A matter of perspective

Seems I am using this blog to talk a lot about the old folks. Well, that is what is happening in my life. Lots of old lady and lots of old man. Other things are going on but they are private.

On Saturday I brought the old folks to the movies to see Earth. I know they didn't particularly want to see it but I did. I told them that they agreed to see it after seeing the previews when I told them I was looking forward to it. The old man usually says things like "Nature? You've seen one tree, you've seen them all." But he was engaged during the film. He loved the baby polar bears. He loved the dance of mating birds. The old lady liked it too.

It is so important to see the wider world. It gets even more important as their lives get so circumscribed by physical limits. Everyone needs perspective. Otherwise the little dramas that take place within our walls become too big and our of proportion. The old lady has some pretty barrettes that she has misplaced. They have become a big issue in her life, as well as running low on vitamins. But watching elephants cross the Kalahari to find water, to see lions drink at the same place, to see birds by the hundred thousand migrate takes one out of ones self. The old lady was especially touched by the cranes that had to make it over the Himalayas. They would work so hard and sometimes have to turn back, only to try another day.

For myself, I did not truly understand the plight of the polar bears. I did not understand about the melting ice sheet and how polar bears starve when they cannot hunt seals on the ice sheet. I figured that there was plenty of snow, plenty of glaciers, what was the big problem? Well the problem is that the ocean is warming and melting their hunting platform. It still takes many months in the den to raise the cubs and weeks to get to the ocean, but if the ice is already melting, the seals are gone. Oh my.

This film, Earth, is an edited version of the twelve hour set we gave Betty for Christmas. They don't really show the true brutality of life for the hunted and the hunter. It was cleaned up for the G rating. I am glad we went the first week because Disney donated a tree for every ticket sold. I know they are still just tiny saplings only a few inches high, but if the rabbits don't eat them, maybe there will be some new forests in a few years. The old man was quite concerned when he saw all the little children in the audience, but they, like everyone else were quiet and enjoyed the majesty, and sometimes humor, of all that was shown.

Another week with Sidney

I had a very funny moment with the old man at the clinic on Wednesday. We went for a bone scan and at one point the old man was on his back with his knees on a high square foam pillow. He had to unzip his trousers and hold them open to get a good picture. As he is lying there with his legs in the air he said "We will name her Mary." I started to laugh and laugh. I said "What, not Jesus?" He told me that would be for the next one.

He can be so damned droll at times. When he was staying at the transitional care center I took him out for an afternoon. As we drove back he said, "Back into the valley of death." Oh he can be funny. But my gosh he can be awful, too.

It has been gorgeous out but tomorrow it is supposed to be cold and rainy. Maybe we will go to the movies.

Stuff and nonsense

Hunter, the white cat, snores. Sometimes I will be in another room and hear gentle snoring and wonder where it is coming from; poltergeists? Then I remember Hunty-Bunty. Last night I heard opera coming from the other bedroom and wondered how he could sleep with that going on. But then I wondered how he was able to sleep with all the noise I made. There are mornings I wake up literally roaring, ahoogh! Usually it is to find my nightie is soaking wet and I am freezing. You would roar, too.
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I used to blog on a private, adults only site. I felt free to say whatever I wanted and be as out there as I wanted. Now, on a public website, I feel constrained. Whatever, I will get over it. It is about time I learned some boundaries. I used to get lots of responses, people told me I made them laugh. Looking back on these blogger posts I see I haven't been very funny. Well, I'm not laughing much and that is a shame.
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I like Dancing With The Stars. It is pure entertainment. It is not another murder mystery, or stupid sitcom. It is performers working their asses off to be the best, or to show improvement and that energy comes through. I smile during the broadcast; it is fun to watch. It is fun to get to know the pros and interesting to learn about the "stars" if you can call them that. It is fun to watch a bull rider learn to glide. I enjoy watching them go beyond their comfort zones within their physical abilities.
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Today I am taking the old man to Park Nicollet for a bone scan. To me it is crazy that old men are not monitored or treated for osteoporosis. That is crazy. My counselor asks why do I do all this stuff to keep him alive when I say I am waiting for him to die? He thinks I will miss him when he is gone. It definitely is a conundrum. Sometimes I also wonder.
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I've started a private blog on another site. If anyone wants to know how to find it, just ask. Warning, it is not for everyone.

