Written in a hurry

Emmy woke up on a fine Fall morning, looked out the front porch door at the mountains rolling away at her feet and thought 'a person could get real lost out there if they wanted to.'

Her Daddy's done it, so she knew it was true.

Just a few steps into the forest, up a hill, follow an old indian path to a flat spot where they used to camp before they got run out, and never light a fire in the daytime. There you were, lost. Except you know where you were, and it didn't have to be far into the mountains either.  Likely, if you were good at being lost, you could still take a midnight walk to steal a hen from the coop that still stood in what used to be your farmyard. A chicken is good for a few meals, at least.

All the while he was lost, though, Emmy knew where he was.  As sneaky as he thought he was, he'd taught her all along how to navigate the mountains and how to lose yourself in them yet find your way home before dark.

He just stayed out after dark once and never made it back home.

His choice.

As the sun set over the farthest ridge and the world turned blue for a moment, the flash happened down on the second ridge from home. A strike on the flint, a hush of tinder glowing, the beginnings of the same fire that happened every night once it started getting cold.

He didn't cook in summer. Corn and beans and tomatoes and such were ripe for the picking, and she always sowed more than the family really needed.

Yep, she knew how lost he was, and it wasn't by geography. He got lost in his own mind, his dreams, his grief, his disappointment, his weariness, and he just left it all behind. Unburdened. Building little fires while his daughter watches, opening the curtains three times fast so she can see him flashing his firelight in the frypan's bottom back three times.

 He's not lost, but only she and he know that.

 

Took a one-way train the wrong way

 This time, on The Misadventures of Tiff and Biff:

 We are just back from a short weekend trip to see grandchild #3, a darling wee 1-week-old baby girl who is very very good at snoozing (during the daytime anyhow). 

She lives with her parents who live about 4 hours away, so naturally Biff and I drive to see them, because she cannot drive yet and it's a long walk to our house but she can't walk yet either.  

It was a nice time with great weather, so those who were interested in the hotel pool had a vigorous splash about while the ladies stayed on land and chatted about things hither and yon.  We went to dinner, ate some tortilla-related things, and bid adieu for the night, dangling the promise of s delish hotel breakfast in front of them to tantalize the group into visiting us in the morning.

Some of them came by. Baby and mama rousted themselves up and over for waffles and coffee (granddaughter ate formula from a bottle, as would be expected) while the gentlemen remained home abed, still charging their depleted batteries from the day before's shenanigans.

('Day before's looks odd.  Is that correct?)

A plan was made to go up to Charlotte, NC, The Queen City, and visit a few of the things that the youngins had experienced a few months ago while they were waiting for the library to re-open so they could drive home.  Yes, you read that right.  They recommended a park down in the 1st Ward as a starting point, after which we were going to ride the Blue Line around for a bit to experience what Light Rail means to a city center, then get lunch before heading home. 

So, the park was nice.

Eventually one of us needed coffee, so we went over to the City Market and bumbled around there for a bit, stopping for coffee (of course), ice cream, and smoothies. I can recommend the "I have 5 on that" from HipHop Smoothies if you like peanut butter and bananas.  Grandson had the ice cream, granddaughter chugged down a large portion of the potion that is currently her only source of sustenance. We were then ready for the next leg of our journey: lunch.

 The youngins decided to walk to the established eatery, while Biff and I opted to take the Blue Line a few blocks to save me from having to walk too-too much.

Fine.

We procured tickets while the first train pulled into and out of the station.

 We then were struck with the notion that we really did not know which way we were supposed to go, because down is up and over is here in that city that is NOT built on a North-South grid so everything is angles and ridiculous for a newcomer. A compass was utilized at one point.

We switched over to the other side of the tracks, convinced that now this was the way to go instead of the first way. It's one way, or the other, to paraphrase The Pretenders, but NOT both, not on the Blue Line.  One way per track.

The train pulled in.  We were about to get on. The grandson, who should have been long gone by this point, comes running up behind us screaming "don't get on the train, Grampy" and his dad approached telling us they'd misconstrued the direction 'our' train was supposed to go and we need to switch back to the original track and go the way we thought we should go in the first place.

 We switched tracks again.

We got on the train, expecting a trip of just a few blocks.

First stop, 9th street. Two blocks away.

Second stop, way way WAY past 9th street.

We had gone the wrong direction.

On a one-way train.

We got off, switched BACK to the train that went the way we were supposed to go in the first place, rode it ONE stop back to the 9th street station (by the nice park we were at earlier) and drove our car to where we were to meet the youngins for lunch.

Only that place was too crowded according to their recon, so they picked another place.  All we had to do was park (ha!) and find out where the place was we were supposed to meet, which was not evident from Google maps at ALL, so needed mama and grandson to go out to the street corner and flag us down to take us to the Red Eye Diner right there in downtown Charlotte.

Look it up and tell me if you could find it from the street. No cheating with Google maps.

Yes, it was a lot of folderol, and it took some patience on my part to not demand we just skip lunch already and go home, but of course it was worth spending time with family,  eating a meal in the best seat in the house (a comfy circular booth with bright red cushions!), and ogling a wee tadpole of a human from time to time.

Today, on this Labor Day, we will celebrate by purchasing a new microwave, because sometime over the last 3 days it decided to stop laboring for more than 3 seconds in a row which is no way to heat up your breakfast risotto.

And that's my story.  

Birthday times again (#61)

 

Well, it's baseball, and it's now my age, so...it works? (I have never heard of this movie, it must be noted)

 

Y'all.  I will commence my 62nd year of age at approximately 2:20 this afternoon.

