A Cranky Ol' Lady Goes a'Blogging

Off the Black & Townes Van Zandt

noreply@blogger.com (Cranky Ol' Lady) — Tue, 13 May 2008 20:10:00 +0000

I happened to catch this little indie film on TV recently, attracted by Nick Nolte. Some of the reviews have called it slow and boring, but I'd call it slow and reassuring. It's a film that finds something to love in a man who has completely fucked up his life and thrown in the towel. Losers aren't necessarily worthless and uninteresting. Sometimes life is just too hard. In this case, a young man in danger of falling out of life is rescued by the last sparkle of humanity in an old drunk who uses the boy on his way out. What makes the film special is its subtlety. The characters blunder on, oblivious to their story.

At the end of the film came a song that broke my heart wide open. The last time this happened I discovered Tom Waits. This time I found Townes Van Zandt. The song was "If I Needed You." As the song credits scrolled past, I noticed the the same "written and performed by" on several, but I hadn't heard them. (I rarely do in the midst of a film.) I rushed to google him and get my hands on this amazing song and whatever else he'd done.

Thus I learned the sad tale of Townes Van Zandt and found a long list of albums, but every time I listened to "If I Needed You" it was sung in a whimsical, wistful, upbeat fashion with playful guitar. Nice, but I was looking for the slow, sad, heartbreaking voice of a lost soul that I'd heard in the film. I cannot find it! Where is it? Granted, I didn't hear every track of the song on every album that includes it; I lost patience. There must be another way.

The soundtrack of the film is apparently not available. The only thing I can think of to do is get the DVD from Netflix and hope the extras will tell me something. I'll also get a chance to hear the other songs.

Are there other Townes Van Zandt fans out there who can help me find the version of "If I Needed You" that I am desperate to get my hands on? Help!

Lazy days

noreply@blogger.com (Cranky Ol' Lady) — Mon, 12 May 2008 21:52:00 +0000

The other day I decided to plop down in the shade in my back yard and watch birds. I didn't expect much. I'd only noticed the usual weedy birds in my yard before -- starlings, house sparrows, assorted blackbirds, mockingbirds, robins, pigeons. At least I could try to sort out the blackbirds and just watch everybody fool around. So, I was surprised when a brown bird with peachy orange on its belly wasn't a young robin after all. It had a rather stylish bearing when perched and was darting around in flycatchery fashion catching things in midair.

The novelty turned out to be a Say's phoebe, common around here but new to me and therefore a small thrill. Turns out now that this bird not only hangs around my yard daily but was nesting, as today she's feeding two fledglings perched on my electric box.

The nice thing about starting over in a new location is that so much is new to me. I get beginner thrills all over again.

Sadly, Starbucks doesn't want me after all. I got no call, and I'm "free to re-apply." I wonder if it's worth a try. Everybody tells me they don't see old fogies like me serving up coffee at Starbucks. Hmmm. Their loss.

Back to nature

noreply@blogger.com (Cranky Ol' Lady) — Thu, 08 May 2008 02:06:00 +0000

Feeling good again! After two weeks, my Monday night yoga class was a joy, even though it seemed we were trying to unscrew our thighbones from their sockets. It does feel great to do that, really.

Tuesday was a beautiful day, partly cloudy and temp only 82, perfect for a hike. I chose Dreamy Draw again, as by the time I got around to it there wasn't much time left in the day for driving. I was early enough to find a parking space, as most people seem to go there after work for a quickie.

This time I took the low trail first, through mesquites, smiling at the hummingbird who seemed to take a long time figuring out I wasn't a flowering shrub. Mourning doves were whizzing around every which way, one with a caterpillar dangling from its beak giving off a cozy family vibe. I don't quite see why the doves overwhelmingly dominate Dreamy Draw. I thought I'd see more different types of birds there. Pooh, there I was with my brand new binocs and not that much to see. I practiced my aim, getting the binoculars up to see the same place my eyes were seeing without them. I was way off; got better.

Then I started a long climb uphill. I was pleasantly surprised that my legs felt even stronger than the last time despite nearly two weeks of inactivity. The limitation was my breath, having to stop to pant long before my legs were tired. Still, I was able to hike about the same amount of time as before but without feeling exhausted at the end. That's improvement, today's soreness notwithstanding.

Sitting up top with my tuna sandwich and cashews, I resignedly watched the ubiquitous doves, then suddenly there were three going by with big white patches on the wings. It's been at least thirty years since I was a pretty good birder, so I had to think twice to realize this was not the old familiar mourning dove at all. In the Peterson guide for the west I found a whole page of doves & pigeons, including the white-winged dove that matched my memory of what I'd seen. Whee! A new species for me. (Hey, doves are pretty. No snickering please. Fortunately most of the oddballs in the book are only found around LA; less dove confusion for this recovering birder.)

Tonight, Bally's.

Home again, sneezing

noreply@blogger.com (Cranky Ol' Lady) — Sat, 03 May 2008 03:32:00 +0000

I went to Gainesville, Florida, to visit friends and came home with a sore throat and head cold. Damn!

When I say Gainesville, I really mean Lesbianville, as my old dear friend and her partner are lesbians, as are their friends. This time we did a lot of socializing: a birthday party, a lesbian variety show, a bird tour on a boat, a sweet coffee shop where friends gather, and we even flirted with a young kook of a waitress in a nice Italian restaurant.

