she's just saying...

Pressure-eyes'd

eyeball sundae

If you've been reading for awhile, you may remember that I was diagnosed with glaucoma a couple of years ago.  No reason, no cause, no family history - seemingly a random roll of the dice. 

It is progressing, so today I met with a new doc at Devers Eye Institute in Portland who recommended I have surgery in July to alleviate the pressure in my left eye. It's a nasty surgery with a catchy name: trabeculectomy. I mistakenly called it up on YouTube and almost fainted watching it. 'Nuff said there.

Given that I need to maintain vision for another 40+ years, they've decided to be pretty aggressive about it all. (I was the youngest patient in the waiting room by about 20 years. About the only pleasure involved in having glaucoma is that the doctors keep emphasizing how young I am. Of course, they're all about 15 years old, so what do they know?) It pretty much means the end of wearing contacts, which in my vanity was the main obstacle I had to accept. I also won't be able to scuba dive again, but since I've logged over 500 dives in my career I think I'm good there. 

I'll faithfully blog from the operating table when it comes around, 'cause I know you want to follow every gory detail. Meanwhile, go get your pressures checked. I had no symptoms, no vision loss, no pain - if they hadn't caught it by chance, I'd be blind in about 15-20 years. 

Tonight I'm staying with friends, drinking wine and relaxing. This weekend I'm attending SpecFest and spending mad money on trendy peepers.

In memory on Memorial Day

I'd like to share this again with you. This is a repeat of last year's post, updated for the anniversary date.

Jay Zemotel, Fairbanks, 1978

I didn't realize til just this moment that it is May 25, the 24th 25th anniversary of my husband's suicide. What a long time ago that seems. Truly another world, another lifetime.

Jay was a bluegrass guitar player and singer from Boston. He and his friends had a band that was very popular in Fairbanks, the town we lived in in the late 70's. When we met, it was love (or something like it) at first sight. He was wild and smart, funny and fatalistic. He did everything to the extreme: music, motorcycles, drugs, alcohol, love. He had a ponytail and a crazy dog and I thought he was everything I'd never experienced. I was a sheltered, suburban, private-college girl and he was the real world. He could walk into any bar and be at home. At the time that seemed like something.

I grew up during our short time together. Learning to live as a couple, on my own truly for the first time, trying to mesh very different backgrounds and values. There was love, fighting, fear and finally awareness. I was in way over my head and was going to drown with him or remove myself from that quicksand. Before the divorce was final, he succeeded too well at one of his occasional attempts at suicide, something I still believe he didn't mean to do.

For years I couldn't listen to a certain type of bluegrass without crying. Now it brings me closer to him. I have nothing left of our life together except some photos, and the only people I know who remember him are my family. He lived hard, tried to be happy, and loved me the best he could. I remember you, Jay, and you live on in my heart.

The boredom of boredom

I am soooo bored.

I don't get depressed, I get bored. Boredom is my nemesis. "Boah, boah, boah" as Katherine Hepburn said. (Quick: name the movie.) Or technically, dysthemia, as I discussed in a previous post.

I'm one of those people who has to be working on a project. Not just a little "project," but a big life-changing absorbing overwhelming passion, or I get bored.

My bookshelves chart the projects I've been consumed with in the last twenty years: books about:

art
scuba
sailboats
Oregon
dog training
climbing
homebuilding
landscaping
Buddhism
adopting
child-rearing
self employment
personal growth
turning 50
and
knitting.

It's a bad sign that I can't think of any books I want to buy or check out from the library. Nothing, no project in my sights, no curiosity, i.e.: no passion.

As a long-time therapy student, I understand that "projects" are a way of distracting myself from the existentialism of life. As a Buddhist, I know I need to just sit, accept, be. But, it's so boring!!

My relationship had passion. Nothing like never-ending drama for keeping life interesting.

Eventually, another passion will make itself known. And you'll hear about it first, my faithful readers. But in the meantime, I'm really bored.

I'm not an agoraphobe - I just don't leave the house.

I have a reputation among my close friends as a regular no-show at social events, even when I've assured them I'm going to be there. It's clearly deserved - I've become a hermit. I just want to stay home these days.

I don't know why, and it worries me a little. Depression, social phobia, agoraphobia? None of those seem likely given the pharmacy of meds I take. I'm comfortable in groups, social, outgoing and chatty - you would never call me an introvert. I used to love going out. So what's going on?

I have two parties to go to this evening, and I'm dreading both. And these are very casual, fun events with good friends and kids - Henry would come with. I've told everybody we're coming, and back when I was invited, I really thought they'd be fun. But it tires me just to think about putting out all that social energy, and I am trying to think up excuses to stay home.

