DNA? Do. Not. Ask!

Near the end of April, when Ancestry.com had a sale on DNA testing, I decided to go for it. I mailed a tube of saliva to Ancestry and got the results a short five and a half weeks later. There were no surprises except that I'm more Irish than I knew. Given my love of all things Irish, I'm happy about  that.

Here's my "ethnicity estimate":

While I waited for the results to come in, I decided it was time to take the plunge and put my genealogy database online. I'd read several reports that the genealogy software I was using was not properly exporting files to Ancestry, so I didn't even try. I began entering names, dates and places one item at a time.

From the very beginning, I couldn't see my family information in tree form. I had recently become unable to load photos on Facebook and to view YouTube videos. Something was obviously wrong with my computer.

I plodded on. It was slow going, but I had time. I worked on my family tree every day, and every day I lost one more capability. Eventually, I could no longer even enter information into the Ancestry database.

My computer was seven years old, something of a record in my technological experience. After much consideration, I bought a new one--same brand, newest model--and began the process of setting it up like the one that's nearing death. What a nightmare!

I had two genealogy programs on the old computer. Neither one is compatible with the new computer's operating system. What's more, the manufacturers don't plan to issue any newer versions. I opted for a different program on the new computer. It works, but I don't like it much.

I've had two printers for years: an old laser printer that's economical for black and white prints and an all-in-one printer/scanner/copier for color printing. The old laser printer isn't compatible with the new computer, and I couldn't tell about the color printer because one of its six ink cartridges was empty, so it wouldn't work. I bought a new yellow cartridge to replace the empty one, then the printer gave me a message that the light magenta and light cyan cartridges had "expired" and the printer would not operate with expired cartridges. I made another trip to Walmart to buy ink cartridges. They only had four of the six color cartridges. You want to guess which two colors were missing? Yep, light cyan and light magenta. Days later, after all the new ink had been installed, after an hour of tinkering with cables and printer drivers, the expensive-to-use color printer now works with the new computer. The laser printer still works with the old computer.

My attempts to follow directions and transfer my email mailboxes and messages to the new computer were dismal failures. For now I'm checking email on the old computer until I can summon the mental fortitude to call tech support services.

In the meantime, I'm still entering one name at a time into Ancestry's database. So far I've accounted for about one-eighth of the people on my suddenly obsolete software, with about another seven thousand to go. The good news is I can now view my ancestors in brightly colored tree form. The bad news is I don't seem to have inherited the luck of all those Irish ancestors.

The Baby and the Boudreaux's

This is a good week to have thunderstorms, which we do again. There's nowhere I need to go, having run all my critical errands during last week's beautiful weather. We're well stocked with human food and dog food, and I have lots of unread ebooks. If the patter of rain makes me sleepy, well, I can take a nap if I want to. Life is good, mostly, but sometimes little glitches pop up.

One of last week's errands was a trip to the auto shop to get my car inspected and get the oil changed. The shop was crowded; I ended up being there for an hour and forty-five minutes. For most of that time I was entertained by a twenty-month-old girl who kept bringing me items out of her diaper bag. She was cute as could be, and we got along fabulously, but the longer she played with me, the more concerned I became. She had a bad cold. Her mom tried her best to keep her nose wiped, but every time the tiny girl returned with a chapstick, a thermometer, or a baggie of Goldfish, the snot made another run for it. Bless her heart, she'd give it a wipe herself with her free hand, then that hand would be the next one to fish around in the diaper bag.

After the breathing difficulties I had during a bout of bronchitis early this year, I did not want to catch that baby's cold. More than that, though, I didn't want to hurt her feelings. I kept a smile on my face, my worries to myself, and, for at least half an hour, a germy,  economy-sized tube of Boudreaux's Butt Paste clutched in my right fist.

That hour and forty-five minutes felt like a long time. When my car was ready, I blew off the rest of my errands and drove straight home. I sanitized my hands first, then grabbed a handful of Clorox wipes and worked my way backward through my purse, the inside and outside door knobs, the door handle on my car, the seat belt, the steering wheel, the door of the glove compartment, and the cover of the little book that holds my insurance and registration papers. Better safe than sorry.

What about you? What kind of rigamarole would you go through to keep a baby happy?

Dust, Plain and Fancy

During the recovery period that followed my total knee replacement, Kim and I were inattentive to housekeeping. I couldn't stand for long periods of time, and Kim, after standing for hours at her job, spent her evenings maintaining basic home sanitation and doing all the things necessary to keep us fed. Dusting wasn't a priority. Where dust fell, we were careful not to disturb it.

The thing is, this house seems to be a dust magnet. I don't know how so much dust gets in the house. My neighbors complain of the same problem. We look around outside and see grass, green grass everywhere, no patches of bare dirt. Maybe our dust is of the educated, civilized variety that deliberately migrates to comfortable indoor quarters. I don't know, but it's a problem.

On a recent weekend, Kim and I decided it was time to do some deep cleaning. We didn't want to knock dust off tabletops and into the air, so we used vacuum cleaners--two HEPA-filtered ones with brush attachments. We carefully sucked up all that dirt and confined it in plastic bags so it couldn't escape before we disposed of it in the outside trash can. There was a lot of it--so much that we began to feel like hunters bagging prey: "Look how much I got in the living room!" We were determined, we were thorough and, afterwards, pleased but quite achy.

Two days later I sat down in our sparkling clean living room to watch television. Rays of late-afternoon sunshine beamed through the small window in the front door, and my jaw dropped open. I could not believe the galaxy of dust motes visible in those sunbeams. 

I didn't think Kim would believe it, either, so I got the camera and zoomed in on the offending particles. Is this what's in the air we're breathing in a clean house? Yuck!

As appalled as I was at all the dust, I have to admit to being fascinated by the photo of the dust. I thought all dust was grey. Click on the picture to enlarge it, then notice all the colors: pinks, blues, greens, yellows. It's almost like miniaturized confetti. Or glitter--yeah, that's it, glitter. Glitter in the air, like the Pink song.