The last time I visited I was a little jumpy about my marriage and fantasizing about some female action on the side. So, this time my friend had prepared the ground for me to hook up with one of her single friends. That was sweet, but I'm not in the mood for a fling any longer. Things are going so well with my guy that I'm finding great comfort in loyalty. Will it last?

I bought myself a nice, lightweight pair of binoculars before the bird trip. It's an investment in my back-to-nature movement, along with all the work to get my legs strong enough to really hike again. I learned to tell a few species of shorebirds apart, but the highpoint was a small flock of white pelicans. I had no idea the white ones are so huge! When they went airborne in synchrony, slow and graceful, I swooned with pleasure at the sight.

The plovers and sandpipers and other brown speckled things were like reading fine print, another category of pleasure but less glorious. We didn't see anything rare or even unusual. The guide said the tide was unusually high & early and the birds weren't where he usually finds them. (I thought tides were utterly predictable, so was he putting one over on us?) He said it was his worst bird tour ever, but I'm so out of practice I didn't notice. We had a great time zooming and pausing around this little key on the Gulf coast whose name I've already forgotten.

Now I'm allowing myself to be grumpy and lazy with my little head cold.

Shine a Light!

noreply@blogger.com (Cranky Ol' Lady) — Thu, 24 Apr 2008 10:40:00 +0000

Oh those Stones... I sat real close to the IMAX screen so I could drown myself in it. I could see right inside Mick Jagger's mouth to the inner surfaces of his teeth. They don't look so good on that side. Maybe I was too close.

Charlie Watts has the only real hair and looks so normal he's probably the looniest. The others are dyed. How they can strut around with their real faces and be afraid of gray hair is a mystery. Jagger's is wild chic, Richards has nappy bed hair, and Woods' impossibly sleek, shiny, thick, unmoving black locks must surely be a wig.

These guys are just totally awesome. I can't think of a better word. How can they be so old and so hot? Jagger isn't just energetic, he's muscular and flexible like a dancer or a yogi and aggressive like a fighter. He never smiles. Richards is like a gypsy, all smiles and bangles and rags with sweet secrets in his eyes. His eyeliner is spooky. Woods is hidden, just the guitar. He and Keith always have something going on. Watts is another country.

I love them, love them, love my idea of them, especially Keith, but I don't know them at all.

Thank you, Marty Scorsese.

Dog wash

noreply@blogger.com (Cranky Ol' Lady) — Sat, 19 Apr 2008 07:33:00 +0000

I did it. I took Homie to the self-service dog wash. It's a tossup who came out wetter, but I liked it. The best part is not having to bend over. The second-best part is controlled temperature water, just about body temperature, with a nifty sprayer that is just the right intensity and shuts off smoothly because it isn't corroded or cracked or stuck from being baked in the sun while wet and dirty. The third-best part was the plump soft-voiced gal with no hair who kept an eye on us and was always there when we needed something (like lifting).

Homie acted like he was expecting to be burned with cigarettes.

He was lifted into a metal box like an elevated horse trailer, the door closed behind him, his neck leashed to the wall. This is the me not bending over part. He went rigid and bent into a c-shape, butt against the wall farthest from me, his hind legs crouched into a Z like a Lipizzaner stallion. This made it hard for me to wash all sides of him. I had to put my arms around him and scoot him like a sofa.

They provided a nifty rubber curry comb to get as much hair out as possible before washing so it wouldn't clog the drain. Shampoo (very dilute) and conditioner were provided in squeeze bottles. As I worked away, Homie's hind legs unbent very, very, very slowly. By the time we got to the towel part, his favorite, he was almost normal. He leaped down on his own, neatly avoiding the towel laid out for him so he wouldn't slip.

Then came the drying room. I had tried using my hair dryer on Homie once at home. He wasn't having any. But here he was once again made helpless and choiceless. The room was filled with long countertops divided into three-sided cubicles. We lifted him into one and leashed him to the wall. There was a long hose and an electrical switch in each cubical. The air was only very slightly warm, though noisy. Homie was suspicious but had to admit it wasn't half bad.

The wash was $13, not unreasonable, especially when compared to me carrying jars of warm water from the kitchen to the back yard and bending double for half an hour for all those coolish months of weekly medicated baths for the Demodex. Of course I also picked up $20 worth of frozen raw bison & rabbit chunks on my way out. This was a result of my dog fart research, raw food recommended for their microbial contributions to gut health. Sure, they had beef and chicken for a little less, but why not go all the way? I know they have to cull the bison herd at that park in Oklahoma.

Thumbs up for the dog wash!

Oh, Starbucks!

noreply@blogger.com (Cranky Ol' Lady) — Fri, 18 Apr 2008 03:20:00 +0000

So far, my quest for a job at Starbucks is frustrating. I'm giving up on the one nearest my home after trying twice to apply.

They interview people in groups one day a week. I was instructed to show up any Wednesday between 3 pm and 5 pm. I showed up the next Wednesday at 4 pm, which in my reckoning is just about literally "between" 3 and 5, application in hand. Sorry, interviews are over. You should have been here at 3 pm. I looked so disappointed they gave my a free drink.

The following week, I showed up at exactly 3 pm. Oh, sorry, interviews are canceled today due to unforeseen circumstances. You should have called first to make sure.

You know, I was really sort of excited about the idea of working there. Now I'm feeling frustrated. What's with all the too-late should'a's?

I drove directly to another Starbucks and asked about applying for a job. This one has interviews from 5 to 7 pm on Tuesdays. Burned not once but twice, I probably sounded dopey asking if they meant I should show up at 5 pm and not between 5 and 7, and asking if I should call first to make sure. Oh, no! We do actually mean anytime between 5 and 7, and they never get cancelled!