On pineapple and sainthood

1.
Everyone is talking about genetically engineered food and some say it is bad for the world and others say it is the next step forward in solving the world's problems. I say it is bad for the poor farmers of the world to have to buy their genetically engineered seeds for higher yield and nutrition from Monsanto rather than use their own farm grown seeds. But I also say that the amazingly juicy and sweet golden pineapple I had this morning is far superior to the fresh pineapple of my youth.

2.
When I was a young woman my career goal was to be a saint. Marriage and not being Catholic or Hindu put real crimps in that path. Now I am seeing just how bumpy the road to sainthood can be.

I took the old man and the old lady to Cheapo/Applause to find music they could dance to. They let us in the back door and they got down the steps to the listening area. I found a clerk who found them some cd's to try. It is hard when the old man gets stubborn and the old lady does not know how to describe what they want. They wanted tango music. That wasn't the right tango music. Turns out they wanted rumba beat, not tango. Everyone thought they were cute doing their little dance while I had my back turned to them. A person can take just so much Sidney. He is charming when he wants to be, but has no problem telling me to shut up and that I do not know what I am talking about. Those are the times that try my patience. Dinner went alright and when we went back to the apartment, I suddenly had patience again. Harriet's niece and nephew sent her a little cd/cassette boombox. I took a Sharpie and colored the indentations on the buttons. I wrote out a cheat sheet and we practiced on, off, forward and reverse on the Greatest Hits of 1959. Out of twenty-four songs, they think they can dance to about fifteen. Of course they only have the stamina for about one song, but at least they have a choice. The old lady said, "You should have been a teacher."

3.
There are many saints among us. Do you know who they are? Do they know who they are? They are the parents of sick and disabled children who love and accept and care for them with no thought of reward except seeing those children happy and pain free. They advocate for those who have no voice and no power. They make the rest of us look at our healthy children and realize how wonderful defiance can be. They show us how just how lucky we are. And if you asked them if they would rather their children be "normal" they wish it with all their heart. But if you ask them if they regret having special needs children they deny it with all their heart. Time after time they will tell you how much those children have added to their lives and how very much they love them. Day after day these parents take care of their beloved sons and daughters never knowing how inspiring they are.

Thank you for showing me the real meaning of love, and long term patience. Thank you for showing me that saint is a very real job description and you only get to be one from day to day on the job practice. Renee, this one's for you.

Another twofer: Old man bones, Olive Garden

Old man bones

Yesterday I brought the old man, 93, and the old lady, 95, to the Center for Senior Services at Park Nicollet Clinic. The old man had to have a post hospital follow-up with their primary care physician, Dr. Stockman. The old man is doing as well as can be expected. He weighed in at 129 fully dressed including sports jacket and shoes. That is very thin for a man who used to be almost five feet eleven inches. The old lady is being treated for osteoporosis and I asked why my father is not even taking calcium. At the hospital I had noticed every old man was a falling risk, they get so frail.

Much to my surprise, insurance does not cover routine bone scans for elderly men. They can be treated for erectile dysfunction and prostate, hell they can even get mammograms, but their old bones are totally ignored. Do they not break hips and arms and shoulders? By going around the conventional rules, and using loss of height for justification, we were able to schedule a bone scan for next week. I asked how long it takes for medication to show improvement. That could take one to two years. Given that he might not live much longer, is it worth it? But given that he might live forever just to piss everyone off, why not?

The Olive Garden Experience

My friend took me to the Olive Garden last month for my birthday. It was adequate. When asked if we wanted desert, I asked about something for my birthday. They don't give a scoop of ice cream or anything else anymore. When I got home I sent an email saying I thought it was bad policy, especially since they were right next to Chili's which gave the old lady a beautiful sundae without asking, once they knew we were celebrating her birthday. I got a letter back talking about giving directly to the community through their foundation. They also sent me a twenty dollar gift card for bothering to get in touch with them. Penny wise, pound foolish. It would have cost them so much less to give a scoop of ice cream.

When I picked up the parents yesterday the old lady told me the old man had not eaten a thing at lunch that day. I gave him a bottle of Boost and a straw and he drank it in the car on the way to Dr. Stockman. While we were waiting I asked if they would like to go to Olive Garden and help me spend my gift card. The lunch at their dining room they assured me, had been uneatable. A naked hot dog without any bun and cooked carrots. They asked for mustard and was told none was available. The old lady, who usually puts up with whatever is served said, "You know me, I don't complain. But if even I couldn't eat it, you know it was bad." She then reiterated that she doesn't complain.