Wish I could think of it in such positive terms when I'm trying to clean shelves and shelves of books.

The song is "Glitter in the Air," by Pink.

Click here to read the lyrics.

Thanks to maaanu90 for posting this song on YouTube.

"Wake up, open your blinds..."

So began Sister-Three's comment this morning on my last post, which was written three months ago. Many thanks to her and to the others of you who left notes of encouragement while I was absent from the blogosphere.

Yesterday, the last day of 2015, was the first day in months that I was able to sit comfortably at my computer desk and type a few complete, coherent sentences. "Comfortably" and "coherent" are the key words there. My old, worn-out knees were causing me so much pain that most of my thoughts weren't pleasant ones, and if a positive thought did flit across my mind by accident, I couldn't hold on to it long enough to write it down.

But that was last year. This is 2016, and things are different now. Now that the brand-new, metal and acrylic knee I acquired in mid-November has healed substantially, it has given me the gifts of diminished pain, improved mobility, and one heck of an attitude adjustment. I had never realized that pain could be so debilitating, could drive someone to such deep depression that the future looked uninviting, but I have been schooled.  That darkness is behind me now, thank goodness.

An acquaintance recently told me that his father's orthopedist, discussing impending knee-replacement surgery, told him, "You're going to hate me for six weeks, and at eight weeks you're gonna love me." I now understand that completely. I'm at the end of week seven, the pain from the surgery itself is finally abating, my head has been clear of medication side effects for a few weeks, I'm off the walker and mostly off the cane, I've just resumed driving short distances (freedom!), and all of a sudden my personal skies are blue again. What a relief!

I don't want to leave this topic without saying how much my daughters have helped me in the past few months; emotionally and physically, they've been there for me, and I don't know what I would have done without them. Having always prided myself on my independence, it was difficult to acknowledge that I needed help, let alone ask for it. My girls didn't wait for me to ask. They've pitched in with the grocery shopping, the cooking, the cleaning, the pet care, the hospital stay, and miles and miles of transportation to and from doctors' visits and physical therapy. They've let me cry when I needed to, and they've made me laugh when I didn't think I could. I'll be forever grateful.

So, back to the future: I'm awake and my figurative blinds are once more open. I'm excited about blogging again, though I'll admit to being a little anxious, too, hoping the burst of enthusiasm I'm feeling today won't fizzle out before I get back into the swing of writing regularly. Thank you for continuing to check in here now and then. I hope you'll stick with me while I give it my best shot.

Happy New Year to all of you! Woo-hoo, 2016!



The song is "Believing" by Nashville cast members Charles Esten, Lennon Stella and Maisy Stella. Thanks to kaid030795 for posting the video and lyrics to YouTube.

Not the Usual Drill

Picture yourself seated comfortably in a chair at your dentist's office, your legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles, your arms on the padded armrests, your head leaning against the cushioned headrest as you watch "The View" on the TV/monitor that's two feet in front of your face. The  hygienist left you only a moment ago, having given you a number of injections near the upper molar that will be drilled, filled and fitted for a crown today. Now you're just waiting for the numbness to set in, something you've done many, many times before.

After a minute or two you notice that it's a little harder to get a good, deep breath. Another couple of minutes pass and you frown slightly as you realize you can't swallow without difficulty. The hygienist returns and asks how you're doing. Your voice squeaks a bit as you tell her you're getting uncomfortable, that it's hard to breathe, you can't swallow and you're beginning to feel like you're choking. She explains why you couldn't possibly be choking, even if it feels that way, and asks if you're getting numb. You assure her that you most definitely are numb.

She stays with you for a few more minutes--she wants you to be "good and numb"--and the dentist arrives. He smiles pleasantly and asks if you had a good Christmas. You don't want to tell him about all the family illnesses during the holidays, so you just mumble, "Yes, thanks" and launch right into telling him about the breathing and the swallowing and the choking sensation, and he smiles again and says you're doing fine, that those symptoms are a trick of the anesthetics.

You accept that explanation as they lean you back until your feet are elevated above your head, and the dentist begins to drill out the loose filling that has probably been in that tooth since you were a teen. You feel water spray against the roof of your mouth and drip into the back of your throat, but you can't swallow it, and the hygienist's suction tube isn't getting it all and, dammit, you are choking, whether they think so or not! You hear the choking noises coming out of your own throat and you see the dentist take a step back, a shiny chrome instrument held up in each hand. "Are you okay?" he asks, a look of alarm on his face.

"No!" you squeak out, and you start struggling to sit up, fighting to lean forward in that backward-tilted chair. Your hands are trembling, and suddenly your arms start shaking so wildly that you're in danger of knocking over the tray of sterile instruments. You don't realize you're crying until you feel tears roll out the corners of your eyes and down your cheeks, trickling slowly out from under the dark-tinted lenses they gave you to protect your eyes. The dentist raises your chair as quickly as he can, and the hygienist keeps repeating, "Breathe through your nose, breathe through your nose." Sitting erect helps you to do that. The dentist suggests that they leave you alone for a few minutes to give you time to calm down while the anesthesia wears off a bit. You're embarrassed. You've always been an easy, well-mannered patient until now.

You don't know how long they've been gone, but after awhile you realize that you're breathing regularly, you can swallow at will, the tears have dried, and you're watching TV again. You're still quite numb, but not as numb as you were earlier. The dentist and hygienist return, ascertain that you're feeling better, and begin again. The rest of the procedure goes as smoothly as it's always gone before. Afterwards they'll tell you to be careful, that you've chewed the inside of your anesthetized cheek, but everything else is fine. You feel much better and very much relieved. Still, you'll feel a little "off" for the rest of the day.

Does that sound like fun? It wasn't. This is what happened to me on Tuesday; I don't know why. I do remember a slight sense of constricted breathing the last time I had dental work done, but it wasn't enough to cause any worry or interfere with the procedure. I don't know what's different now.

I Googled, of course, as soon as I got home. Though I found a number of people who had experienced similar symptoms (and additional ones), there didn't seem to be a consensus among medical websites as to what caused the problems: overdose, accidental injection directly into the bloodstream, the patient's anxiety level... Who knows?