Hmmmm. Does this Starbucks have better management than the other one?

I picked up a fresh application. On the first one I had been a bit sloppy about my work experience, thinking who cares what I did more than 20 years ago. I got the bug to do it right this time. By the time I had patched together my complete work history going back to 1967, it was three pages long, jumping back and forth from office work to biology work a half dozen times. Maybe I'll end up in the office instead of making coffee delights.

Dry heat & dog farts

noreply@blogger.com (Cranky Ol' Lady) — Mon, 14 Apr 2008 22:06:00 +0000

It's 96 F right now, with 4% relative humidity. I count the blessings of dry heat. The inside of my nose is bloody, crusty, and raw from drought-dust-allergy-induced picking and blowing and sneezing. But at least I don't have that awful sticky feeling all over, because my sweat dries up so fast I don't even know it's there. There is no risk of heat stroke because there is no way I'm going outside today any longer than it takes to scoot from air-conditioned car to air-condition post office or yoga class. Wait, my yoga class isn't air-conditioned! Oh, man. I have two hours to resolve the conflict.

After putting up with toxic dog farts for weeks and weeks, I finally did some research (i.e. googled it). I found a dog fart forum! Causes and cures are tossed back and forth along with quite original and entertaining descriptions of the phenomenon and its side effects. It's nice to know we are not alone.

I learned that old dogs get flabby gut muscles. Yes, my dog is old. I read that it's caused by using inferior dog food with too much corn and other grain fillers. Nope. It's gotten worse since I switched to Natural Balance or its Costco imitation (cause or timing? see below). Obese dog lacking exercise? Hell no. Skinny old dog who gets lots of walks and even gallops sometimes. On a fart-prone list by breed, boxer is number three. Damn. Drool + farts = no more boxers in this family!

I'm leaning toward the diminished gut microbe hypothysis. Bingo! Homie has been on antibiotics for several months, first with the Demodex infection, then after gum surgery (which can release loads of bacteria that seem to want to take the express train to the heart). There are two suggested strategies for supplementing gut microbes: yogurt & raw meat/organs. Yogurt is handy (kept on hand for fruit salads), and I don't trust grocery raw meats given the scandals around industrial-scale processing. But there's a dogfood company that sells frozen raw meat in owner-pleasing varieties such as venison and rabbit. I might try some of that myself.

After three yogurt-supplemented meals, I detect (unscientifically) a slight decrease in fart intensity and frequency. They no longer actually drive us to either leave the room or expel the dog from the room amid moans, gags, and expletives. I still want to try the raw meat, especially since one of the places in town that sells it also has a self-service dogwash.

Finally, a hike

noreply@blogger.com (Cranky Ol' Lady) — Sun, 13 Apr 2008 22:08:00 +0000

I've been back from Oklahoma weeks now, and I had sworn to keep on hiking after my great start there. I didn't. This past week, I totally fell off the wagon, not even going to Bally's or yoga classes. Yesterday I was raring to go, in fear of both loss of will and the onset of mid-90's temperatures predicted to start the next day.

I got a late start, which didn't matter, because I can't hike very far yet. I chose Dreamy Draw, an area in one of those Phoenix mountain preserves with lots of trails, bikes, joggers, etc. -- our version of Tulsa's Turkey Mountain.

It was a two-hour hike (okay, maybe 20 minutes of seated gazing included). I hate admitting it, but the first 15 minutes and the last 20 were awful. On a chunky gravel hilly trail in the biting sun, I start out grumpy & awkward, reliving my post-retirement psychological rejection of desert, my inner eyes and heart longing for the cool, wet, green Pacific northwest. But my house is not attracting prospective buyers yet, so I have to face up to serving more time. The sun hurts, it's 84 F, and the spring flowers are mostly already brown and brittle.

Then I saw an ocotillo in full flower, startling against the background of a thousand shades of grayish green and beige. I smiled.

I sat a while at the top of a rocky pimple, listening: rustlings in the breeze, insect sounds, bird calls, bicycle tires, clomp-clomp and a red-faced brown-skinned, sweaty jogger shouts a cheerful hi. Sitting and gazing is the best part of a hike. I can't look or listen very well while worrying about where to put my feet, not falling over, and panting. The eye-ear-brain symphony works best when the body is still. I can't pass up a view and a flat rock.

For the next hour or so, moving up and down moderate slopes with my new hi-tech walking stick was pure pleasure. Then I began to tire. Tired, I began to worry whether the path I was on would actually get me back to the parking lot before I ran out of steam. It did, barely. My face in the car mirror was frighteningly scarlet, even with sunscreen and plenty of water. My body ached and yearned for the horizontal.

Okay, I'm in lousy shape. The lazy bucket of KFC thighs and drumsticks fetched by my helpful partner hit the spot. It seemed like a logical balance for the huge salad I'd had for lunch. The vanilla swiss almond Haagen-Dazs was even better. Today I slept past noon and missed another yoga class. It's a struggle to be me.

Next career?

noreply@blogger.com (Cranky Ol' Lady) — Sat, 12 Apr 2008 08:37:00 +0000

I've enjoyed eight months of retirement traveling, loafing, reading, resting, exercising, yoga, films, TV, and figuring out I can actually live happily with my hubby again. It's been great.

