requiring different food timings. I gave him injections of anti-clotting meds every day. I washed his lower body several times a day and changed and laundered linens usually several times a day. A nurse came once a week to monitor him and take blood for Dilantin levels, and an aide came twice a week for an hour or two to wash his hair and beard, and to allow me to run errands. I spoon-fed him, and held his sippy cups, and monitored his solid and fluid intake, adjusting for bouts of violent nausea. I washed the walls when we had projectile vomiting.
I learned how to use the Hoyer lift to get him from the bed to the wheelchair and back. I learned the fireman's lift to get him off the floor when he tried to get out of the bed or chair and fell.
When he had a bad case of candida albicans at both ends and the medicine the doctor prescribed made him throw up (and throwing up was very serious because it screwed up his meds and could cause an avalanche effect), I researched the subject and found gentian violet, and it worked, and the nurses were amazed. I never left the bedroom for more than ten minutes, since that was the limit of his memory and he got frightened if he didn't know where I was. I read to him for hours at a time. I reassured him during delusions and frightening hallucinations.
But mostly, I just loved him.
The immunotherapy he'd had seemed to be working. The tumor seemed to have stopped growing. But because it was so experimental, they had accepted only candidates who had failed all other therapy and were in pretty bad shape to begin with. It was I who discovered the major flaw in the therapy - the sensitized white blood cells attacked nerve linings as well as the tumor, and essentially gave the patients multiple sclerosis. That's what had blinded Jay.
So, with the reevaluation of the clinical trial and his own weakness, he was no longer getting the immunotherapy, but the tumor had stopped growing. With excellent care, he probably could have lived longer. He was weak, blind, paralyzed on one side, with hallucinations and delusions, and no short term memory - but he never gave up his plan to beat the tumor and return to full function.
What happened?
I screwed up.
When you lie for months with little activity, and especially when the brain is no longer talking to one half of your body, certain physical functions no longer work as well as normal. I kept him full of psycillium to keep things soft and moving, and mostly it worked, but every so often there were rocks that wouldn't go that last inch or two. Then it was necessary to take things into one's own hands, literally. It was the only way. (Lest any nurses out there worry about the "spinal feedback" problem, remember his paralysis was due to a brain malfunction, not a spinal injury, so it was ok. He couldn't have a water enema because that would increase intracranial pressure, and oil didn't do anything, since it didn't soften things and the problem was mainly due to a lack of muscle pressure.)
I had done it many times. Once, when he was staying at a nursing facility in Staten Island while he was getting treatment at a nearby hospital, I had just arrived home from spending the day with him when he called from his room and begged me to come back (a 2+ hour drive), and "fix it". I got there at midnight and sneaked in when the nursing shift changed, and went to his room. When the nurses found out what I intended to do, they had a fit (they were hung up on the spinal feedback thing), then I found out that the records showed he hadn't had a bowel movement for ten days while under their care, so I told them they could either call the cops and have me dragged out, in which case I would tell the world about the ten days, or they could turn around and walk away. Then I simply closed the door and did it.
So anyway, this day at home, I did the thing. Usually it was possible to squish the rock, or split it in two, or if it was small just wiggle it out. But this time there was a particularly large and very hard rock. It wouldn't split, and it wouldn't squish. No amount of lubricant helped. I think I tried too hard. When it finally did appear, there were blood traces on it.
When the visiting nurse came the next day, I told her, and she said no big deal. The day after that, his kidneys quit, and then he became sluggish and feverish, and then it got really serious. We moved him to a hospice room in the local hospital. I moved in, too. Every three days someone would relieve me for an hour while I ran home to shower and feed the cat.
Seven days later he died in my arms.
It was always so ironic to me that it wasn't the tumor that killed him - not directly - it was a massive systemic infection that caused all his organs to shut down, one by one. Because he was under hospice care, no one did a culture to identify the infectious agent.
I think it was always in the back of my mind where he got that infection. I never allowed it to move to the front. It was only this week that the thought took shape consciously. But it explains why I was so very depressed for so very long.
I think I screwed up.
A small tear in the tissues probably would not have been a problem (his immune system was not depressed, even after all the chemo, probably because of the treatments during the immunotherapy), but I'll bet it wasn't a bacteria that got in.
I'll bet it was the candida albicans that got him. His alimentary canal was full of it. And I opened a door to let it in the rest of the way.
Having brought it up front, I think I can finally let it go. I did a good job. I tried. I made a tragic mistake. But maybe it was meant to happen, because there really wasn't any other possible outcome. It was an accident on my part, but maybe in the greater plan, it wasn't an accident.
Wednesday, January 18, 2006
#532 Everything Is Fixed!
I ran the special removal utility from Symantec, and now everything is not only working, the whole system is faster!
Of course, there was a hitch - you had to know what level of Norton Antivirus you STARTED with, because you had to uninstall them in order, from the bottom up. Duh? Jay first installed it, and I didn't have the faintest idea what he'd started with. So I just picked the one at the bottom of the list, and worked my way up. With a restart after every one. I guess it worked.
Now I'll have to run a McAfee scan to make sure that still works.
Of course, there was a hitch - you had to know what level of Norton Antivirus you STARTED with, because you had to uninstall them in order, from the bottom up. Duh? Jay first installed it, and I didn't have the faintest idea what he'd started with. So I just picked the one at the bottom of the list, and worked my way up. With a restart after every one. I guess it worked.
Now I'll have to run a McAfee scan to make sure that still works.
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