I've had so much dental work in my life that I haven't had any anxiety about it since childhood. I hope this one bad experience doesn't change that.

Home is Where the People Aren't

The quieter it is in my house, the harder it is for me to leave it. Right now I need to go grocery shopping, but the dogs are all sleeping. How can I bear to leave this peacefulness and head out into the busy marketplace?

Sometimes I think I have a case of agoraphobia-lite. It's similar to real agoraphobia, except that the fear is removed, the anxiety reduced by half, and a fair amount of self-indulgence and antisocial tendencies are added to the equation. I suppose that makes it exactly like garden-variety introversion. I don't panic at the idea of going out among crowds; I just generally prefer not to do so. There are certain things so good they would overcome my reluctance to leave home--a must-see movie based on a favorite book, a James Taylor concert in an intimate setting, a figure-skating exhibition--but shopping isn't one of them.

I have never and can't imagine that I will ever insert myself into the "fun" of Black Friday shopping; no bargain is that good. And you would be surprised at what I'll eat for dinner if it means I can postpone grocery shopping one more day. Today, when there are actually two viable dinner choices in the freezer, staying home is a no-brainer.

Grocery shopping is hardly the worst thing, of course. Yeah, it requires bathing, dressing, doing hair and applying minimal makeup, but at least it doesn't involve a lot of talking to people. Parties are much more difficult unless I know all the people there and they all know me well enough not to be offended when I leave early. Family parties, in fact, are wonderfully comfortable. I look forward to them.

On the other hand, the pressure at parties full of strangers is almost insurmountable. I skipped a toddler's birthday party two years in a row, intending to show up both times, then bailing at the last minute. I rationalized that the toddler, whom I love dearly, would be too excited about her gifts to notice whether or not I was there and that her immediate family members (who are also mine) would be too busy for me to hang onto their coattails while pretending to be invisible to the other guests. Lingering guilt is the price I pay for skipping the parties.

So here I am today, home alone with four sleeping dogs, happy as a pig in you-know-what, even if I know it means I must get an early start tomorrow or suffer the consequences of an empty pantry. The good news is, if I make a good shopping list and do a thorough job tomorrow, I won't have to go again for a week.

Well, Frickety, Frick, Frick, Frick!

If you've left a comment on this site since early August, I've read it, appreciated it deeply and, just minutes ago, accidentally deleted it. I should have learned by now that it doesn't pay for me to do anything important until I've been awake at least a couple of hours. But noooo, the house was quiet, and it seemed like a perfect time to do a little housekeeping on the blog.

I pulled up the page where all the spam comments are listed, checked the box that marks up to fifty comments at once and hit delete. Nothing happened. I do this routinely, about once a month, and have never had a problem with it before. I tried again. And again. Still nothing happened. I decided I'd delete them one by one if I had to but couldn't make even one of them go away.

So, I rebooted the computer and tried again. Pulled up the list, marked fifty comments with one keystroke, hit delete, and voila! They all disappeared in the blink of an eye, just as they were supposed to do. Only then did I notice that the list I'd pulled up was not the spam comments but the published ones--the ones you put in time and effort to write.

I am so sorry.

You know, I don't very often make the same mistake twice, but my capacity for making new ones is apparently unlimited.

Simple Pleasures

What a lovely day this is! It's bright and sunny, with the temperature hovering somewhere in  the mid-80-degree range, just enough of a drop to take the abject misery out of summer.

After fasting overnight, I hit the road early this morning to go for more blood tests. The woman in line behind me at the lab was holding a three-week old baby girl, whom I volunteered to hold while the mother filled out paperwork. At first the mom declined, but minutes later, when she had to go to her car to retrieve insurance forms, she approached and asked if I'd still be willing to hold the baby. Of course, I would.

The baby slept the whole time she was in my arms. That's good, because I'd have hated to have panicked in front of strangers. I loved having a close-up view of her tiny, delicate features. Her brown skin and straight black hair were so different from the pale pinkness and blonde fuzz of my own children and grandchildren, but were every bit as precious and beautiful. In fact, I can't really think of anything more beautiful than a newborn baby. Although Last Comic Standing's Rod Man makes a good point to the contrary.

The television in the waiting room was showing a clip about a lost dog's reunion with its owners. From where I was sitting I could see all the other patients in the room. Everyone was turned toward the TV, and every face wore the sweetest, gentlest expression when the dog saw its people for the first time. Happy dogs do that to people.

When the lab technician called my first name, I jumped up and followed her back through a curtained door, where she handed me a gown and asked me to change. What?!? I have to strip for blood tests? Turns out a different woman named Linda was there for x-rays. I knew lots of Lindas in elementary school, but these days it's rare to run into another one.

Later, when it was my real turn, I felt sorry for the lab tech who tried to draw blood. She blew the veins on her first two tries, which made her so nervous she almost gave up, saying she didn't want to stick me again and suggesting that we wait for another, more experienced tech to return to the office. I talked her down off the ledge and assured her the third time would be the charm, which turned out to be true. I hope her bad experience with my stingy old veins didn't destroy the confidence she needed for the rest of her patients today.

On the way home I stopped at McDonald's two minutes before they stopped serving breakfast and scored a Diet Coke, hash browns, and a bacon-egg-and-cheese biscuit, probably my last one. I've been cheating on the low-carb diet for months now (hell, not cheating--over-indulging--occasionally binging), as evidenced by tight-fitting clothes and higher cholesterol levels. I know I need to stop that. The only thing that's holding me back from healthy eating today is the blackberry-cobbler ice cream in the freezer. Oh, and the Cheezits in the pantry. As soon as I finish all that, I'll get back on track.

Anyway, with breakfast bag in hand, I sat down at the computer to watch the Tiger Cam, but it seems to be turned off this morning. Instead, I'm getting my wildlife fix by watching a tiny lizard,  no longer than three inches from nose to tail, that has crawled through a small hole in the window screen and can't seem to find its way out again. Tigers...lizards...I'll happily watch any of God's creatures that has four or fewer legs.