I didn't think it would ever happen, but now I'm looking for something productive to do besides entertain myself. Some income to supplement my pension would be a godsend, especially while I reach toward the end of supporting my son while he is in school. I brought home applications for substitute teaching and office work, but after a week they are still on my desk, empty. It needs to be biology-related because I have some specialized background to give me a leg-up, and it needs to not be teaching. Meanwhile, I'm applying for a job at Starbucks. (Don't laugh, a guy wrote a book about it and was interviewed on NPR!)

So far I've checked out medical transcription and vet tech.

Working from home transcribing doctors' notes may sound boring to some, but I consider working from home a blessed refuge from organized environments with people I don't select all around me. And I love the language of science. I've started an online course on medical terminology and taken a couple of quizzes. It's kind of fun. I can earn certification at a local community college in maybe a year.

While I was spending a fortune at the doggie dentist the other day, I asked the vet tech how she liked her job and what she had to do to qualify. She had an unhappy face, but she said she absolutely loved the job, best thing she ever did, and it's where her heart is. I said something about animals being nicer to be around than a lot of people, and the tone of her response said I'd hit the nail on the head. I asked about injury risk, and she described how it took four of them to hold down a police dog to give him a pill. The muzzle is a great invention. Turns out you can go to school, or you can just start in cleaning cages and work up. I checked that out, and it's true.

Hmmmm... I wonder if my local vet clinic (yes, the one who missed the Demodex) needs any help.

Discharge

noreply@blogger.com (Cranky Ol' Lady) — Fri, 11 Apr 2008 07:26:00 +0000

After the dental day, Tuesday, I came home exhausted. Since I hadn't really done anything but see a movie and visit a bookstore in lovely Gilbert, Arizona, I decided it must have been the stress of feeling guilty all day for not taking care of Homie's teeth and describing my guilt to everybody I met in the clinic. I also feared he would die from the anesthesia, which would be my fault.

I needed a good, old-fashioned discharge of all that stress. I keep vodka on hand for just such occasions. Oh, it was great. I fixed one drink after another, each one stronger than the last -- vodka and orange juice (natural, not from concentrate). My sweet hubby likes it when I get really drunk, once I get past the stage of tormenting him, laughing maniacally, and get to the horny stage. Whoopee!

Since then I've been a slug. Wednesday was "where am I?" day, and today (Thursday) was just plain lazy. I never got dressed, but I did pass the second quiz for my online medical terminology course. That's the only productive thing I did all day. Night-time was (I lost track of how many) episodes of Law & Order and CSI and a new ER. The last exercise I had was a Monday yoga class, and it wasn't very strenuous. Well, I'm making up for last week.

We dropped the price on the house $5000 and are hoping for somebody, please, anybody, to come and look at it this weekend. The temperature will be in the mid-90's by mid-week, and I just hate that.

I am a loyal fan of Philip Roth, but I am struggling to finish The Plot Against America. I like the premise, but it is too much like reading the newspaper.

Doggy dentist

noreply@blogger.com (Cranky Ol' Lady) — Thu, 10 Apr 2008 07:56:00 +0000

Yesterday I said good-bye to a little over $1200, my penance for neglecting my graying boxer's dental care for eleven years.

I had a dog, Lady, when I was a kid. I loved her more than people. She died of old age with all her teeth intact. Never did anyone suggest I brush her teeth or massage her gums with a washcloth. When the vet suggested a few years ago that I brush Homie's teeth and massage his gums, I drew back in distaste. Brush a dog's teeth? You gotta be nuts. People don't brush dogs' teeth! I never did.

Actually, turns out they do and I should'a.

Since he's old and has begun to go downhill a bit, the dermatologist who recommended the oral surgeon instead of my regular vet justified the added expense thus: expertise + laser = shorter time under general anesthesia + less bleeding + quicker recovery. Made sense to me. He did fine, feels great. He has a pain medication that (I'm told) tastes like honey. I confirm, it does smell like honey. He loves it and I'm jealous.

Now I can see his lower incisors, and my first thought upon seeing them was, "Omigod, he needs braces!"

Topsy turvy times

noreply@blogger.com (Cranky Ol' Lady) — Sun, 06 Apr 2008 20:57:00 +0000

Escape was wonderful. My cousin and I hiked all over Tulsa's Turkey Mountain, which she knows like the palm of her hand (see her blog). I counted eight hikes while I was there, a drastic change in my routine. I arrived with new hiking boots and bought a telescoping walking stick for the transition. We dodged bikers and joggers, as it's a well used "urban wilderness," but it's more nature than I've seen in a while so I'm not complaining. She makes the most of it, clear from her photos and observations. I'm humbled and admiring.

My long-distance husband arrived home from Ireland while I was gone, unexpected so soon. The immediate consequence was a foul-up with a realtor who wanted to show the house. This was not the best introduction to our reunion.

Coming home was a weird mixture of pleasure and aggravation. I'd been lord of the home for so long! Now I had to share the remote, look harder for solitude, watch the garbage sack fill daily instead of weekly, and so on. But I had sex, cuddling, someone to talk to, someone who fixes things, and I have to admit, a genuine sweetie working hard at pleasing me. For about a week I was rattled. I broke out in itchy bumps (eczema) and watched too many "Law and Order" reruns. He managed to lose the episodes of "In Treatment" that were recorded in my absence, filling up the DVR with endless repeats of six different shows HE wanted to watch. On the other hand, I accidentally caused his check for reinstatement of his nursing license to bounce.

It's been a couple of weeks now, and I am feeling happy and relaxed. We both are. It's working.