My Mom reminds me every year of my birth time, and sometimes the methodology of my arrival into the world of air and breathing.  Look up 'frank breech,' or as the nice Irish obstetrician said to Mom once she came out of the twilight anaesthetic, 'she was born ass-to!' All 9 pounds 10 ounces of me, 1 pound of which was poop, so you say that from the very beginning I was 'full of it.'

I'm very very fortunate to have made it this far.  So many times, had I not been born into a world of modern medicine, I should or could have died from one malady or another. 

Case in point, my paternal grandmother, who as a young child contracted diphtheria (this was in the early 1900s). It might just be my imagination, but I'd bet that pretty much the whole village was sick with it as this was in the days before antibiotics or most vaccines.  The treatment, as I recall it being described to me by her, was that the doctor came to their house, got the affected persons to open wide, and then through some torturous means stripped their throats of the coating/film of bacteria that trying to kill them through poisonous exudates.  I recall she said that what came out of her throat looked like 'a liverwurst skin.'  

You can understand then why I applaud the development of things used to combat the necessity of stripping liverwurst skins from the throats of young children. It seems nicer just to poke their chubby lil' arms or thighs with a needle once and have that worry taken care of.

More: As a kid I had part of my colon removed - thank God for that because life would have been potentially much shorter and more brutal than I've enjoyed.  Look up Hirschprung's disease if you want a notion of what went on there and how very lucky my folks were to have a pediatric nurse who paid attention in a seminar back in 1966.

Also more: As an adult I had pneumonia twice.  Don't recommend it.  Could easily have done me in if the z-pack hadn't been invented.  That was the second worst sick I've ever been.

Extra more: Had the breast cancer a few years ago.  That one was pretty bad, and it doesn't need mentioning how things would have most likely gone for me a hundred years ago or so.  Again, grateful for surgeon's hands, the poison that is chemotherapy, the breathtaking horror that is filgrastim, the painful em-effing drawn-out torturous miracle of radiation treatment, the follow-up I've received, the wonderment of all the means by which body parts can be scanned and examined, etc etc.  

Ultimate more: The COVID.  If I hadn't been twice-vaxxed by the time we got it in early 2021, I'm certain I would have been much sicker than I got.  Now, while I'm convinced I also had it back in late 2019 (right as COVID was making its way around the world and I was in the very early stage of chemo), it can't be proven that I did, but that 3 weeks after my first infusion was the worst sick I've ever been and no infusion thereafter made me even a tiny bit as poorly feeling as that first one did.  I did think I would have rather died at at least one point in that whole mess, therefore, why I believe I've had that nasty thing twice.

My intent of this post is not to make it a 'poor me' sad sack pity party, but instead celebrate the fact that here, at 61, I have the chance to thrive and be thankful for everything made available to me in the moments of these challenges.  One point: I have had good health insurance my whole life, which puts me in a special group of citizens.  I also recognize that I grew up in a different time and had perhaps more or better opportunities afforded to me in my professional life that makes it possible for me to be able to achieve positions in which that good insurance was made available and affordable.  That bit doesn't escape me.

But anyhow, here I am, closing out year 61 and headed into year 62 with  a shoulder that I somehow injured while sleeping, a bum toe throbbing with arthritis, spaghetti and meatballs and a family gathering to look forward to this evening, and the great good fortune to have many wonderful friends and family to share life with.

Grateful for every day, I am.  Challenges be damned.

Tiff out.

Memorial Day sits heavy (and it should)

 

Today is a day of reflection and remembrance of those who died while serving in the U.S. military, according to the Congressional Research Service. The holiday is observed in part by the National Moment of Remembrance, which encourages all Americans to pause at 3 p.m. for a moment of silence. 

A couple of things that might make it to that 3 p.m. moment of silence and reflection:

 In Flanders Fields with a powerful reminder of our responsibilities to never forget.

 The Poppy Wall, ephemeral and powerful.

There are many many other resources to engage with to understand the impact of this 'holiday' and why we should note it, perhaps not just in the United States but in every country that has lost in-service military to acts of war.  It's not just one country's story to tell, not one country's perished to mourn, not one country's potential and future that is diminished by murder in times of battle.

It's difficult for me to understand any festivity to fully replace our solemn obligation to recognize Memorial Day's meaning.  Sure, picnics are wonderful, playtime is totally underrated especially for those over about 9 years old, and togetherness creates stories and, well, memories.  I don't begrudge that, but do wish that the meaning of Memorial Day isn't lost in the slip-n-slides and beer pong and wafts of smoke from the grills of this fair land  UNTIL the real intent behind this day off is recognized and meaningfully given its moment.

Maybe at 3 p.m.

Tiff out.

How to fit into shoes

 

I have reached an age that isn't quite retirement (dang it) but definitely qualifies for a smattering of 'senior citizen' discounts.While I have yet to take advantage of any of those discounts, because I don't go to the stores that offer them for someone my age I guess, I COULD save money on a cup of coffee at McDonald's if I wanted to.

Among the things that accompany the onset of aging is the realization that stuff just doesn't work in your body they way it used to.  Jump up out of a chair?  Nope, not now, not anymore, look for something to push up on. Tie that lush head of hair into an adorable messy bun?  Uh, no, as it gets crunchy and dry well before the bun-making length is achieved.  Live life free of medicines designed to keep you alive?  That's way in the past, darling, because the thyroid quit and the blood pressure started to rise, better get your pill-taking regimen established.

But...shoes.

More particularly, FEET.

Sometime in the last couple of years my feet have been mounting an effort to expand well beyond what my shoes have been able to accommodate.  OK, my feet have always been a LITTLE bit swollen (like, since I was a young adult), and I think have a raging case of varicose veins (thanks Dad) have something to do with that, but lately this edematous state of being has become an issue, even beyond the feet.