Hm. A minute ago I discovered that the Tiger Cam trouble is on my end, not the zoo's. It's not too difficult a problem to solve, just time consuming, what with resetting Safari, rebooting the computer, and remembering infrequently used passwords, so wait a couple of minutes...There, it's fixed now.

The tiger cubs are sleeping. So are all four dogs here at my house.

Yep, it's a good day. Not without its minor complications, perhaps, but still peaceful and lovely--and a little bit cooler, thank goodness.

"And if I'm an ass, that's okay."

I've cooled off since my last post, so I don't think this one will turn into a rant, but I still need to talk about what's been weighing heavily on my heart. So, let's play What Would You Do?  Imagine this scenario:

Every so often you meet with a group of women you've gotten to know and like. You get together for a specific purpose. This isn't a coffee klatch or a social gathering, definitely isn't a political event. Up until now the group has been focused and cohesive, the participants respectful of each other and supportive of the work you're all trying to accomplish. It's a fairly diverse group, and you don't know much about each other's world views. Opinions haven't come up for discussion because they don't matter at all in the context of these meetings.

The membership of the group hasn't been constant; participants come and go as their personal lives and choices dictate. So far that's kept everything fresh and interesting. This time there are two new participants. You don't know them, and they don't know you, but in the first half hour one of the new women begins a diatribe about the immigrant children who are coming into America illegally, "bringing strange diseases" that could wipe us all off the face of the earth, and the other new participant joins in, tsk-tsking and contrasting those children against her own immigrant ancestors who followed all the rules. The rest of the group sits in shocked silence. You think to yourself, Why are we even talking about this? This has nothing to do with why we're here. 

Newbie No. 1 opines that the parents of those children should be charged with child abuse for sending their children here alone. Another participant reminds her of the dangers the children face in their own country and of the Jewish families who sent their children to other countries in World War II to prevent their being rounded up and sent to concentration camps. Not to be deterred, Newbie No. 2 makes a hand gesture that encompasses the whole group and states, "If they want to come to this country, then the husband and wife need to stay together, work hard, save a little money and then come here legally, the way all of our ancestors did."

A lovely, sweet-natured African American woman has heard enough. "Hah!" she exclaims. "My ancestors didn't come here illegally. Mine were brought here against their will and forced into slavery."

On that note the off-topic discussion ends and the group gets back down to business. But just barely and without the usual enthusiasm. Without knowing or caring who agrees with the newbies and who doesn't, the long-time participants glance at each other, and the expressions on their faces show that they all agree on one thing: something ugly and smelly is now floating in their metaphorical punchbowl.

The second and third meetings are the same. At various times, with no prompting whatsoever--completely off the wall--Newbie No. 1 launches into tirades about welfare recipients, children who get free lunches at school, children who benefit from school supplies donated through the local "Stuff the Bus" program, and on and on about poor people in general. Newbie No. 2 backs her up: "There's no reason for anybody to be poor in this country," she begins. "Three things are all you have to do: graduate from high school, marry the baby's daddy, and stay off of drugs. That's all you have to do." She is a font of advice, having also shared earlier which two shows your children should watch on television and why, in general, children should not watch TV at all, because, you know, "crime and murder and now the gays are kissing."

So, back to you. Let's say you hear all this stuff and you want to speak up. You'd like to express a different viewpoint right here and now, but you know that this is neither the time nor the place. This is not why you're all here, and the entire discussion is inappropriate. Adding your own opinions to the mix would only get the group further off task.

Let me be clear: I'm not asking for your opinion on any of the social issues that were raised, and if you give it to me anyway, I will probably delete it. I'm fed up with listening to partisan opinions. What I'm asking is, would you a) speak up and debate the issues, b) tell the newbies that this is not the right venue for discussing those issues, or c) "be polite" and remain silent, knowing that the offenders might assume you agree with their  derisive remarks and offer more of them? And, if your choice was to remain silent, would you feel like a coward and a hypocrite?

*******

This morning, looking for a link to the What Would You Do? show, I came across the video below. The compassionate store customers in this video gave me hope. One of them even gave me a title for this post.

"I can't stand here listening..."

It's been 15 days since my last blog post. For the first few days of that time I felt that I didn't have a single interesting thing to say. Then, after a series of events, I found myself in a situation where I had too much to say--but I wanted to scream every word, not write about it.

While I'm trying to collect my thoughts into a coherent post, I'll share with you a song I discovered only this morning. It isn't the most melodious tune I've ever heard, and the party scenario doesn't exactly fit, but the lyrics are right-on. They say precisely what I wish I'd had the courage to say.

The song is "Your Racist Friend" by They Might Be Giants.
PLEASE click here to read the lyrics.
Thanks to Nester Beauregard for posting this video on YouTube.

Hitting Too Close to Home

The Google Map screen capture at left is an aerial view of the area where I live. (Road numbers and names have been obscured to preserve privacy.) The curvy white line running vertically down the center of the map is the road that runs right in front of my house. It was only last Friday that I wrote these words about that same stretch of pavement: "I was not about to stop like a sitting duck on that narrow, two-lane, curvy, high-speed road."

I didn't mention that the road has no shoulders except in a few spots, that in most places along its length the edges drop off into deep ditches. Nor did I mention that most of the land on the western side of the road is swampy and tree covered, that this route is a lovely, scenic drive until peak traffic times turn it into a literal hell on wheels.

Many commuters traveling to and from Baton Rouge avoid the main highways and use this rural road as a shortcut. Bumper to bumper, they exceed the speed limit, which, at 55-miles-per-hour, is already too high. They ignore the no-passing stripes in the center of the road. They're thinking about getting to work or getting home, they're fiddling with their radios, they're using their cell phones ("Do you want me to pick up something for dinner?"), and they're not paying attention. Some of them are drinking. More than once a beer bottle has landed in our front yard, having been tossed out the window of a passing pickup truck.

See the red spot on the green map above? At right is a closer view (obviously taken in winter) of that same spot. The dark slash you see crossing under the road is a bayou. The light tan areas that appear to be wide shoulders alongside the road are actually the deep slopes of embankments.