Running off to Oklahoma

noreply@blogger.com (Cranky Ol' Lady) — Fri, 29 Feb 2008 07:13:00 +0000

Man, am I overdosed on HOUSE. Even though most of the work was done by others, the work I did was enough to exhaust me.

I found a new bedspread, lovely and expensive, and I've already had to wipe dog drool off it. Really, there is no point trying to be clean around a drooly old boxer. I'm sure it's on the curtains also, which I hung at great cost in time and stress.

Every time I walk across the floor, even though it's just been cleaned, I find something to pick up or wipe off -- drool drops, clump of hair and dust, unidentifiable bits of whatever -- and I have to pick up doggie doo-doo from the yard before I leave tomorrow. I only pick up doggie doo-doo when we are out in public. In my mind, the yard belongs to the dog and his doo-doo, and I do not interfere in the relationship. I resent having to clean the yard of dogshit just so strangers can walk around in my grass and not go "Eeeww!"

The realtor took photos today. The painter/handyguy will come and do some more stuff while I am gone. I want out of here. I am so sick of feeling paranoid about clean. I can't wait to get to my cousin's cluttery house so I can relax.

I had a nap after the realtor left, in the middle of the day, which leaves me disoriented. Then I watched "Lost," a time-travel episode, and I got even more disoriented. Now I'm listening to new age relaxation music and finding myself. Any minute now I will start packing.

Ironing

noreply@blogger.com (Cranky Ol' Lady) — Wed, 27 Feb 2008 08:08:00 +0000

One window done. How long did that take?

I dragged my ironing board out of the garage, and of course the cover was filthy. I decided to wash it, but when I tried to pull it off it disintegrated in my hands. Hmmm, well, it's probably about 20 years old. So, off to Target, found another and also found dark blue stretchy sheets. Thinking that might go over better (for mass appeal) than my bright red ones, I bought them too. Only thing is, I'm way too tired to make the bed. Pictures tomorrow!

I found an iron and began to remember how to use it; it's probably been ten years. I added water and started on the first half-curtain. Or are they drapes when they go down to the floor? This was truly a tiresome chore. It took a while to pull it all together, i.e. how hot? how much steam? what's that white stuff the iron is leaving behind???

Who buys 100 percent cotton living room curtains and then washes them before hanging? Me. Brilliant. By the second piece, I had remembered how to iron and almost began to enjoy converting crinkles to smooth blue.

My problem is that this task took most of the day, and I still have to repeat it for the bedroom window and get done before the realtor gets here with her camera! Damn.

I'm exhausted, and after this I hire somebody to do this shit.

Home fitness test

noreply@blogger.com (Cranky Ol' Lady) — Wed, 27 Feb 2008 04:29:00 +0000

Now I know why I am fat. It's because I don't do housework. How do I know? Because today I did housework. Laundry, dusting, floors, and worst of all I'm trying to hang curtains.

First there is an extended period of preparation to overcome house inertia. Then, I do just a little and I have to rest. There is more resting than working, yet my body aches and I feel exhausted.

Part of it is psychological strain. I have a carefully cultivated state of learned helplessness. You would never imagine that this is the same person who used to do regular car tuneups and even a brake job (one time only). I have an electric drill. I even bought it myself years ago, pre-neurosis. I've used the drill to make holes to hang pictures. But I don't really know where the brackets should be hung for curtains -- how far above the top of the window, how far outside.

I hate guessing; it makes me sweat and swoon. Finally I just leaped blindly and marked spots for drilling. I should have drilled before I went for screws, but, what can I say, I didn't. So I didn't know for sure whether there was wood behind the drywall. I drove to to Ace Hardware to find out what kind of screws to buy. (Yes, I took the bracket with me. Genius!) I bought for both wood and no wood to cover my bases. Still I had to take them all back because the screws were too long. The drill hit hard stuff, the block wall of the house no doubt.

Brackets up, I turned to the curtains I'd bought at IKEA. I would have to custom cut them to the desired length. Sticky tape was included for easy hemming. I was warned to allow for shrinkage of 4% (about 4"). Brilliant me, I decided to just go ahead and wash them first to get the shrinkage over with. They looked a lot better before washing and drying. Now they are wrinkled as hell and need extensive ironing. Shit.

The iron is hot, so back I go. Rest is over.

Defeat of inertia

noreply@blogger.com (Cranky Ol' Lady) — Sat, 23 Feb 2008 02:29:00 +0000

Preparing to leave Arizona, I'm readying my house for sale. I should have engaged a live-in psychiatrist. Instead, I gave myself an arbitrary deadline by planning a trip to Oklahoma to visit my favorite relative. It almost worked; I had to give myself one additional week.

Typically, when I move through my house, I notice various things that need doing, acknowledge them, and forget about them. This has been going on for years. A year ago last summer, instead of slaving away to clean up a house I had grown to detest, I engaged a tiler and a painter and took off for Europe. When I returned, the house was beautiful, and my clutter was piled in back rooms that rarely came into my view. That was perfect. I left it there and proceeded to re-clutter.

Now I have been clutter-mining. Most goes to trash, recycle, or Goodwill. But sometimes I find clothes I had forgotten I owned or had given up finding, like my winter clothes, i.e. long sleeves and long nightgowns. It's a little like Christmas used to be, or like my childhood dreams. And then there are the piles from two dead mothers, never faced up to. It's easier now to throw it out.