My only explanation is that I'm constantly "on" at work; talking, collaborating, negotiating, being up and positive and helpful. So I just want to withdraw evenings and weekends. The line I use on Henry is "you always have fun once you get there" and it's probably true. But honestly, I'd rather stay home, cook an interesting dinner, watch a movie with H and knit.

Is that so wrong???

Four(teen) Eyes

My mother used to say that it was a good thing that I had such perfect teeth, because my eyesight sucked. (No, of course she didn't say "suck").  My siblings and I all had glasses from an early age. I remember my first pair: they were pink with silvery sparkles. I loved them. Then I got sophisticated and moved up to the blue ones with sparkles. Finally in college I got contacts, and my social life picked up immediately.

Above is my eyewear wardrobe. Every day I get to mix and match.
1. From the front: stylish no-line sunglasses with reader lenses (for reading by the pool while wearing contacts).
2. My "regular" sport sunglasses (to wear with contacts)
3. Prescription sunglasses - kind of dorky because I had some old bifocals tinted, but they work.
4. My reading glasses that I wear OVER my contacts*
5. My prescription glasses
6. My contacts

*Because I'm extremely nearsighted while at the same time losing my ability to focus closely, my contacts correct for distance and I have to wear reading glasses to see the computer or anything else within four feet.

Sometimes I think I should give it all up and just wear glasses. But putting aside my fragile vanity, I see much better with contacts.

Myopia + presbyopia + astigmatism + glaucoma. I think I'd choose cavities.

waking up down

Snowshoe, our lynx, really doesn't like snow.

Oh, the blues again. No boyfriend, no health club, no money, no excitement, no interests, no time. It must be March. Or close enough.

I've arm-wrestled with depressive moods before. Sometimes I win, sometimes the mood prevails.  My depressions are not the scary black holes some writers describe, but more of a flatline effect. My old therapist could recognize them, even when I couldn't, because I would start to lose interest in everything. There's a psychiatric term for it, even: dysthymia, basically a low-grade low. It comes and goes. Pharmaceuticals can help, but not always enough. 

What helps most is Henry, the cats and dog, movies, knitting with friends and work - anything that takes me out of myself for awhile. What helps least is alcohol, Neighbor X troubles, boredom and helpful friends who recommend odd diet regimens.

It's snowing here, which I love. It looks great and feels festive and cozy. That helps too. Things will get better - they always do, before they slide downhill again.

A special bottle

  Last night, Neighbor X and I shared a special bottle from his "library" to celebrate the inauguration. (Wine snob alert, but he really isn't. He just collects great wine.) He made me a wonderful dinner to go along with it, and we had a pleasant and warm evening just enjoying each others company again.

I know, I know, everyone's alarms are going off.  It's ok, I'm fine, and I appreciate your concern. But it felt like the right time to take that step, and it turned out to be.

It was a healing experience, as they say. What I always appreciated about him is all still there. I'm certainly not ready to be his buddy -- as I told him four years ago, I don't need another buddy. But he holds a special place in my heart and my life, and I want to be able to think of him in a positive light, and let the bitterness dissolve.

It's all about change for the better, right? Slowly and carefully, tempering hope with realistic expectations, finding our way along to a better place. Here's to our new president, and a time of healing and growth. Cheers.

To clean or not to clean: is that really the question?

Once again, I'm losing the battle in my fight against the evil axis of clutter, dust bunnies, projects and piles of paper. (I realize that there's a direct inverse relationship here: the greater my knitting and blogging output, the messier the house. I don't know why that should surprise me, but it just dawned on me tonight. It was during the thought process: "Geez, this house is really a mess... I think I'm going to finish that baby jacket. Or wait, maybe I'll just write about it!")

I really don't want to spend all my "free time" (ha) cleaning, but I'm not comfortable with the level of disarray that results. I'm conflicted. I blame it on my mother.

I grew up in a messy casual home, with piles of clothes and papers everywhere and toast crumbs and jam spills on the counter. As a reaction, as an adult with my own place, I strive to have the kind of home Henry's friends all seem to have, where visitors can drop in any time, there aren't hammers sitting on the dining room table and everything is tidy and spotless (albeit a bit dull, IMO).

On the other hand, clutter is in my genome, and cleaning isn't. So I have a constant tug of war with cleaning up and making a mess, picking up and spreading out. Sometimes I'm on the winning side and the house hums with organization and rectitude. Other times, it veers dangerously into the hovel state. Which is where it is now.