My daughter got off work early yesterday afternoon, passed this particular spot on her way home, and noticed some children fishing in the bayou at the bottom of the embankment. As soon as she arrived home, she picked me up and drove me to retrieve my car from the tire shop. She came home from there the same way she had come from work a short while earlier. (I came by a different route.) When she approached this bayou overpass again, she found traffic at a standstill. She could see that an SUV had driven off the road and into the bayou, and she saw someone giving CPR to a child. No emergency vehicles had arrived at the scene yet. Because of heavy traffic conditions, it would be a while before they did.

Later, at home, we could hear sirens passing our house for what seemed like an hour. Finally, we read on the internet, state police closed our road in both directions. Still later, on a televised newscast, we learned that the SUV, driven by an apparently unimpaired middle-aged woman, had run off the road and plowed into two children, their father and two of his friends, all of whom had been fishing peacefully a moment earlier. Both children died at the scene of the accident. The three men were transported to the hospital with injuries that turned out not to be severe. The driver, her seatbelt secured, her vehicle stopped by a tree from sinking into the bayou, suffered only minor injuries.

What a tragedy! Our community mourns this morning with the families involved in this terrible, surely preventable occurrence. What are the odds of someone losing control of a vehicle in the one spot on a five-mile stretch of road where people stood unprotected and unaware in her aberrant path? A broad combination of factors contributed to this accident;  a change in any one of them might have prevented it.

Reducing the speed limit on this road would be one good place to start.

Re-tiring

First it was the broken pipe on the bathroom sink, then the compressor fan motor on the central air conditioner, then yesterday a rear tire blew out minutes after I left home to go grocery shopping. That's three repair emergencies in ten days. Don't "they" say bad things happen in threes? I should be free and clear now, right? Should be able to come and go without a worrisome thought in the foreseeable future? Sorry, that's not my style. I'll worry that one more thing I can't do without will break, making me the exception to the three-in-a-row rule.

I barely felt it when the tire blew, but the sound was so much like a gunshot that I checked the windows to see if any had been shattered, then I checked the rearview mirror to see if I'd run over something. Everything seemed fine and the car kept on tracking normally until a few brief seconds later. I actually heard the telltale wobble before I felt it. Fortunately, I was still close enough to home that I could turn around and limp back here on the rubber-covered rim. I was not about to stop like a sitting duck on that narrow, two-lane, curvy, high-speed road.

My son-in-law stopped by on his way home from work and changed the tire for me, bless his heart. He's a good, kind man and always seems willing to help, but I'll bet he secretly wishes I'd at least try to find a healthy old man of my own to take care of jobs like this one.

The tire that blew out was only three days short of being five years old. I dug out the receipt when I got home and saw that I'd purchased this set of tires on June 22, 2009, a month before my retirement. (I re-tired right before I retired; go ahead and groan.) Before and after odometer readings tell me I've driven only 9,075 miles in all that time--about 35 miles a week. Whoo-eee, what a world traveler!

Did you know that tires dry rot? They do; Google it. The rubber rots faster in hot climates (say, here in Southeast Louisiana), and tires on cars that are not driven much rot faster than those with higher mileage. Go figure. The thick tread on my tires makes them look almost brand-new, but, according to what I've been reading, the inside layers are most likely crumbling. I suppose the spare tire that was put on yesterday is in similarly poor condition.

Spare tire marked "temporary use only."

I guarantee it'll be temporary.

Anyway, based on tire knowledge acquired yesterday, I think it's probably wise to go ahead and spring for a whole new set. Years ago I was driving when a front tire blew out and I had the dickens of a time controlling the car. That was an experience I'd choose not to repeat.

The rotting-rubber information also makes me wonder about belts and hoses that could be deteriorating deeper into the danger zone with each mile I drive--or each hour that the car sits in the carport. Have you ever opened a drawer and found rubber bands that have been in there for years? Hard, broken short pieces and longer pieces stuck firmly to other objects in the drawer? I presume automobile belts and hoses are made of sturdier rubber than that, but how do rubber years compare to human years? I wouldn't feel safe knowing my engine is being held together by parts in the same life stage as I am.

I was going to take the car in today for new tires and an overall rubber inspection, but my experience with young mechanics tells me they'll be rushing through their work today to make sure they don't have to work late on a Friday afternoon. Jobs that are rushed aren't always done well. My preferred tire company is closed on weekends, so Monday is the next earliest day I could go, but everybody knows not to get mechanical work done on Mondays when, according to urban legend, workers are nursing hangovers and couldn't give two s**ts about the quality of their work.

Tuesday. I'll do it Tuesday.

Baseball Bats Don't Vandalize; Knuckleheads Do!

It's been a little over six years since I last wrote about my mailbox getting bashed in, most likely by teenaged males seeking recreation. I'd replaced the box a few days before I wrote that post. Since then I've replaced it four more times. This afternoon I'll be doing it again for the fifth time in six years.

Each of the first couple of replacements was stronger, sturdier and more expensive than its immediate predecessor, and the steel frame of each one eventually crumpled up as easily as the others had. It stands to reason. If a fine automobile were struck by a baseball bat or a tire iron in the hands of a redneck boy hanging out the window of his buddy's pickup truck, the car would sustain significant damage. Why would I expect a mailbox to hold up any better?

Mailbox vandalism is so common it has its own Wikipedia page and its own news article on the United States Postal Service website. That's strangely reassuring. The first few times it happened I took it personally; it left me with a creepy, vulnerable feeling. Now it doesn't. Now it just makes me want to pinch some yahoos' heads off.

My mailbox sits next to two others on a structure that looks like a tall, wooden hitching post. A fourth box, attached to a metal post of its own, stands right in line with the other three. I have to admit that I understand why four mailboxes in a row, all at the same height, would make an attractive target for young males bent on destruction. It's all about the challenge; I get that. What I'll never understand is why some boys are so doggone stupid.