I hired a team of cleaners. So far I've paid for 15 person-hours and they still aren't finished. I've even done a little myself. It's annoying to watch someone clean what I've just cleaned! Most of my contribution has been trashing and hauling, and today I am exhausted. The house is looking so good and feeling so pleasant that I really would like to stay a while instead of rushing off to Portland. I'm hoping that wears off. I catch myself putting clothes away instead of piling them a foot deep on my bed. I'm wiping up crumbs and straightening things like Mr. Monk. I empty the dishwasher after it is done, and I slowly add dirty dishes as they are produced. I never did that! I have always waited until the pile of dirty dishes exceeds counter capacity before emptying the dishwasher of clean ones, and by then there aren't many left in the dishwasher to remove.

This is so bizarre. I'd better get over this before I visit my cousin or she'll throw me out!

The joy of colonoscopy

noreply@blogger.com (Cranky Ol' Lady) — Wed, 13 Feb 2008 06:27:00 +0000

The actual procedure is lovely -- a really good nap!

Aaaah, but the prep is sooooooo disgusting.

2 days before at bedtime: Take three laxative tablets provided. This are individually packaged in a plastic-paper-aluminum foil combo that resists any and all conventional extraction techniques. I had to use my scissors to cut a semicircle around each tiny individual pill to extract it from its raised plastic bunker. Result: Rude awakening the next morning by stomach cramps and events requiring emergency sheet and nightgown washing. Don't even think about going back to bed.

1 day before: Clear liquid diet all day, and 1.5 oz of Fleet Phospho-soda at 2 pm. The ginger-lemon flavor on offer this time was fairly palatable. The day was filled with food discussions on NPR, food shows and commercials on TV, and barely aborted reachings for food or valentine chocolates approximately every 10 minutes. I sipped water, coffee, and apple juice. I became crankier by the hour, angrily famished and resentful. I shat dirty water at intervals that precluded going to bank and post office on the same trip. No way could I walk the dog, though he had been so excited the day before by chasing remote-controlled racing cars at the park that he spent most of this day standing in front of me and staring expectantly into my eyes instead of sleeping on the sofa as usual.

Day of: No more liquids, and 1.5 oz Phospho-soda at 4 am. Since this is roughly two hours past my usual bedtime, I decided that sleep was not an option. I worked on my giant jigsaw puzzle until 3 am, then set the alarm just in case and lay down in bed to watch TV. I had finally stopped pooping water. Then, at 4 am I drank the nasty stuff and by 4:30 was blasting away again. No rest for me, so I fed the dog at what he must have thought was the middle of the night. At 5:25 I called my son, who had agreed to take me since he was staying up all night anyhow writing a paper for school. He had forgotten all about it! He lives on the other side of town, but he made it in time for us to arrive only 15 minutes late for the 6:30 am appointment at outpatient services. Turns out it didn't matter at all being late. We could have arrived at 7 and still been okay. Then I got naked and gowned, got an IV and a heated blanket, rolled on my side to expose my buttocks to the positively frigid air, and promptly lost consciousness. Next thing I knew, I was wobbling out the door on my son's arm with visions of pancakes and maple syrup dancing in my head. But home again I had to lie down a bit first, and slept until 4:30 pm. I decided to breakfast on three cups of coffee and a salad of yogurt, tangelo, dried blueberries and walnuts, which soon had me blasting the toilet again. You know, I'm actually fairly intelligent most of the time. I don't know what I was thinking. I took the dog for a walk and very nearly didn't get home in time. I got the pants down fast enough but had to wash the toilet seat and back and take a shower. (Don't you love reading this?)

It's after midnight now, and I feel only a slight residual wooze from the morning fun. It's time to give my homely old pup his oily 1.4 mL of Demodex poison.

House vs puzzle

noreply@blogger.com (Cranky Ol' Lady) — Fri, 08 Feb 2008 21:19:00 +0000

The past two weeks have been dominated by my relationship with my house. Room by room, I slowly clear away clutter so somebody else can clean. It's like psychoanalysis for me, as every grudging step requires negotiation with my house-neurosis.

I resent the house with all its 1970's suburban tract deficiencies. I resent the mortgage. Selling it will be one of the happiest moments of my life. I do only the least possible cleaning required for sanitation, and sometimes less. I gave up the struggle of yardwork long ago. The endless battle with bermuda and scorching heat is futile and enraging. The consequences of my sloth rarely intrude on my peripheral vision, so I don't care. Now, suddenly, I have to see my house through the eyes of others. "Mom" is my realtor.

Paradoxically, the more clutter I clear, the better I feel. I can find things. The mounds on my desks are tossed or filed. My closets are cleared of all the clothes I rushed out and bought when I lost 35 pounds three years ago then gained it back a year and a half later. Lovely clothes, now available at the nearest Goodwill store. The foot-deep layer of clothes and books and magazines and occasional plates and forks is gone from atop my kingsize bed. And so on. Still, each room requires a period of building up the will to tackle it.

Only one room is left, my yoga room. The floor is half covered with all the junk I had to move out of my office so the tilers and painters could move the desks around. This was in summer 2006. The junk is so diverse and hard to classify that I'm repelled by it. Everything that came with every bit of electronic whatever I've ever bought. Pathetic plastic things bought to help me organize my desktops. Several shelf-feet of "Great Courses" audiotapes. Art prints bought on trips and never hung. And so on.

Clearing the dining room table of dust, photos, clothes hangers, old bills, plastic bags (one full of Cialis packets), and old plumbing gave me the opportunity to spread out my cherished 3,000-piece jigsaw puzzle of a geological map of France. I bought it years ago at the natural history museum in Paris. Time flies leaning over it into the wee hours of morning. I'm loving it.