You have seen the commercials for Olive Garden. "When you are here, you are family" is their slogan. That is probably a good slogan. They treat you with the casual disrespect shown in most families. They expect you to know the family secrets, don't open the door for you, and eat what you are given without comment except to say that mom is a great cook whether she is or not.

I am not going to list chapter and verse of all the mistakes that were made. The food was tasty and the old lady loved it and the old man ate a little soup, a little pasta, and three shrimp. As we left the restaurant the manager opened the door for us and I asked her to step outside for a moment. I told her that I have done a lot of food service and that these days a serving job is not just for college kids, that it is a real career for many people. And as such, they needed to improve their serving standards. I did give her examples, and as she said, it wasn't anything big, but it all added up. She thanked me. I feel better for having said something.

Shades of life

I used to be so certain, so morally right. I used to think in black and white. I used to think I knew what was going on. Now I am not so sure. I still judge, oh yes, I do. But I seem to have more compassion, less certainty. Whereas before I could not sanction, under any circumstances, what I thought to be wrong, now I am understanding why certain actions can happen.

I am willing to give the benefit of the doubt realizing I do not know all the facts. And I do not know all the history, or what goes on behind closed doors. Come to find out that many of the parents in my neighborhood thought my father a dignified, quiet man, and my mother a saint for taking on three children.

I watched the Inauguration this year and felt compassion for W; to be so confused and almost shunned. I never felt that before.

As my life changes I ask myself if I am hurting others, and try like hell not to be a source of hurt. What can I do to be a source of happiness, though? How can I improve my life? How can I heal myself and what can I do to be a force for goodness in this world? How can I make my life a positive influence on the world around me and not spread negativity?

Today, I will try to be a conscious entity mindful of the gift of life and the beauty of Creation, all Creation. I will take my parents to the doctor and smile and wish them well and be thankful for the gift of service.

Memory! Serve me well.

Two blogs in one: Loving a white cat, An incredible talent

Part one: Loving a white cat

Our family has a varied history with cats. Way back when the girls were young we acquired Marshy and Lily, two farm kittens who were feral when we got them, and barely socialized when they died about twelve and fourteen years later. They would sometimes sit next to me, but they never really warmed up to us. When I turned forty I wanted a baby. My husband, who had been a wonderful father to our little ones absolutely refused. Then I wanted a kitten or a puppy or a turtle. I wanted something young to counterbalance having teenagers. Baby, the sweetest, stupidest Siamese came to live us and be my little baby to snuggle and love. Best of all, I could put him on the porch when he got annoying. Marshy never liked him, but Lily would chase him around. It kept them young and taught us just how unfriendly our old girls were. When Marshy died Erica was not quick to replace her. She went looking for a kitten and came home with the sweetest cat in the world, our Honey.

Our older daughter found a companion in a smart and friendly white cat, Hunter. He moved to Chicago with her and lived very happily for two years in a small studio apartment. When I stayed over I discovered that Hunter was a "cat with an agenda". That agenda was to play and have fun and make me an accomplice whether I wanted to or not and whether I was awake or asleep. Due to a pet restriction at a place my daughter rented, Hunter had to come live with us. He is smart, and loving, a perfect cat except for one thing. He is white and he sheds. We brush him and brush him but there is white cat hair everywhere and I hate it. I asked about having him shaved and have been told that he would still shed, just shorter hairs.

Now it is springtime and the cats are shedding. Honey wants to be brushed all the time and Hunter needs to be brushed all day and night to keep down the hair. I told my daughter I did not want a white cat, and now he is part of our family. Is that what love is all about? Is it accepting someone even if they leave white hair on the green chairs? Or socks on the floor or a glass right by the faucet? Is it seeing the flaws in our children and spouses and parents and friends and making adjustments so they can enrich our lives? I do not believe love is unconditional. I believe it is finding the right conditions where all can flourish. In the case of Hunter the white cat, it is making the act of brushing into an act of love and accepting that furniture with cats need to be brushed, too.

Part two: An incredible talent

Do yourself a favor and watch http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wnmbJzH93NU from Britain's Got Talent. Wonderful and heartening. Sure to make your day. I loved it.

Call me Cleopatra, Queen of Denial.

Call me Cleopatra, Queen of Denial.

Wow! That was a great first line. Now what? I'll come back to it...