The mailbox I bought today is a hard-plastic one, the cheapest kind available at one of the big-box home improvement stores. The neighbor in front of me turned me on to this kind about three years ago when several of us had to get replacements at the same time after someone's night of ridiculous madcap adventure. The plastic ones are more resilient; they don't dent like the steel ones do. And if they do get cracked--or if the door gets broken off and thrown on the ground like mine and a next-door neighbor's did the other day--they're less costly to replace. The one I bought today is my third one of this style.

So, my neighbors and I have learned how to reduce the cost associated with repetitive acts of vandalism, and I'm less stressed when it happens than I used to be. There's still the matter of the inconvenience:  the trip to town to buy a new mailbox, the time involved in taking the damaged box down and attaching the new one securely while traffic whizzes by, the day(s) when there's no mail delivery because there's no usable mailbox. It's annoying as all get out.

I live in a nice, safe, semi-rural area where a mailbox-bashing spree every year or so is the height of crime. That makes me lucky, I know. And I love my house. It isn't fancy, but it suits me, and coming home to it always feels great. If I could change one thing, I'd have a--no, wait, make that two things. First, I'd add another bathroom. Then (second thing) I'd want a mailbox like the kind they have in my sister's East Texas neighborhood:

Try to bash that, bozos!

I Need a New Doctor, Stat!

My primary care physician (who happens to bear a remarkable resemblance to the Bitstrip avatar at right) has had my trust for twelve or thirteen years, ever since my first visit to her. In addition to being a highly competent professional, she's a warm, likable human being. I'm about to lose her.

In a recent letter she advised that she'll soon change to a concierge-type practice, primarily to reduce the size of her current practice and increase her availability to the patients who stay with her. The letter went on to outline her reasons for making the change, and I understand all of them. I don't blame her a bit.

I'd love to continue being her patient, but the changes she's making will come at a cost, and I can't afford it. There'll be an upfront fee of $1,650 per person per year. I'm guessing that only two groups of people will be willing to pay a fee like that: 1) people who have plenty of disposable income and don't mind absorbing the cost in exchange for greater access to a physician, and 2) folks whose current health issues cause them to spend a lot of time in the doctor's office and who, as a result, are desperate to maintain that important doctor-patient relationship regardless of personal sacrifice. I don't fall into either category.

Normally, I see this doctor twice a year for routine blood work and prescription renewals. At that rate the new fee would amount to $825 a visit, not including actual per-visit charges for office visits, x-rays, lab work, etc., that will still be billed to insurance carriers under the new plan. To fit the annual fee into my budget I'd need to cancel my cable TV and my Internet service, neither of which is crucial to my existence, I realize, but both of which contribute more to the quality of my life than longer doctor's visits would. (I'm knocking on wood now to cancel out any jinxes created by that last sentence.)

So. I wish her well. I really do. If this will make her workday more pleasant, the work itself more rewarding, she'd be silly not to go for it. But I, for one, will miss her.

In the meantime, it's sinking in that I've been plunged unexpectedly into a doctor-shopping race with other soon-to-be-former patients. Wish me luck.

A Cooling Off Period

Yesterday the temperature here reached 81°F; this morning the "feels like" temperature was back near the freezing point. "Enough!" I say stridently, my lips pressed together in a thin line, brow furrowed for emphasis. Who is screwing us over weather-wise? Are enemy agents manipulating U.S. air masses, their scientists testing ways to bombard us with snow and hail and slide us all into one another to gridlock our highways? Have the Tea Partiers, those right-wingers who have tried to interfere with so many other human rights in the name of God, found a way to tinker with the weather and freeze the hell out of the rest of us? I've been cold for too long, and I really, really want to blame it on somebody.

We had a hailstorm in the middle of one night last week that was so loud it woke us up and made us think the roof was about to fly off or cave in. Kim and I actually gathered up all four dogs and huddled in the center of the house until it stopped. It didn't have the reported freight-train sound of a tornado--more like a fleet of masked jackhammer operators attempting to break in through the roof--but we huddled anyway for lack of a better idea. The news the next day reported baseball-sized hail in our area.

In the days since then, two different roofing companies have called, saying they would be in the neighborhood and would be glad to stop by to do an inspection and give us a free repair estimate. I declined but was pleased later when my son-in-law came out to inspect it for himself and found it intact. This is the new roof we got last July; I wonder if the old one would have come through as well.

At this point it appears that the only damage may have been to the dogs' psyches--at least my two dogs, especially Gimpy. They were not the least bit storm-phobic before that night, but we've had thunder and lightning twice since then, and it's clearly made them nervous. Levi poked me awake with his nose the first night it thundered, I guess checking to see if I thought it would be a good idea for us to get in a huddle again. Gimpy did the same thing last night, waking me up, following me to the bathroom and standing by my knee until I finished, then, when I went back to bed, lying on the floor right next to me instead of in his own, more comfortable bed. They must have sensed my own fright on the night of the hailstorm. Shame on me for showing it, but it was scary.

This afternoon, leaving the Life Writing class, one of the ladies remarked that she bet there wouldn't be too many women baring their tatas for beads at Mardi Gras tomorrow in this cold weather. Another lady answered, "Well, if they do, the people who see their pictures will be able to tell how cold it was." Hahaha! Witty people like that could almost make me forget about my animosity toward enemy agents and Tea Party extremists.

Bits and Pieces

ENOUGH!
This is the view from my backdoor day before yesterday:

I expect to see a similar view as soon as I take a shower, do my hair, put on makeup, get dressed and step outside to go to the grocery store. If you click on the picture to enlarge it, you can just barely see that it was pouring down rain. Who needs more of that?

********

GROSS!
This is what I found on the den floor yesterday, about an hour after the dogs spent a few minutes outside:

All the dogs were sleeping when I found the dead lizard, so whichever one had caught it must have tired of it quickly. Dead lizards are not good for much.

On the other hand, over in East Texas a couple of days ago, my niece's dogs killed a cat that had strayed into their fenced-in yard. She found it on her porch, where her sleeping puppy was snuggled up with it.

We dog lovers tend to forget that our precious pets are natural-born predators. I wish they didn't have such a gruesome way of reminding us.