One more room. Today? Tomorrow? I'm thinking about it. Meanwhile, there's a puzzle pulling me and a painter's color wheel from which I must choose a safe, neutral color to hide my tangerine bathroom walls and several shades of gray to make the wood and block exterior shout "buy me!"

I need to plant flowers.

Doggie dermatologist finds Demodex!

noreply@blogger.com (Cranky Ol' Lady) — Sat, 02 Feb 2008 07:08:00 +0000

After two months watching hair grow slowly, slowly, finally some real progress is at hand. My 11-year-old boxer, Homie, has visited the fountain of youth.

The thyroid medication added to two sulfur baths a week seemed to be clearing up Homie's skin problem slowly and giving him a bit more energy, so I'd about decided not to do the expensive allergy testing. But this last vet visit, there was a new doc, a sub. She took one look at Homie and said "Allergy dog!" So, I plunked down the $300 for testing and we gave blood. But she also referred us to a dermatology specialist.

Turns out that on the far back side of a huge complex of different types of human medical practice offices there is a little building occupied by veterinary specialists. Who'd a' thunk it? It was very much like going to see my own occasional specialist except that one office with a very long counter accommodated several different specialties, each with its own intake station. The waiting room was a lot more interesting, a bit like an all-breed dog show. I kept my distance from the jet black, long-legged, long-nosed weimeraner mix with the uneasy owner and a leash looped suspiciously around her muzzle.

The dermatologist was very young (probably fresh out of grad school), friendly, and sharp. She looked and listened, then shook her head and said, "Definitely not allergies, just doesn't fit." She whisked Homie into another room. When they came back, she had a big smile and a triumphant expression. "It's Demodex! Lots of them!" She invited me into the lab to look at it in the microscope.

Demodex is a genus of mites with elongated body and very stubby legs that lives in hair follicles. She drew me a little sketch of how they reproduce, fill up the follicle, and plug it. Heck, I know all about Demodex. There is a species that lives in human eyebrow and eyelash hair follicles. I used to always tell my squeamish students about them, how they crawl out of the follicles at night and have sex on our faces. The upside, I tell them, is that at least they don't poop on our faces because they have no anus!

Only when the immune system is compromised do they cause any problem, in dogs or us, because then their population growth explodes. Homie's low thyroid and the stress of being abandoned for so long while I took two long trips could have impaired his immune system, plus just being old.

So we went home with a nasty liquid medicine, two syringes for measuring and squirting it into his mouth, and a new medicated shampoo that flushes hair follicles (among other things). After two days he was clearly improving. We went back to the regular vet to have another thyroid test done (to see if his dose of medication is enough). We canceled the allergy testing and got my money back. Our regular sweetheart of a vet was so embarrassed at missing the Demodex and so happy that somebody found it that we all oooohed and aaaaahed over Homie for nearly an hour. We checked his weight and found that he had gained four pounds in two days and was back to his normal weight for the first time in over two months!

I'm so relieved. The toes on his front paws had been swollen and bright pink in between, and already they are getting skinny and less pink. Hair is filling in faster, his coat feels healthier, he is perkier, he licks less and gets comfortable faster when he lies down. Today he ran around in the park! He was having fun!

The dermatology appointment cost $371 and was worth every penny.

There will be blood...

noreply@blogger.com (Cranky Ol' Lady) — Sun, 13 Jan 2008 04:19:00 +0000

...yes, though not even close to the amount of blood in Sweeny Todd!

I can't remember when I have been so excited by a film. I was actually leaning forward in my seat, hands and chin resting on the seatback in front of me, eyes wide, mouth open. When it ended, my "Wow!" was loud enough for the whole audience to hear. I was knocked speechless ...for a few seconds, then no one could shut me up.

Daniel Day-Lewis sets the screen on fire. His eyes and brows are really something to watch, going wild when the rest of him is rigid with fury. I read that he stayed in character for the whole three months of filming, full time. Holy shit.

Paul Dano was a surprise. I heard him interviewed saying he had only one week to prepare, having been first hired for the brother Paul with very little screen time, and at the last minute asked to play the healer brother Eli also. I can see why he got it. He is possessed by the roles, body and soul. He is wonderful. And at the end, when Plainview mops the floor with both Eli and his god, while at the same time going up in smoke himself, well, all I can say is "WOW!!!!!!!!"

Dormancy

noreply@blogger.com (Cranky Ol' Lady) — Thu, 10 Jan 2008 08:32:00 +0000

This is a crazy life, this retirement thing. With no deadlines, I can procrastinate almost forever. And of course the holiday season makes a giant pile of soft stuff to dive into and sleep.

As I celebrate neither Jesus nor Shopping, I generally try to ignore Christmas now that there's no ritual family gathering to pull us together whether we like it or not. The gifting neurosis still haunts me. But my younger son and I got together for spaghetti and my mostly homemade meat sauce and a movie, Sweeney Todd.

Sweeney Todd is a mad musical gore-fest of vengeance, squirting blood, and bad hair. We loved it.

I'm still watching hair grow and wishing it grew faster. The dog gets better and better as I stuff him with medications wrapped in liverwurst and bathe him in sulfur-laden shampoo way more often than any dog could possibly wish for. The black "elephant skin" gradually thins as hairs grow in and fingers rub flakes off. Stubborn stuff. I've been doing this about six weeks now. Enough already!