My knees were in near-constant pain, as were the ankles.  One wrong move and I'd be hurtin' for certain. Living was starting to suck kind of badly, and I was beginning to worry about my future and the ability to move around.  Hobbling was becoming my mode of ambulation, and I was mad about it.

When Biff and I were at the beach a few weeks ago, and walking around quite a bit, you might have thought that the swelling would decrease by the end of the day, no?  All that movement and motion should have gotten stuff circulating, right?  Wrong.  By the end of the day when I took off my shoes, the tops of my feet looked like half-risen bread rolls, with an indent where the adjustable velcro strap cut across the instep.  Awful, and when accompanied by shooting pains in calf and thigh, made me very keenly aware that something needed to be fixed.

Cut to my doctor's office a couple of weeks later.  The PA is new-ish to me, and so naturally she is looking me over pretty carefully which of course I appreciate.  She gets to my feet and remarks 'Oh! You're very swollen here' and pushes a couple of divots into my shin with her thumbs to illustrate.  Yes, nicely pitting edema, thanks for the demonstration.  This normally indicates a kidney problem, but my eGFR is fantastic, thanks, so some other issue is keeping all this water in my system.  Whatever it is, she put me back on a diuretic (I'd been on HCTZ before but thought it might have been giving me the gout so we stopped it a couple of years ago).

OK, but it's not HCTZ this time.  It's LASIX, the big dog.  Furosemide, but the low dose.  Once daily.  Remember to stay hydrated. Go get 'em, tiger.

After just a week of dosing, I noticed a few things: my knees no longer hurt, my ankles no longer hurt, the bottoms of my feet no longer burned, my hips moved less stiffly when walking, and my feet fit into shoes.

Also, my ankles looked cute.  As in, I actually HAD ankles, not cankles, for the first time in a very very long time.  As in, those adjustable velcro straps on my 'regular' shoes aren't hanging on by a thread at the 'fattest' setting but instead wrap right over to the factory pre-set bend.  I can slip into my slippers (!) without having to tug.  I can get into sneakers that I gave up trying to get into 5 years ago.

I think the furosemide is working.

No matter that an hour after I take it I'd best be near a bathroom for a good bit (think about it), I feel better and my shoes fit.  That, to me, is plenty good enough.

Here's to better days ahead.

Tiff out.

Is it really about the meeting?

 

Like this, only in red.

 The venue was huge, Vegas huge.  There were giant fountains in lobbies, lush fake greenery around wagon-wheel light fixtures 10 feet wide, literal WALLS of color-shifting light that throbbed with whatever beat was bluetoothed to it, cavernous reception rooms, labyrinths of hallways, cacophonies of catering carts being pushed too fast by handsome young people who possessed a definitely practiced Jimmy Cagney flair.

And while it was certainly grand, it was also troublesome as I couldn't find the room I booked months ago.

I'd memorized the number and location and hardware assigned and the slides to be presented, but none of that was any good because it seemed like that particular brick-and-mortar location simply did not exist in this Gorgon of a meeting hall.  Walls moved, mirrors glinted with satisfaction of my confusion, bellhops ignored me, and the crowds of celebrating wedding guests from multiple receptions meant that getting to the concierge was impossible.

Madness, until I recognized someone from our team and tailed them to wherever they were going.  A brilliant idea.

Truly this person had a more intricate knowledge of the space than I (important to note that: I had never been there before but had studied the layout and specifics until I thought I knew what I was doing), as it took a snap to get to the room and then assemble the necessary presentations and seating to ensure a successful meeting.  

I was flustered, but ready. 

The team began arriving, animated and excited.  I couldn't tell why, as the scope of my work wasn't to be anything to make anyone act either of those ways.  But I couldn't get anyone to sit DOWN and therefore couldn't start the meeting as people were circulating around in small groups, chattering and tapping on tablets and showing one another so very many things.  Nobody spoke to me or listened to me; I, the leader, was invisible.

After a period of time I decided to simply move along, and began showing the initial presentation on the giant screen mounted in a corner of the hall.  Intro, agenda, topline messages, then chaos.  The screen detached from the wall and began to fall on the high-up muckety mucks on the dais, there was no help from tech to put it back on the wall and only the very most tenuous of connections that seemed to be structural, and yet, if I took a broom and pressed against the top to hold that part against hte wall, there could still be displays and presentations, only with me in the front of the room holding a broom while who-knows-who clicked through the slide decks.

Which, in the end, really didn't matter, because all the potential excitement and tablet-tapping of a few minutes before absolutely EXPLODED into general gasps and cheers as an announcement of some discovery of importance that directly affected OUR project was announced at some other venue that had been carefully tracked by everyone in the room (where I was supposed to make things happen, but that was all gone now in the thrill of the new thing).

It was obvious what needed to be done. I dropped the broom and walked out. 'Know when to say when,' my Dad used to tell me; it's a lesson to stitch on your pride.

So then I took a walk to a nearby park, forgot how to get back, my not-a-dog kept showing up, my husband was driving a four-in-hand to get people back to the venue because the bigwigs took the hired bus back to the venue and didn't tell any of the lesser mortals at the feste they were departing, once back at the meeting hall a small group of women were bidding on a dress  I'd brought with me for our 'formal night,' and yes this is all a part of the dreams I had this morning.

Also, it started to rain.

Tiff out.

That one time, in the ER

 

Can recommend.

Last Thursday was a doozie, my friends.  I wound up in the ER due to intractable nausea and vomiting due to my yet-undiagnosed 'condition.'  Got myself in a bit of a pickle with dehydration, so got 500 mL of saline pumped through an IV (hopy crap it hurt getting that thing put in...twice), some Zofran to boot, while the docs analyzed the blood work, had me undergo a gall bladder ultrasound (because the bilirubin was weird) and COVID test, took some more blood, made the BP cuff go 'whirr' about once an hour, monitored the O2 saturation (99%, woo!) and generally made me hang out until it was nap time.