********

BOTHERSOME!
While Kim and I watched TV last night, we heard a strange noise and couldn't identify the source of it. A few minutes later, we heard it again and got up to search it out. The refrigerator was...er...snoring. I'm not kidding; it sounded exactly like this. It makes that noise half a dozen times spaced a couple minutes apart, stops for several hours, then does it again a few more times. Otherwise, it seems to be working fine. If my car were making that noise, I'd take it to a mechanic, but I think I'll wait to see what happens with the refrigerator. It might stop cooling, but at least it won't leave me stranded.

********

SAD...JUST SAD
On a serious note, I wrote the following on April 1, 2006: "...I can’t say enough good things about Philip Seymour Hoffman, who starred in the role of Truman Capote.  He’s been in so many movies that my daughter and I have joked about it for several years.  One of us will ask, 'Who’s in that movie?' and the other will answer with a list that always ends in '...and Philip Seymour Hoffman.'  He hasn’t been blessed with leading-man looks, which may be why he’s had time to hone his talent in supporting actor roles, but I think he’s brilliant!  It’s about time a movie came along that allowed him to shine."

Rest in peace, Philip Seymour Hoffman. We will miss you deeply, but your star will continue to shine.

Reset

Aaaaand...the clock has started ticking down a brand new year. Whoopee!

I've written here before that the fallacious do-over concept makes New Year's Day my favorite holiday. This year will be better, I declare every year, and usually I feel that way the whole day long on January 1st.

This year I didn't. I had the familiar, warm, fuzzy sense of anticipation on New Year's Eve, but I woke up the next morning feeling distinctly...well...pissy. The weather was cold, and the sky was dull gray and drizzly (pissy, too) just like it's been for most of the last week. I wanted sunshine and sparkly blue skies with fluffy, optimistic clouds scooting across them. I wanted bluebirds singing and got only the raucous cawing of a couple of old crows.

My younger daughter and her husband had invited us over for a traditional New Year's Day meal, so we went, even though I didn't feel fit for company and was afraid I'd cast a pall over the whole event. Instead, the great company lifted my bad mood higher and higher as the day went on. The good food didn't hurt anything, either (the diet didn't start again until today).

There wasn't a big crowd like there was at Christmas, just four adults for the meal, plus two granddaughters and a great-grandson, Owen, who came later. When my daughter greeted Owen with a hug and asked him how he was doing, he announced somberly, "Bob died." Bob (named for Bob the Builder) is an iPad. The battery ran down.

At three-and-a-half, Owen can't read, but he's proficient with the iPad, and his scheming skills are highly developed for his age. His mother told us he brought the iPad to her the other night, pointed at the screen, and said, "See, Mama, it says right here it's okay to mix the Play-Doh colors." Heh-heh. Good try, little buddy.

He's beginning to like jokes, especially practical jokes, but he can't quite pull them off. The newest one he's learned is supposed to begin with the promise of a kiss on the cheek, but Owen botches it every time by saying, "Here, I'm gonna kiss you on your raspberry." Even though we know what's coming, the joke ends the way it's supposed to, with a big laugh that a small boy finds very gratifying.

Anyway, as I said, the bad mood lifted. Hope and optimism finally arrived this morning, albeit exhausted from the trip and missing some luggage. Tired as they are, they'll help me meet goals (not resolutions!) and challenges in 2014.

Right off the bat, the no-sugar lifestyle is back in effect (Kim threw out cookies this morning--be still my heart!), and after I finish writing this, I'll begin working my way through Mark Kistler's You Can Draw in 30 Days book. I know from experience that the sugar ban will help with everything, and I think the workbook will build some skills I'll need when I take another painting class in February.

Those two things are just the beginning. There's a long list of other projects I intend to tackle this year (too many to itemize here) and an equally long list of self-improvement goals (including becoming quicker to respond to emails and slower to anger when I see misleading Tea Party posts on Facebook). Looking around this room now, I see that better housekeeping should be on one of the lists, but...meh.

One can only do so much.

Maybe I Should Earmark Veterinary Funds

About 9:30 last night, at their request, we turned all the dogs out into the backyard. When they came back inside ten minutes later, Gimpy's right shoulder was covered in blood. It took only seconds to determine that the blood was coming from a deep cut on the tip of his ear. We don't know for sure what happened, but the most likely scenario is that Levi grabbed Gimpy's ear while they were playing chase--which they do almost every time they go outside.

Gimpy didn't seem to be in pain. In fact, he didn't seem too concerned at all. Levi, on the other hand, could see the blood and was quite interested in what I was doing to his brother. He hovered over us with his big head in the way until Kim physically removed him so we could get Gimpy into the bathroom. The two of us washed and treated the cut and held the ear compressed in a towel while we washed all the blood off his fur. Just when we would think we had the bleeding stopped, it would start up again all of a sudden, over and over. If this had happened in the daytime, I would have worked on the cut awhile longer to see if we could avoid having to go get it stitched, but it was late. I finally decided to bite the expensive bullet and get the cut checked out by a vet. 

Kim and I quickly got dressed (I threw clothes on over my pajamas), and Kim drove into Baton Rouge to the nearest emergency veterinarian while I sat in the backseat with Gimpy and held a clean white towel to his ear. By the time we got to the animal hospital, where there was enough light to check the cut again, the bleeding had stopped. In fact, there wasn't a single drop of blood on that towel. Gimpy must have stopped bleeding during the four or five minutes we were rushing around getting ready to leave the house. Isn't that typical? We briefly considered turning around and heading back home, but what the heck. We were already there; might as well let them have a look so we could be sure. 

The veterinarian who checked Gimpy's ear was careful not to touch the wound. She told us dogs' ears are notorious for bleeding extensively. "Once you get the bleeding stopped," she said, "don't do anything to it. Don't touch it. Don't even look at it. Wait at least a couple of weeks, and then you can start working on washing the scab out of it." She did give (well, sell) us antibiotics for him: two big capsules, twice a day, for two weeks, so at least we don't have to worry about infection.