I signed up for a full weekend yoga thing the first weekend in January, and the first day nearly killed me. Two 2-hour asana classes in a row after two weeks with hardly any exercise (in honor of the holidays) is intensely self destructive. The very first class consisted of all the hardest poses. After a brief warm-up, we (actually, they) flipped into handstands, followed by all the warrior poses and several varieties of headstand. The next class was lovely and normal, but I was too wrecked to fully appreciate it. I left in a daze, then missed the Saturday morning classes, showing up after noon. I took a hand-balancing class which was a lot easier than it sounds, and a chanting workshop that sent me into the ozone. I skipped the big musical event that evening and didn't even get out of bed Sunday. It was a learning experience: I can only take so much yoga.

Meanwhile, I am totally hooked on Lost, the TV series. My son T kept recommending it but wasn't sure I'd like it due to the supernatural element. I get a kick out of the fact that the island is presented as a weird and magical place where "everything happens for a reason." Since most people seem to think the normal world is like that (so much so that I want to scream every time I hear it said), I am pleased that Lost assumes the opposite, like me. Therefore, I can cheerfully accept the movie's spooky premise and enjoy the complex mix of characters, good writing, good acting, and reliably frequent life-altering shocking discoveries. Anything is possible. What will they think of next!?!?

Meanwhile, I'm getting a lot of sleep and still not quite enough exercise.

Watching hair grow

noreply@blogger.com (Cranky Ol' Lady) — Sat, 22 Dec 2007 07:21:00 +0000

Two weeks after the panic trip to the vet with Homie, one week after starting thyroid pills, he's definitely better but not well. Every few hours I peer and poke at the new hairs growing in through the layer of gummy black stuff. The black gum is scaling off as the hairs sprout. There is still puffiness in his front legs and paws that seems to come and go. In some areas his skin is bright pink and bumpy under the hair (inner hind legs, chest). The top of his snout is itchy & sometimes bleeds. But he doesn't act sick; he's perky and wants his walks and treats. Wednesday we had a longer walk than usual, maybe a mile. It was too much for him. Blood tests pegged him as hypothyroid, which makes no sense to me. He's skinny and energetic (for an old guy). Tomorrow we go back for another checkup and questions.

It seems like I don't do much else but watch hair grow, be his friend, read, go to yoga and fitness center, play solitaire, and watch movies. I'm restless but can't seem to shake off this anxious, watchful routine. There's plenty of stuff that needs doing, like filing a year's worth of bills and statements heaped on my desks. I could study French. I could go out hiking in the chilly, breezy sunshine. I could drive somewhere -- careful, not too far, I might stumble into winter.

I saw two more films: Before the Devil Knows You're Dead and Awake. Devil was an awful tale about people getting really stupid for money. This family takes the functional out of dysfunctional. But the acting is so fine you can't stop watching as these idiots dig deeper and deeper.

I'm mad at Roger Ebert. He said "trust me"; don't read about it, just go see it. So, not exactly over-committed these days, I saw Awake. The story line wasn't half bad. All it needed was writing and acting to make it work. Not there.

I'm hooked on The Shield lately, just finished season 5. Omigod, talk about deeper and deeper. Season 4 was a nap. With season 5, I have to calm down with a few pages of a murder mystery before I can fall asleep. Forest Whitaker is terrifying, like pus boiling over. And that character Shane, just when you think he might be growing up he goes off the deep end. Shit!

I am living fictional lives.

Today I read an excellent story in the New Yorker by Jhumpa Lahiri. In the midst of a gentle family tale, lightning strikes. Then life goes on, seemingly normal, three people changed forever. Suddenly all her books are on my shopping list.

American pastoral

noreply@blogger.com (Cranky Ol' Lady) — Sat, 15 Dec 2007 20:09:00 +0000

Reading Roth's American Pastoral this morning, I had what felt like a blazing insight, which perhaps means a belated recognition of the obvious.

The Swede, whose perfect life has imploded (leaving out reams of complicating details here), catches a glimpse of his perfect but devastated wife being mock-fucked over the kitchen sink by their mutually half-despised neighbor. How easily these things seem to happen. In shock, he says nothing and flees back to the party on the terrace.

My early years, between marriages one and two, could be described as a series of pointless fucks, gleefully performed and sometimes as pointlessly repeated. Most of the men I didn't even like that much. Some were complete strangers. So, why? Each person, needy and probably unhappy somewhere deep inside, solicits a response and is so surprised at getting a positive reaction, because nobody loves me or even likes me much, yet this other person is eager to be "intimate" with me, which must mean that I am lovable after all. And it was so easy, so I must be really lovable! Each fills the other's need with pathetic illusion. Afterward, uneasy, but denial sets in, and off we go to repeat the thrill as soon as possible with somebody else! It's not so different from watching television instead of living, though messier, especially when it pokes at an already off-balance marriage. It's about as satisfying, long term, as a movie theatre sack of popcorn soaked in fake butter.

I'm not there, the not-Dylan film

noreply@blogger.com (Cranky Ol' Lady) — Sat, 15 Dec 2007 07:09:00 +0000

I loved this film. I'm sure I missed a lot of the references, as I didn't follow Bob Dylan through all his lives all these years. Your response may be "Huh?" if you recall even less than I do. The funniest part is the folk concert where s/he shows up with wires and speakers and rocks the place apart. Cate Blanchet is superb; they are all good, but she takes the prize.

Like a dope, I wore my only Dylan t-shirt, purchased at one of his shows in Sun City where his graying southwest snowbird fans mostly live. While I was in France, I heard that he did a show in Paris and kept his back to the audience for the entire show. Paris was pissed. I wonder who pissed off Dylan.