On entry, when I was so depleted and worn out, my BP was about 180/110.  By the time I was headed out the door with my new prescriptions and an un-nauseated stomach (post-nap) it was 124/72.

Guess I felt better.

It's now Tuesday, and I haven't puked since.  

Still don't know what's wrong with me, but it's not my gall bladder - she's looking great.

---

Also, I saw a vestibular disease and tinnitus specialist last week.  We did all the tests to provoke vertigo.  ALL OF THEM.

Nothing.

I am unprovokeable (is that even a word).

So, again, whatever is wrong with me, it's not my vestibular system.  It's doing just fine.

---

Naturally, one day after the spinny doc visit is when the really bad vertigo and puking began.  

I only got the LOML up to take me to the ER when I thought I might be puking blood.

Super stoic.

---

So tired of feeling crappy, but the new prescription for Valium might help.  Maybe. I'll try just about anything at this point.

Taking suggestions.

Tiff out.

Waffle Housing and spoiling the dog.

 

They're what dogs crave!

To get y'all caught up on the weather around here; it was cold, then balmy, then WARM, the cool, and now it's cold and rainy.

I figured you'd want to know.  It's still nothing like winter, and the daffodils continue to push upward and develop bloomy buddies.  We'll see how they do.  They keep coming back, and have done for many years (they were here long before I bought the house) so I suppose they're used to some meteorologic shenanigans and will survive this year too.

Today is for sure just the sort of day made for staying in and lounging.  So of course we didn't.

First item of biz was breakfast.  Sunday is (I believe) the only day of the week that the LOML eats breakfast - every other day there's nothing consumed until after 11 a.m.  The intermittent fasting thing has resulted in about a 25-pound weight loss for him so far, so there's something to that eating plan for sure. 

We drove past a place we know was going to be packed at 10 on a Sunday morning (it was), then we were headed to Panera when I joked that maybe we should just head up to the Waffle House the next town north.  A joke, because I normally won't go there because the weekend host is kind of creepy and that ruins part of the WH experience.  Well, friends, the LOML took me up on it.

There was no host.  Has WH done away with them?  Where's Tom working now?

Nevertheless and once again, in the 100% success string, I had a good meal there. Hashbrowns scattered/smothered/covered and topped = delicious.  Can recommend. Honestly have never had a bad meal at a WH.

Then we made a trip up to the airport to grab some stuff from the hangar, rode around snooping at unfamiliar neighborhoods (so far not tempted to move), then hit up the Tractor Supply for a hitch mount thingie and some dog treats.

Walked out of the TSC with the 5 dollar part and and a receipt for 80 bucks.  That's a LOT of dog treats.

While I'd sit here and read 'Spare' the rest of this afternoon, the LOML has ideas about moving the reno project forward with some indoor organization work to get tools and random stuff out of the way so the flooring can go in (date yet to be determined).  I suppose I shall go along with it.  He DID buy me breakfast.

Tiff out.

The heat is on (and on, and on)

 

Not ours, but the general idea

Right now it is 27 degrees F outside, which is less than zero in C, and that's COLD, folks.

The fountain in the front garden has been turned off and emptied.  I know not from whence the birds now drink.

The cars will be wet with melted frost in an hour, after the sun gets to 'em (it's not even arisen yet, such its antipathy toward early Sunday mornings).

It is supposed to reach the mid 50s F today.

How's a person supposed to know how to dress? And for that matter, how's a heating system to know when to kick on to fill the gap between what it's like outside and what it's supposed to be like inside?  Answer: by starting up every 45 seconds or so and ticking the heat up a teeny bit, but just a teeny bit, so that the subsequent immediate drop in indoor temps initiates another round of combustion and aeration (or whatever).

It is now 28 degrees outside. Sun came up, is what the taskbar on my computer tells me.  This is  a lie, as where I am it's not scheduled to occur until 7:21, and it's 7:14 as I write this. Nonetheless, Nature's heating cycle will begin anew.

Once it gets to 'sometime' this afternoon, we plan to take the dog to a local park and have a bit of an explore. Only about 25 more degrees to gain before it's reasonable to attempt.

Brrrr.

The one that wasn't (and we are glad)

 

Before the...'thing' happened

 

Recently, I underwent a procedure familiar to all breast cancer survivors, The Yearly Mammogram.

But not just ANY mammogram, oh no.  The 'screening' ones most women only ever have are simple affairs by comparison, with only a couple of shots ('vertical' and 'horizontal,' if you will) to check for any suspicious entities.  The ones we lucky survivors gets are so so so much more, with top and bottom and sideways and slantways and rounds and rounds of them, focusing on iffy areas until the radiologist on duty is satisfied (or not) with what they're seeing and can release you, either to the wild or with an order for follow-up work.

I got the order for the follow-up work.

Specifically, a biopsy.

In the boob that didn't previously have the cancer in it.

You might imagine how very worrisome this is, and you'd be halfway there.  

Thankfully, I'm good at ignoring unpleasant things, so was able to enjoy Thanksgiving with our little nuclear family and have a chance to relax a bit, relying on the radiologist's statement that she was ordering the biopsy out of an abundance of caution, but still there was a whiff of terror wafting around if I allowed it to. 

Plus, needles and lidocaine were to be involved, which I am not a huge fan of, or really even a fan at all.

At last, today was the day, and as I drove to the the appointment WAY THE HECK OVER THE OTHER SIDE OF RALEIGH the thought of 'oh God, what if it's THAT again?' was very hard to ignore. What if the big C has popped up on the other side?  What will I  do? The brain was working a tiny bit overtime as I headed west on 98 then south on 50.  Of course I missed the turn into the parking lot, but I never don't.