Back when I had a non-non-profit income and a house cleaner, all was under control. I had to pick up regularly for her (a family tradition: "Clean up for the cleaning lady!" which we thought was ridiculously funny.) Frankly, it was great. A lot of money went toward that peace of mind, which is now unavailable (the money and the peace of mind). 

After a full day of work, gathering Henry, cooking dinner, doing dishes and the inevitable homework/bed wrestle, cleaning is the last thing I want to do. So I wipe off the visible part of the counter, shuffle papers around, cart stuff from room to room and move piles from chair to floor, not making much of a dent.

But here I am, writing to you, and I've made a lot of progress on the Baby Surprise Jacket:

taking shape

Freezing fog and it's not the weather.

Why can't things be clear, yes or no, black or white, on or off? Instead, things linger, drag on, falter, lurch to life, stutter step, misconnect, fade in and out. Situations feel frozen in place, then get slippery.

I used to be so decisive. Now I question myself and hesitate. I stand in my hallway and literally take a step forward, back and end in a muddle. I've lost my way.

Dylan nailed it: I was so much older then; I'm younger than that now.

I'm in a fog these days as well. My memory is shot and even recent events are hazy. Experts offer the easy excuse of hormonal changes, but that seems like a cop-out. You could use that rationale from age 13 to 63. Nothing has changed, but it all feels like it's slipping out of my grasp.

I don't even know the point of this post. If you do, let me know. Or come over, give me a slap and a shake and clear my head.

Top Ten: Year in Review edition

You know the purported Chinese curse: "May you live in interesting times." This has been an interesting year, both globally and personally. Because this blog is ALL ABOUT ME, here is a top ten list of interesting things that happened in my life this year. (in chronological order - I'm not about to rank them!)

1. I started the Bend Knit-Up, which grew from six people to over a hundred in a year.

2. My dad turned 90, and we all celebrated together in NC and everyone got along.

3. AT&T bought Edge Wireless, and we no longer had any work, though we still had jobs.

4. Neighbor X and I broke up, got together, and finally broke up.

5. I taught myself the whole blogging thing, that which you are reading at this instant.

6. Henry and I went back east for a family trip and went to Fenway. Go Sox!

7. We were finally released from AT&T, though were still paid, allowing me a summer off.

8. I spent the summer off shoveling dirt and hauling rocks for my waterfall.

9. I got a new job at the High Desert Museum - yay! and patted a badger.

10. My dad broke his hip and I flew back east for the third time.

What were your interesting times?

CC #8: Nog

Christmas Countdown #8: Eggnog

I love eggnog. I like it homemade, and I like the over-sweet sticky stuff straight out of the carton. I only buy “light” eggnog (there’s an oxymoron) – I can’t handle the sugar and fat shock of the full-strength variety. I'm sort of obsessed with Starbuck's eggnog lattes, and I especially like eggnog with some rum and bourbon laced in. In fact, I’m sipping some right now!

Eggnog reminds me of a Christmas morning long ago when my husband Jay and I were driving our old VW bus from Boston to New Haven for Christmas with my sister and family. The bus (which we bought used and then drove across the country) seized up on the turnpike near Groton.

We had our Siberian husky, Buns, in the back, along with our presents and a pitcher of real homemade eggnog, complete with whipped egg whites, full cream, alcohol and all, that was my big Christmas morning food contribution. We ground to a halt halfway down an exit ramp and waited for the highway patrol. I opened the bus's sliding door and Buns jumped out, knocking over the eggnog and running up and down the highway. The bus reeked of hard liquor and was covered in sticky alcoholic goo. We suddenly weren’t as excited about flagging down the highway patrol.

Jay hiked down to some ratty-looking apartments to call my sister while I tried to catch the dog. I don’t actually remember much of the rest of the visit, other than renting a U-Haul to tow the bus back to Boston. I always regretted losing that eggnog, though, and when I make it I remember Jay and that crazy dog.

Not working out. Literally.

First, let me say, I love my new job. Love the museum itself, the staff, my boss, the work. Don't love the substantial cut in salary that moving to non-profit entailed. So, like the rest of the country, I'm looking for ways to cut my expenses.

I had already cancelled my housecleaner and my lawncare service, so no further savings there. I've cancelled HBO and cut back to one TIVO service (digital cable and TIVO are not up for discussion here). I no longer eat out or go to the movies, courtesy of a failed relationship, and we don't take vacations other than to visit family. My clothing budget is minimal and I color my hair myself. I've already refinanced, and paid off debt. So what's left?