Where has the time gone? What have I been doing? Why don't I have a job? Why am I not divorced and in my own place? Why, why, why? Ah, I have it, call me Cleopatra, Queen of Denial. I guess I thought somehow, some way justice would prevail and the world right itself. Maybe it has and I just never saw it.

In a long marriage there are bad times and good times and for so long I have waited for the bad time to be over and the stronger than before time to begin. It is not going to happen. We will both go forth stronger than before, I hope, but not together. I've mourned long enough. This past year I created a new social life for myself. I am about seven years behind in creating activities and friends without my spouse. Subtlety does not work on me. If I hadn't been in denial I would be farther along the path to independence.

I couldn't believe that I was being forced out of a job that I did so well. "Get out of there," my EAP counselor advised, "it is toxic." I felt I had some tasks that needed to be accomplished first. I was establishing programs that I wanted to be in place before I left. Guess what? All my hard work is for naught. They trashed my programs. Every time I interviewed with a potential employer all those negative emotions arose and I had a very hard time explaining why I left. I would make it through two interviews and see the job go to someone else. I got disheartened and stopped applying. Part of it was not having someone at my back, encouraging me, asking for progress. Part of it was denial. When I applied for the same position with another agency and got a form letter back saying I would not get an interview because they were looking for someone with "more experience" I had to face the reality of being blackballed. It hurt and I became angry all over again and like a child kept asking why life wasn't fair. That job had been promised to me if it ever came open. I really could not believe what was happening.

We measure time in minutes and hours. They accumulate into weeks, months and years. I, who have always been a demon about time have had to adjust my ideas about time. I thought I would have a new job in three months, and here it is three years later and I am no closer to being fully employed. It is over a year since our healing ceremony and I am not legally divorced. Talking Heads sing "Time isn't holding us / Time isn't after us / Same as it ever was."

I have needed the time to let go. I have needed the time to go forth. I have needed time to get back in tune with the Universe and see beyond myself and my petty life. I have needed time to get beyond my obsessive slavery to the clock and time tables. I am closer to sixty than fifty. That schedule of where I should be at this time in my life has been trashed beyond recognition. It is what it is and I have no idea of what that is and what wonderful future time may bring. But until I stop saying that I can't believe I am fifty-seven years old with no job, no marriage, and my own home, I am still Cleopatra, Queen of denial.

The power of life and death

After the old man's last stint in the hospital and transitional care I had to take him to his primary care physician. This is Dr. Stockman at the Center for Senior Services. He is a gerontologist, someone who specializes in the very elderly. (As an aside to medical students, go into gerontology, huge shortage and aging population.) Dr. Stockman looked at the orders from the nursing office at the assisted living apartments where my parents live. He said to me, "Why does it say to resuscitate?"

"Sidney, it says here you want to be resuscitated if your heart stops or you stop breathing" he said.
"Damn right" said my father.
"I don't think that is the right decision. You are much too frail to survive it."
"Well I want them to try. I don't want them to bury me the minute I stop breathing."
"There is a 99% chance of failure," the doctor explained.
"So, I will be the 1%!"
"If by some miracle you do survive, you would be in terrible pain. Your ribs would probably break and you would never walk again."
"That's OK, I will take my chance," the old man insisted.
"Sidney, I would not sign the order to resuscitate you at almost 94 years old and in your condition."
"Dad," I said, "you would not be able to move and you would get weaker and weaker and have no quality of life."
"OK." he finally agreed.

Several days later he told me that they came to him at his apartment to sign the revised orders and he refused. He wants to be kept alive by whatever means. Which brings us to yesterday.

I went to pick up the old man and the old lady. The plans for the day were to go to a record store where they could pick out some music. Then we were going to Chez Daniel for lamb chops. The old man told me he was feeling weak. The old lady said he asked her to call me the night before. "So why didn't you call me?" I asked. She wanted to see how he was in the morning after he slept all night. Again I had to tell her that this was the reason I moved them from NY. Last time she wanted to call 911 and he told her not to. He wound up staying three days in the hospital and three weeks in transitional care that time. Call me, I emphasized. If he says to call me, then call me.