One there, stripped from the waist up and begowned and with my belongings in a lovely plastic bag, I sat in the 'gowned waiting room' (no, really), with 5 other women all similarly attired and toting their possessions too.  We all knew what we were there for, and all of it had to do with boobs.  Sisterhood carries some heavy burdens, far outweighing a sack of clothing.

My turn came, I sat in a remarkably comfy chair that the tech wheeled me around on like I was Captain Pike until I was within boob-smashing range of the Little Plates (the better to see you with!).  She had warm hands, which is a nice touch (ha!), and got Old Gal in position to take some pictures of the suspect area.  Then another couple of shots.  Then she went and fetched the radiologist, who was going to perform the numbing and cutting and biopsy-ing acc'd to the prophecy and Good Medical Practice.

After the introduction to the doc and me gawping at her absolutely glorious head of hair, skintight pants, and totally awesome boots (listen, the lewk made an impression!), she and the tech had a confab over the images, probably discussing where to stick me with the numbing to best effect before cutting me open and doing the deed.

But no.

The tech pulled the gown up over my nakedness, spun me around ('beep boop!') as the doc was saying 'Good news! The spot the radiologist saw last week isn't visible on the pictures we just took and must have resolved itself in the week.  There's no need to do a biopsy and you can go.'

 It is at that point I lost 10 pounds of anxiety and floated out of that building, after getting dressed, of course.  The day was more beautiful that I remembered, the people more lovely, the birds gifted me with a 'congratulations!' poop on my windshield, all was right with the world.

I took the long way home to avoid a meeting I probably could have made it to at work, because I Simply Did Not Feel Like It.  Not sorry about that, would recommend an amble home after getting great news.

So, this was the one that wasn't.  No new scar, no wait for the biopsy results, no worrying about what happens next because it's already happened.

Hallelujah.

Tiff out.

Duolingo gets me

 

Our guide and hero

 A couple of months ago my Mom and I were having our regular Monday night chat on the phone and she said that she was going to learn Spanish this year using Duolingo.

Y'all, my Mom is in her upper '80s and is sharper than me, so I figured I needed to do that too.

We were chatting about how 4 p.m. is just a weird time of day - too soon really to start dinner prep at our stages of life, late enough in the day that it's not right for a nap, just one of those 'what do  I do NOW?' kind of times in a day that needs a something to anchor it to the clock.

Learning Spanish, for now, is that something.

Most days I get on the app and do a few minutes of learning, at least enough to get my 10xp and meet my 'goal' that I in fact did not set up but I'm kind of competitive so, yeah.  

It's fun, with cute cartoony characters and lots of positive reinforcement and also, many learning modalities in employ.  See it, translate it, hear it, write it down, engage in 'chats,' etc. I do get caught up from time to time thinking I know what's expected of me and do a translate instead of a 'write it down' and then have to re-do that to 'pass' to the next level, so mild humiliation isn't out of the deck of learning strategies.

Did I mention it's free?  Check it out if you need a way to re-plasticize part of your brain. 

And if you decide to learn Hawai'ian, more power to ya.

---

Had the yearly mammo yesterday.  It took forever.

No evidence of anything scary.

I'll take it.

---

Tiff out.

A sure-fire diet plan (not really)

 

Me, just now.  I grew a beard for warmth.  Should I keep it?

 

Ever since I was, ever, I do attract viruses.

All KINDS of them!  When I was in high school I had a cold and the flu at the same time (and my period too), for example, and laid on the big brown couch in the family room, half sensate, watching game shows and napping through the soaps.  And not eating, like hardly at all.  My stomach could not HANDLE food; just thinking about it made me run for the bucket.  I went on the ginger ale and water diet for a week because of it, and because of THAT, I lost a noticeable amount of weight which at the time I might have thought was a good tradeoff. I'm different now.

Some things don't change, it's apparent, at least as far as me and virii.

I had COVID earlier this year, and it too settled in my stomach with largely the same overall effect.  Can't recall what other symptoms there were; the GI aspect really took over to the point that I just kept a barf bucket with me wherever I went. Dry heaves became a particular specialty that I wish I could get paid for, such was there vigorous nature.

My abs were very fit by the time the 'rona moved out, let's just say. (And no, I would NOT like to be paid to perform the heaving.  My nose and eyes run and the noises that are made are truly primeval).

Since then, my stomach has been HUGELY touchy, which isn't great as it was very prone to being a bad actor in times of stress, which for someone with anxiety is like from 8am to 10pm every day.  Sleep is a gift. 

So, anyhow, at the beginning of this week a lil' flu virus entered the chat and headed straight to my belly.  Of course it did.  Biff got it first; it took up residence in his lungs.  I would have traded him, but he hates barfing and isn't as good at it as I am, so I took the hit. As if there was ever a choice.  

Ah, the low-grade fever, the bone aches, the hot flashes, the river of snot that flows if you bend over, the impending sense of doom when you just know it's going to be 'heave-ho' but can't pinpoint just when...a truly reprehensible state of affairs.

Good job, virus.

I'm on day 5 now, and while evidence of healing is present, we're still not back to 100% yet and I still do not go anywhere without my bucket.  It's not worth it, even yet.

My pants are fitting better though, so there's that.

Y'all stay safe out there - we're nowhere near out of the woods, RSV is getting a foot in the door, and this winter's going to be a corker.

Tiff out.

PS - get vaccinated.  If I'd been quicker to schedule my flu shot I'm sure I would be better by now.  I regret procrastinating. 

PPS - it might also be a cold, IDK.  Whatever it is, I'm not a fan.