Gimpy seemed to consider the whole experience an adventure. First he enjoyed the exclusive attention of the two humans in the household. Later, he was the only dog at the animal hospital and wagged his tail happily while he explored every inch of the lobby, sniffing all the big plants and the various bags of specialty foods on their tall shelves, and made friendly overtures to the "other Goldendoodle" he could see, the one reflected in the glass doors of the entrance.

For the next couple of weeks we'll have to make sure to let Gimpy and Levi outside separately. I learned the hard way not to get between them when they're chasing one another, so we can't allow them to even start that game until Gimpy's ear is healed. They also chew each other's ears sometimes when they wrestle in the house, but I can put a quick end to wrestling without getting knocked down, so I will. 

Sure wish they knew some less rowdy games.

Gimpy

I'm Always Excited About Christmas Once It Gets Here

It's been twelve days since my last post -- twelve days of mental (and some physical) preoccupation with Christmas shopping. Every year I swear I will never again wait so late to get it all done, and every year I end up right here at the last minute with the shopping unfinished and no idea what to buy or where to find it.

There's no excuse for this. There are reasons, but reasons and excuses are two different things.

The number-one problem is that I lack confidence in my gift ideas and can shoot them down faster than I can come up with them. My gift list isn't a long one, but the people on it are important in my life. Selecting presents for people I hold in such high esteem involves too many days of head scratching and cyber browsing on the front end of the process, narrowing the time allotted for boots on the ground (or rubber-soled shoes, to be more precise) at the mall, reducing the number of shipping days available for online purchases.

Equally troublesome is deciding what goodies to take to the Christmas festivities. I don't have a specialty. Anything I make will be just one more option on a menu that has all the taste bases covered already, so I've been scouring websites and cookbooks for that one recipe that will be unique and will appeal to the most people. Never mind the great-grandchild with the nut allergy; he can eat something else if he has to. Never mind the half dozen folks who don't normally eat carbs; they'll (we'll) gladly suspend that abstinence on an important holiday. I'm looking for a recipe that is delicious and also fairly easy--just in case it turns out to be so good that it gets elevated to specialty status.

Anyway, here I sit, four days before Christmas, ready for it in spirit but not completely ready in any tangible way. This is the point where--every year--I become a little bit frantic and have to fight the urge to crawl into bed, cover my head, and wait till the whole thing passes.

**********

About those carbs I mentioned earlier: I cut them out of my diet a little over three years ago and saw almost immediate health benefits. I hadn't felt so good in years. Somehow, this past summer, I started getting careless, eating a couple of cookies here, a few crackers there, and cake on special occasions. It seemed harmless, but it led to a recent spate of "oh-what-the-hell" indulgences that I'm paying for physically--especially in the stiffness of my joints. I'm experiencing leg pains reminiscent of those that put me on a walker for a while a few years ago, and still I'm eating malted milk balls, spicy pumpkin pecan ice cream, and sweet-potato chips, promising myself I'll be "good" again after the first of the year.

When I get up after sitting for a while, my knees are too stiff to stand up straight, so I can't walk until I've stretched them out for a minute. I used to not know that sugar was responsible for all that inflammation in my body. Now I do know, but I'm planning to poison myself for a week or so longer before I begin to correct the situation.

How stupid is that?

**********

In my last post I wrote about getting a new dryer. It was delivered and set up sixteen days ago, and is doing a fine job so far. If I could change anything about it, I'd like for the signal at the end of the drying cycle to be louder, and I'd like for the store's computer system to be upgraded.

Almost every day, sometimes twice a day, I get an automated call from Sears, apologizing for the fact that my dryer delivery has been delayed and requesting that I call a certain phone number to reschedule. I've called that number. Three times. Each time I had to hold for several minutes to make contact with a (barely English-speaking) human, who asked an endless list of scripted questions and then requested that I hold again "for about four minutes" so they could "update the system." I can't imagine why they can't update the system without me, so I've chosen to hang up instead of holding for the second time. Maybe that's why my calls haven't done any good yet.

I've also tried to notify them online that the dryer is here. The choices on the customer service menu lead me to a place where I can reschedule delivery, but not to a place where I can report that I already have it.

Shaking my head.

**********

Also shaking my head about the weather. As I write this, It's 77° F. outside with high humidity and brisk winds, and it's supposed to get quite stormy before the day is over. I think I'll stop writing, change into shorts and a T-shirt, and treat my dog boys to a short game of fetch before the rain sets in.

Then I'll get back to thinking about Christmas some more.

A Year of Broken Things

There are only 24 days left in December, three-and-a-half weeks until the year ends and we get to wipe the slate clean, right? I hope the only thing that breaks between now and the stroke of midnight that signifies the beginning of 2014 is the spell that seems to have been cast over my household in 2013.

I've spent a huge chunk of my meager savings this year on things that have broken down and needed to be repaired or replaced. In February I told you about our broken sewer line. In July we had to replace the roof. Also in July my cell phone lost its texting capabilities. In mid-November the microwave oven met its demise, and days later I had to ante up for some car repairs. Earlier this week the dryer broke down. I ended up having to replace it. Actually, the story of the repairmen who came out to look at the dryer is a rather nice one, and I'll write about in a day or two when I have more time.

In the meantime, it's Saturday, and I'd like to dedicate this week's Saturday Song Selection to my 40-year-old house (with special emphasis on its wiring, plumbing and climate-control systems); to my appliances (large and small); to all the electronic things I managed to live without just fine before I got them and learned to love them; and to my eight-year-old automobile that I've only driven 42,000 miles and expect to drive for the rest of my life. May your parts be strong and your lives be long.

"When you try your best but you don't succeed,

When you get what you want but not what you need.

When you feel so tired but you can't sleep,

Stuck in reverse,

"And the tears come streaming down your face,

When you lose something you can't replace,

When you love someone but it goes to waste,

Could it be worse?

"Lights will guide you home

And ignite your bones,

And I will try to fix you." *

* The song is "Fix You" by Coldplay.

Thanks to TheNewCitizen for posting the video and lyrics on YouTube.