After we were in the car the old man tells me the aide told him his blood pressure was high. "How high?" I asked. They didn't know the numbers, but high. I immediately drove to the fire station and had them check his bp, 180 over 80. That was pretty high and he was weak and almost dizzy. I didn't bother with Urgent Care and brought him to the ER at Methodist Hospital where they did triage and put him in a cubicle. They did some tests and don't know what the problem is. He is established in a room for observation and more tests. Every doctor who came in asked what the problem is and every time he says he can't eat. His taste buds are shot and he chews but does not seem to swallow. He has been living on Boost which he drinks through a straw.

The admitting doctor and the old man had the resuscitate talk. He told her he wants to be kept alive on machines. They are to do everything possible to keep him alive. I followed her after she left the room and we had a little talk. I said not to resuscitate. She said she saw the notes from Dr. Stockman. I told her my dad had some dementia. She said she understood.

Here we get to the ethics of the situation. Is it right for the medical team and myself to make the decision to let the old man die when he absolutely wants heroic effort made to keep him alive? Is it right to put him through extreme pain in that pursuit? Is it right to ask the taxpayer to foot the expenses of keeping him alive on machines? At his age and in his condition it would be for a short time. He doesn't have the physical resources to last long.

The heart of the matter is that my father is quite frightened of dying and thinks any kind of crappy life is better than death. Both he and Harriet believe you live and you die, and that is it. They don't believe in any kind of Creator, but the old lady is ready to go. She insists that no one keep her alive on machines. She might get a little confused as to times and days, but even half deaf and legally blind she essentially has her marbles.

I believe there is an energy that keeps us alive. That is the difference between a live body and a corpse. Call it soul, or God, or whatever word you want. I call it energy. If energy cannot be created or destroyed, then it came from somewhere to animate my human life and when it leaves my body it will go somewhere too. It will either merge with universal consciousness, or go back in line for another go round, or something I have no idea of and will not know until I die. I do know I am not scared of dying. Whether I am scared of living is a different topic for a different day.

Me and Edie Brickell

There are several female singers I don't particularly care for such as Stevie Nicks and Madonna. Then there are a few I just can't stand. I get a visceral feeling of uneasiness when I hear them. One is Natalie Merchant, and the other is Edie Brickell. I have never liked Natalie and sort of could stand Edie for awhile. In my opinion they have unpleasant singing voices. Both of them have a real good self image though. Otherwise how could they sing for their supper? Some years ago, when Paul Simon was 50, he married Edie Brickell who was 25 and she started having babies. It was at this point that I really started disliking Edie Brickell and wondering about Paul Simon, who I always liked.

Paul Simon is a wonderful song writer and poet. I figured that if anyone knew good music and singing and song writing it would be Paul Simon. I just couldn't understand how he could marry such a mediocre artist. Of course she was young and fresh with long hair and long legs and probably had perky nipples. He stands about as high as her shoulder. She must make him feel wonderful when he is with her and being adored is pretty wonderful. But Paul...she is not a good singer or poet. Maybe that is not important to him in a mate, maybe he thinks she sings like an angel when she hums in his ear.

The truth is I am jealous. I don't particularly want to marry Paul Simon. That has never been a dream of mine. I am jealous of her self confidence. I am jealous that she thinks so much of her mediocre art that she got herself a band and a record and married one of the best songwriters of all time. I think about some artists I know. My sister-in-law's mother is one of the most talented, self taught, natural artist I have ever met. She can paint in needlepoint, or create in almost any media. She builds furniture and makes amazing stuffed creations, quilts, you name it. She doesn't think too much of what she does, she just does it. For her it is like breathing. We used to have a friend, Whitey. The last time I saw him was at his wedding in 1994. They moved to NYC directly after for him to pursue his art career. In my opinion, his work and technique were really awful.

About that same time I was class mother for a field trip. We went to the Walker Museum. Erica was about three, and Laurel seven. Eri was quite shy and wouldn't talk to any of the big kids and pretty much kept her face hidden behind my leg. We met our docent in a downstairs hallway that was being used for some rather hideous modern prints. Eri looked around and suddenly piped up, "My mom does this!" much to my and the docent's surprise. I looked around and thought about the difference between the print maker and me. I knew I was at least as talented, but that artist had confidence and a burning desire to make art. It was her life.

I have had many opportunities to make art over the years and have taken advantage of very few of them. The desire to create art does not burn that hot within me. For years I loved crafting the home my family could thrive in. That was art, too. Then I had the rush of using my creativity to help people find solutions to their problems. I think art is anything one does with passion, from detailing a car to writing a manifesto, from raising babies to designing bridges. With passion and intent, life can be art...if we remember.