Out the kitchen window

 

At this time of year, the sun sets through the leaves and branches of a giant oak tree that lives on the lot south/west of us.  This just happens to be the view out the kitchen window that we get of that phenomenon in the autumn times, and can be quite a spectacle.  

Just mind the gap(s), because that sun will smite your eyeballs if it's not peeking picturesquely though the foliage.  So, no doing dishes around normal dinnertime if you want to preserve your peepers.

---

As it happens, today is another beautiful day in the neighborhood, and because I got done with work a bit early, I decided to take a Walk With Wern.  Normally, this is something that the LOML does, but it was seriously too gorgeous to NOT do the WWW.  

Wern agreed.

We started with a bit of a ride around town, because I had some thought about exploring one of the small parks downtown (this one), but it's too close to where folks are going to do their early voting (VOTE!!!!) and parking wasn't great as a result.

I do love to see a crowd of folks doing their civic duty, but that is a tangent.

We wound up driving up to the town cemetery, which is nice and peaceful most of the time, as you can imagine.  I like cemeteries, and our town has a great one.  It's where I will be, or the corporeal remains of me will be, when my time comes to be stored conveniently for friends and family to come visit.  Naturally, we parked next to 'our' columbarium to wave hello at the Final Resting Place before Wern had a sniff-round of the place.

He sniffed the Barhams and the Sherrons and the Holdings and all the nearby graves of persons for whom roads are named in this town.  It's very historic, my future neighborhood.  And beautiful, with tall trees and gently sloping land around family plots that are well tended to.  There's an enormous pin oak that has dropped a ton of leaves that smelled quite lovely to the canine, and certain boxwoods that needed to be watered by him, so it was a busy time in the graveyard.  

Oddly busy, too, with visitors.  One fellow pulled up right as we did to visit someone in the columbarium area (there are several of them nestled in their own little neighborhood) and we had a quick chat because he called Wern beautiful and that deserves at least a couple of minutes of small talk.  He asked me who I'd lost that I was coming to visit, and in true awkward me form said 'oh, nobody yet, but that's where I'm going to be when the time comes' and did not EVEN ask him who he was there to visit, because I lose my mind in social situations and forget how being polite works.

Another visitor pulled up to the other side of the cemetery, and stood quietly near the final resting place of someone who I hope passed after a long, good life.  Just...stood.  I didn't get close enough to hear if he was talking to the dearly departed; it looked more like a personal communion, without the wine and baguette.

There were workers there too, out at the back, tending to the grounds, making sure things were tidy and safe and clean.  That makes me feel good about our future home, that it is maintained by both the town and people who have a connection to the ones who can no longer tend to themselves.

Once Wern's sniffer was full we of course came back home, wherein he has spent the last hour knocked out on the couch from the sheer thrill of the graveyard ramble.

I think we'll do it again tomorrow.

Tiff out.

Hot second date, the insulting version

 

Charlette and Jacob were having a second date at the second-fanciest coffee house in the town a middle distance for both of them to travel, that's how well the first date had gone.

Charlette comes from a medical background, Jacob is from Scotland.  Their conversations have been interesting as a result, both from an accent and topic perspective.

For this date, they've agreed to come up with insults they wish to introduce into the world; insults that haven't yet been snickered over and might get them to go viral, as viral is a thing that one would like to be, as it's as infectious as a real disease and may make you far more money.

The rules of this game are to 1) make the insult a medical thing that has actually happened to them, and 2) remove acts of violence from the insult.  One cannot be 'a stab in the neck,' for example, even if it happened to them and does carry some implication of being very unpleasant.  One CAN be 'a blow to the bollards' if a results of game play, either through innocent or competitive sport.

Charlette begins: you infected cyst

Jacob: you absolute ingrown toenail

C: you cracked molar

J: you crushed thumb

C: you inevitable period stain

J: you're an absolute spit stitch

C: you avulsed thumb

J: (interesting, I'll ask about that later) You are, in point of fact, a thick scab

C: I believe that it's no secret that you resemble nothing more than a copiuos green loogey dislodged in a violent fit of sneezing in front of your middle-school class.

J: Wait...did you attend St. Stephens School for Honest Boys and Girls in Upper Needham for a year?

C: Um.

J: Oh my God, tell me it IS you!

C: Um.

J: You are the very BEST memory of my time as an exchange student there!  I got such a chuckle out of that, many times!

Holy mother of God, it HAS to be you!

C: Um...yes?

J: you absolute infected respiratory system.

C: thank you?

J: But of course.  Another coffee?

C: Yes thanks, you nicked leg.

Seems to have worked out pretty well, so far.

 ---

If you had to play this game, what might your favorite insults be to fling?

Tiff out.

Bang bang whirrrr CLUNK (Storytime)

 

This one's got some mood lighting - a nice touch.

Intro:  Lately I've been on a hunt for answers to 'why do I get sudden attacks of vertigo with no discernible cause, which then usually make me barf?'

A question for the ages, for sure.

One step is to, once at least 2 experts are consulted, get an MRI of the skull to 1) ascertain just HOW thick it is, and 2) what might be going wrong therein to precipitate the issue.

Buildup: So, I had an MRI a couple of days ago.  It was, eventually, quite loud, and I say eventually because it took 3 needle sticks before a vein would accept the introduction and allow the sweet sweet flow of contrast dye.  My veins, they are shy.  And prone to 'blowing' (heh) if they don't like what's coming at them.  Coy move.

Back to the noise.  If you've never had an MRI, the noise is there to frighten you into a stiff fear of things exploding around you and thereby staying on the wee sliding table you occupy inside the tiny tube that is surrounding you with the bangy noise machine inside.  Also, there are magnets.  Have you seen and MRI in action when metal things are where they shouldn't be when it's powered on?

Behold.

Now imagine having a pacemaker or other ferrous-containing material in your bawdy ol' self. Those babies will find their way to the mama magnet when possible.  It doesn't sound nice.

 I do not have potential body-ripping implants, though I think the titanium tumor markers MIGHT still be there from the lumpectomy, but they don't react, so neither did I.  

OK, I didn't react also because I was too focused on praying a mantra and holding to the '911 button' you're handed as you're all hooked up to the IV and about ready to get into the machine whereupon the noise-making can happen.

Action scene: One fun note, for head MRIs you get a little cage over your face like shown in the vid above (focusing the magnetic beams straight into your brains?  I don't know), just to confirm that you're totally safe and do not need an escape plan other than the panic button.  Also little noggin stabilizers shoved behind your ears to prevent twitching or whatnot if you're prone to that, which I am, so appreciated the extra support.  It's FINE and built for your comfort, I am sure.

AND, you get headphones, presumably to protect against the appreciable amount of noisenoise, and also so the experts operating the machine can speak EVER SO SOFTLY into your ears to tell you...something.  '3 minutes' or 'you're doing great' or 'just one more scan' (my favorite).  You may also choose some type of music to be piped into the headphones if you like, but I eschewed, as a part of my complaint is sudden and serious hearing loss in one ear.  I don't need no other noise, thanks.

Now, this might sound as though I was in a panic throughout, but that's not really the case.  Yes, the process is stressful, but if you trust the pros who are there to take care of you and also trust in the power of the panic button, and THEN just think happy thoughts about how glad you are to have this tech available instead of potentially having to go through life dizzy and sick, then that makes it so much easier to bear.  Horrifying noises and all.

Denoument:Two hours later I was back in my car with one blown-out forearm vein (my own fault for having wallflower blood vessels) and a fervent hope that nothing is actually wrong inside my head.

I spent the next day horribly dizzy and sick (woohoo magic alignment of water molecules and such?), but perked up when I saw the 'read' of the MRI in the 'my chart' delivered through my doctor's office.  Bottom line is nothing unusual about my brain except it looks like I might a decongestant for 'mucus' reasons.  Awesome.  We'll see what the doc says, of course.

Resolution: not yet.  This is but one chapter in my search.  But a big one to get past.  Scary things seems to be out of the treatment picture, at least for now.

Thanks for reading.

Tiff out.

Smells like ashwagandha up in here (or is that the passionflower)?

 

I can do that, thanks.

For too many years now, I've been trying to tough out anxiety.  Mind over...mind, I guess?  When you KNOW something's 'all in your head,' it gets tough to pit the brain against itself, because the brain will always win, which isn't fair or nice to the losing side.

Things that make me anxious are:

• sudden loud noises
• constant excessive noise
• decision making ('where do you want to go eat?' sucks, trust me)
• my heart arrhythmia (a benign condition, but if you have an arrhythmia you know how it can wreck your nerves when it shows up)
  

Not an exhaustive list. You get the idea.

I can't pinpoint WHEN precisely this started, but it was manifesting right around the time menopause had truly taken hold and my body was working on a whole different hormone system than it was used to for 40 years.  Even something like a nice boat ride on the lake to go get lunch with the family would get me going.

By 'get me going,' I mean vomit.

That's right.

Somehow it seems that my vagal nervous system detects the stress and gives my body something to DO about it, which in my case is puke, or at least spend some quality time dry-heaving as a potential way to tell the brain 'there, I think we have gotten rid of the bad thing that's making you feel bad.  Can we go do something fun now?' and that kind of worked for a few years.  A crap system, but one that worked, kind of.

As time went on, though, the issue (ha!) became more frequent, not helped at all by the development of what may be Meniere's Disease (though we're not yet sure of what's going on with my vestibular system) which is ANOTHER source of stress more powerful than the items in the list above. Adding vertigo to the mix was powerful bad.

Obviously, I needed help, beyond grounding/counting activities or getting outside and being in nature.  Spending the day agitated, dizzy, nauseated, and with my head in a trash can is no way to go through life.  It also, not surprisingly, prohibits one from 'getting outside in being in nature,' in case you were wondering.

So.

At first, I signed up for online mental health support offered by the company I work for.  Very helpful for those grounding/calming tools that can help self-identify triggers and get the brain focused on something other than the trigger, right in the moment.  Not enough to banish the issue, but enough to get over it, momentarily.

Then, some nerve-calming yummy gummies were brought in to play.  Lemon balm, natural remedies, etc.  Good news - they seem to work.  Tried a couple of varieties, with the same ingredients by and large, and the calming effect is noticeable (currently using the OLLY brand, which I bought online but I believe are now in CVS stores and presumably other pharmacies). Can recommend. 

Then, I saw an ad for 'nerve patches' that were getting good reviews online, so I bought some of those for extra-horrible days.  Full truth - I have not yet used one, because I'm a little intimidated by the full power of one patch, but having just read that they can be halved or even quartered depending on the dose needed, I'll be busting them out this week to handle what promises to be a VERY DEEPLY challenging work week.

Here's hoping that at least I won't have to work with a trash can in my lap, as it has potential to mess with the acoustics of team meetings.  Nobody wants to hear that mess going on.

Next is to figure out the whole vertigo thing, because that's not normal.  And so, we press onward and hope for a simple, manageable, explanation.

Tiff out.

P.S. - I know the photo above is quoting a verse that is meant to be encouraging (Phillippians 4:6).  Let me take it the wrong way, just this once, mmkay?

MOTN awakenings

A picturesque sluice for your viewing pleasure.

 It is now nearly 5 a.m.  I have been awake since 4.  This is the new me, I suppose, awake in the middle of the night, trying to get sleepy enough to go back to bed to catch a few winks before having to be awake to monitor the progress of another day.