The sound from downstairs has changed from the passionate Ms. Brickell to something on the tube. I just spent some time passionately blogging and I'm not jealous for the time being.

Hard memories

It started so innocently. My niece posted pictures of her new baby on facebook. So I signed up on facebook and people started finding me. Some were people I knew in childhood. One man posted a picture of some neighborhood children. The comments grew and grew until we were talking of all those we lost back in the day. Not from Viet Nam; we lost them to drugs. I have received several beautiful private notes and they make me so sad. Because I remember the little girl who could not understand light hearted teasing and differentiate it from the threat of violence that was always a background to her days. How scared I must have been. I still do not do well with teasing that has a mean undercurrent. However, I love sarcasm and irony. Go figure.

One boy and his brother were what I perceived at the time to have been very mean. They scared me, a lot. They were very good looking blonde boys, one my age, one a year older. Looking back I can see their parents were much younger than mine. I wonder about those children because their mother was nasty to me and their father innappropriate. I wonder about what went on in that apartment.

Between the ages of six until nearly eight, I was a motherless child. Maybe I scared the neighborhood women, a living reminder of what could happen to their own children. Most were kind to me. I remember my friend asking if I could walk to the store with her mother and another woman. The other woman looked at me in a sunsuit and said "I'm not taking her, she's half naked." She could have said to please get a sweater but instead she humiliated me. I don't remember much from those years, but I remember that and the child inside me weeps. When I was about twelve my friend asked the husband of this woman if he had the time. He looked at us and leered "Yeah, but do you have the place?" My friend and I looked at each other. These days we would say "wtf?" but back then we were confused and creeped out. Yeah, these were the parents of two of the boys that scared me. Now I look at one of those boys and see he is a really decent human being. I looked at his friends and he has traveled far and wide.

We have talked about those friends who have died and I am saddened for all the lives cut short. I mourn that my children never got to know the cousins they would have had if my brother had lived. I think about Mrs. Kiroki living so many years without Mary Ann and her husband. The cutest boys in the neighborhood died of overdoses. And there I was, knowing I had to get away. I did get away. I have traveled around the US. I will probably never live in NY again, not in Canarsie to be sure. It seems that was a whole lifetime ago, I hardly remember it, but the bad memories, some of them I remember way too clearly.

Born without filters

From the stories I have heard about my infancy, I was not an easy baby. While other babies might have been a little colicky, I had colic 24 hours a day. I got chicken pox at the age of one month from my older brother, who, if legend has it right, was the perfect baby. I was the kind of baby the wind or loud noises bothered. These days they call them Highly Sensitive Children. It should be of no surprise to find I have grown into a Highly Sensitive Person. Telling a Highly Sensitive Person to stop being so sensitive is like telling water not to be wet. To know more about HSP, there is a test at http://www.hsperson.com/.

As I have gotten older my coping skills have improved but it is still easy to hurt me. Sometimes I describe it as having all my nerves on the surface. I jangle easily. At one point I could not enter Best Buy stores because the loud carpet and mixture of noises would overwhelm me. Thank goodness the carpet has been replaced with grey industrial carpeting. Mann Theaters have carpet that looks like fireworks and popcorn, ghastly. I will pay more at a small toy store than deal with the sensory overload at Toys R Us. And I definitely have to be in the right mood to go to Cub.

That is just the surface stuff. Hurts go deep. I do not have a good memory and sometimes forget but other times remember. I was sitting here thinking about being gone for three weeks at my last job and then coming back to find that my boss and her cronies did not even ask how my trip to move the parents from NY to MN went. When their parents were in the hospital or sick, I always asked. Their insensitivity or downright meanness floored me. On the other hand, I can say things to others that hurt and not realize or remember. I am so sorry.

My sister sent me a plaque that reads "Everyone is entitled to my opinion." I was raised that way. We are shouters and don't care who we shout at, (except my sister) and everyone knows our opinions. There is someone I know who goes about muttering, loud enough to hear, but not loud enough to understand. Part of me wants to say either talk to me or keep quiet. But today I thought I would do the same thing. I started muttering, too. I hated it. The nasty things I wanted to say stayed suspended in the atmosphere, polluting the very air I breathe. As we say here in Minnesota, "Oh ish!"