Thank the good Lord above for being able to work from home.  I'd be a wreck if I had to commute.  I did that for years and years and really got well tired of it by the time I switched jobs, following the money and the comfy work environs of my own bedroom.  Three steps to the desk, no shower required.

(Just a tip: don't ever live west of where you work; you'll be battling the sun both ways if you have to commute.) 

If historians are to be believed, my new sleep pattern is matching up to the typical human slumber cycle of yore, which consisted of a few hours of shuteye, then a couple of hours of being awake, then a couple more hours of nap before really getting going for the day.  Maybe though, that's 'typical' for nobles and gentry only, as I'm guessing that kitchen maids and farm hands and such just took one heroic sleep and got up at o-dark-thirty to get on with what needed to be done while the upper crust in the fancy sheets (SHEETS!  What luxury!) caught up on their beauty rest after writing a few letters to their buddies or whatnot at 3 a.m.  I don't know what they did in the MOTN, but it wasn't sluicing the pigsty or making garlic knots like the hoi polloi, I'm betting.

This whole being awake when I'd rather be asleep is why (in part) I signed up for an online newspaper subscription to a nationally-known entity.  While waiting for something soporific this way to come, I  catch up on what's going on in the world, picking my way around agitating issues and lulling my brain with the softer side of life.  Hard news is digested in the hard light of day, early morning calls for recipes and vacation ideas.

It's just what happens. No sluicing required.

---

After I catch up on social media, comics, dumb games, email, and such, of course.  Just being honest here.

Tiff out.

I need a hobby, I think (Tales of the lonely pilot's wife)

 Recently, through a tons of hard work and want-to, the LOML became A Person of Worth at a place that is paying him money to be smart, well-spoken, managerial, and competent.

It's not what he's worth, to be sure, but it's enough to keep the lights on.

Which is good, because he works a lot and I'm turning on lights well before he gets home most nights, even though it's only not even mid-September and he left for work at 6:15 this morning, and...you get the drift.

Which is, I'm spending too much time by myself, at home.

Making me realize how MUCH I rely on his company and entertainment of an evening, and just how very boring I am without that company and conversation.

I DO NOT BLAME HIM FOR CHASING HIS DREAMS.  I blame myself for being too damned boring as to not have had anything more amusing to do/develop/depend in these last number of years than social medial and YouTube.  It gets old after a while.

And some things I am NOT going to put on social media, beyond the confines of what we used to consider it be, which is this, right here, da blahg.

Here's the thing about what I'm doing now to kill time: I use my eyes too much.  I devour information and consume, consume, consume, but do NOT create.  My hands itch to draw, my fingers want to write (oh, sure, brain too), my feet and legs want to stretch and MOVE.

Having insomnia might be useful, as by and large these are quiet pursuits.

Maybe tonight then, in anticipation of the MOTN awakening, I'll bust out a sketch pad and pencil, in case the scritch of a #2 on construction paper is more soothing than a half-interesting video.

Maybe I can make a buddy for this guy.

 Or 6.

What a stinker

Silent but deadly

It is once again that time of year during which my neighborhood stinks.

Like, really stinks.

It's the Bradford pear trees; they are the actual REASON it stinks.  Like a zombie's armpit, or so I've heard it called.  It's bad, and there's nothing to do but live through it or don't go outside.  CERTAINLY don't fling the windows open even if it is a glorious Spring day that really does call for the flinging open of windows.

Why, they're so bad even the polite persons at Southern Living can't stand them.  They even had to go so far as to import some grumpy Northerner to rant about them, just so Mama wouldn't get too hot under the collar and sweat BB cream all down the front of her housedress.

So, I'm hiding in the house until...next week maybe, or until I see the shower of bright white petals start to fall to the ground during a wind or rainstorm.

That will be a happy day, for sure.

---

Y'all, if I manage to make it though the next couple of weeks (stinky trees and all) it will be through a minor miracle and a major jug of bourbon.  We are reaching the finish line for a major work project and if you're not familiar with the gut-clenching thrill of a looming deadline, count yourself lucky.

And because it's nearing 5 p.m. here, it's time to go put in another couple of hours of work.

Oy.

---

Tiff out.

Daffy-liciousness

 Yesterday and the day before it was in the 70s around here.  Windows were opened, rooms aired out, shorts were worn.  It's been an amazing time.

And I've spent most of it indoors, reasons being work.  But hey, I get to look out a window while I'm being the 'busy pharmaceutical professional' that I am (that title was bestowed on me many years ago when I received a piece of mail from a vendor addrssing me with such an impressive sobriquet), so that's better than slaving away in a cubicle far removed from daylight.

Can't complain.

From that window I can see the front flower garden, which is a hot mess.  We tore out an old concrete walkway a few months ago, superseding it with a ramp that goes straight out to the driveway, and have done nothing with the arrangement of the garden to cover the bare spots.  HOWEVER, there are the daffodils.

These daffs are indestructible, returning year after year even though I was SURE that a few years ago I'd relocated them all or just heaved them because they weren't flowering anymore.  The daffs had other thoughts, and are currently a-flowering where they shouldn't be, little cheery street urchins about to steal your heart with their indefatigable get up and go.

So, they can stay.  I appreciate their beautiful toughness.

---

North Main Street in Wake Forest has become staggeringly beautiful.

Again, it is thanks to the daffodils.  This is what they looked like a couple of years ago, which is very similar to what they look like now.

About a half a mile of this!

A couple of days ago they were just promissory notes of Springtime, but that note's been paid in full.  Such beauty!

Now, if those ornamental trees above them burst into bloom at the same time, as sometimes happens, that'd be the icing on the cake of pollen season.  This is just a couple of blocks from the Tiny House, so I might just have to wander over to see if that's the case.

Ah, Spring.

Tiff out.