The realization I had while muttering, is that everyone is not entitled to my opinion. If I am going to spout garbage, it is best to keep it to myself. No one needs their air polluted by my resentments and bad humor. On one level I already knew this. I leave places that make me uncomfortable. Now I have to show that same level of sensitivity to others and leave if I make them uncomfortable. Better yet, use some filters and don't make others uncomfortable to be with me. What a concept! Miss Sensitivity should be more sensitive to others.

Not where I thought I was going with this blog, but a good place to have come to all the same.

Only in Orono

Orono is the northern area of Lake Minnetonka, stretching from Wayzata to Mound. Lots of rich people live here and quite a few middle income people too. Each year different groups host events to help raise money for the seniors at the high school. Around 1994 Brian Billick, who was an assistant coach for the Vikings brought his wife and young daughters to a taste testing. It was a lot of fun, we all ate some cereal and said whether we liked it or not. You get the idea, community building while getting cash for the seniors. Today I received email from the City of Orono that included a fundraiser for the senior class. I thought Erica might like to come so I opened it up.

Rotary gives away three scholarships per year. They will be holding a dinner in that cause. Great, I thought. Spaghetti or a fish fry or something on that order. Nope. The venue is a smallish bistro/restaurant. Cost: $90. per person.

Wow, only in Orono.

Gracefully or ungracefully, we all age

I have left one computer addiction for another and unfortunately it is called Facebook. You see someone you know, look at who they know, and on and on. Horrible and fun at the same time. Recently I was looking at people from my High School. One man looks just like he did when I met him in kindegarten. I would know him anywhere. The pretty girl from my youth? I didn't recognize her at all, but I did see her mother. Wow. Some years ago I took a self portrait and sent it to my father. He sent me a picture of his mother that I had never seen before. Holy moly, I looked just like her only with a modern hairdo. My nieces post pictures of their new babies and I see them getting older before my eyes. No one, not even a newborn baby, stays young. Being alive means getting older day by day.

There is only one sure cure to stop the aging process. There isn't a cream or procedure that will do it. Only death stops aging. It doesn't stop the decaying of the body, but it stops the aging of the person as we know them. I am reading a fascinating book right now. It is called "Stiff" by Mary Roach and it is a funny and factual book about what happens to cadavers. I started reading it for a book club and have found it very interesting in a macabre way. It proves my point that a good author can write well about almost anything.

Seeing the facebook pictures of my old classmates made me wonder, what do they see, when they look at me? I hope I am aging gracefully. I hope they see someone who likes to laugh, who enjoys being with friends. I know they will get the point that I like eating. I have a picture that my friend Jude photoshopped for me. It is so glamorous. I think...yeah...I AM going to put it as my profile picture in facebook. Eat your heart out Canarsie High!

Could I be any more Freudian?

I was driving along the other day when I thought of the way I would love to leave this earthly life. I mean it is wonderful to live a long and healthy life and just pass away in sleep. But how many of us really get to do that? Realizing I had better watch my driving I forgot about it and concentrated on getting home safely. There are ways I definitely don't want to go, and painfully, in a crash, is high on THAT list.

I have been seeing a counselor to help deal with the stress of being around my father. That is a whole other story. We were talking about death when I remembered my fantasy while driving. This is what I told him:

"When I am old and decrepit and ready to die I want to go up in the space shuttle. Then I want to go out for a space walk. I will undo the wire keeping me to the ship and gently float out into space. By the time my air is gone I will have become a piece of space debris and eventually break up into atoms."

He looked at me and said, "Back to the womb? Cutting the cord?" I agreed but added that I wanted to go even further back, to before the sperm and egg collided. I wanted to go back to the components and before the components. He said, "You want to look down on it all and feel peace. But Carol, what are you going to do for the thirty years before you have that one or two hours of peace?" That is when the conversation got interesting. Because I didn't see it as a couple of hours of peace, I saw it as a transition and completion.

We talk morals, a lot. He wants to know why I am doing what I do for my parents. What percentage of it is for the pat on the head that will never come. How much am I doing it to be that good child? I think we came to the conclusion that it was about 29% or less. I argue that I want to do it for virtue being it's own reward. I am doing it because it is right. I am doing it because the person who I want to be does the right thing. He thinks, from the things I tell him that the old man will probably be dead in six months. That he will fade away. I told him I didn't think so. He told me I am on the brink of doing something extraordinary. "What?" I asked. He said I am not going to let the old man win.

I have to think about that for awhile.