Unfortunately, it was our health club membership. We've belonged to the Athletic Club of Bend for many years. It's a wonderful facility, with workout rooms, indoor and outdoor pools, tennis courts, fancy spa locker rooms, kid's daycare and camps, exercise classes, restaurant, deli, racquetball and more. We've practically lived there over the years, with Henry in the camps, playing at the pool all summer, my aerobics and weights classes, meals, concerts, etc. Lately, though, it was hard to get to the evening classes and we were using it less. It's been a major expense and I couldn't justify it.

I miss the cameraderie, the socializing, the classes, the steamroom, and the sense of belonging to an upbeat, active community. Henry misses the bagels, the foosball table, the pickup soccer games and summer camp. And we'll both miss the pool next summer - it was a mini-vacation at a resort every weekend.

And I miss working out. I've stopped doing anything lately, and my muscles and outlook are both suffering for it. I'm not very self-motivated about exercise, even though I was an aerobics instructor in my distant childless past. For me, classes work great due to the social pressure to keep going, a set schedule, varied enough routines and a peppy instructor exhorting you to squeeze out 20 more sit-ups.

So what to do? Can't run anymore. Walking is slow and boring. Plus it's too cold. I'm dangerous on a bike. The local public pool is too far away. (Hang on and I'll come up with some other excuses...)

So, don't tell Henry, but I've bought us Wii-Fit for Christmas. I've heard it works pretty well as a workout. Even if it is a Snoopy McSnooperson (according to Kathi D).

Does anybody have any other ideas?

The secret to time travel

I've discovered how to instantly travel through time, both past and future. Visit your parents. 

Alone with my parents, with no siblings or children to anchor me in the present, I became the lonely eleven-year-old again, or a self-conscious fourteen, or maybe a sullen sixteen, trailing along after my mother, carrying grocery bags of stuff and sighing deeply. My parents reminisce about some cute (embarrassing) thing I did when I was ten, my dad says I'm a good little nurse, my mom gives me chores. They even call me by my childhood nickname (which I despise).

Then, suddenly, I'm the adult caretaker. Clearing up the AT&T bill, fixing the answering machine, driving everywhere, showing my mom how to use the cellphone, cooking meals and cleaning up. 

Seeing my father in a nursing home (for his rehab) was a shock: sort of a ghost of a possible Christmas future. I wondered how he felt: completely lucid and healthy, surrounded by his age cohort but not of them in a way, but unable to leave. Good motivation to get through rehab and get back home. 

All in all, an unsettling trip, reminding me to appreciate the present time once again.

Mel sandwich

Yum!

Like so many boomers, I've finally hit the "sandwich" years: we're starting to simultaneously care for our parents and children, with us in the middle, spread thinly.

Due to my parents' good health and sound minds, we've been ignoring the inevitable and gotten away with it for quite awhile. Both parents are cancer survivors, active in the community and quite self-sufficient. However, my 90-yr-old father fell and broke his hip today (second time) and is scheduled for surgery tomorrow.  Luckily, my sister was visiting and got them through the ambulance/hospital part but had to return home tonight. My mom is a pretty strong woman, but in her late 80's and not very mobile, in a big old stone farmhouse out in the boonies. So she needs help, and not just the virtual kind.

I'm headed to Portland on Monday for a series of Board events and will fly out Wed. through Monday to NC. The other siblings will then take their turns. On the bright side, my parents are financially stable, there are four of us to share the work, and everybody gets along more or less. There are a lot worse stories and we're clearly fortunate so far.

It's pretty hard on Henry when I leave, as I'm all he has here in the way of family. He stays with longtime friends, but gets anxious and homesick and school suffers. One of his biggest worries is that he'll get really hungry and won't get enough to eat (no need for Freud to figure that one out). It's a real issue for him as the other house is sugarfree and vegetarian. I leave him his own cellphone to call me and a sack of food: hopefully Rice Crispies snacks and turkey jerky will ease the pain.

So this is life, right? The downside of boomerhood is that everything that happens is already a cliche. But at least you have a lot of company. I'll post from the road.

Little tiny pill

OK, this is going to sound pathetic, but really it's not.

I did go out with a friend for a birthday drink and food at my favorite local wine bar. Henry went with us and behaved beautifully, taking care of us and entertaining himself (and many others, as usual). I was kind of reluctant to go as I felt a headache coming on at work, but took an Imitrex on the way there and soldiered through.

By the time we got home, it was clearly a migraine lurking behind the pill that mildly suppressed it. I took another one and lay down "for a little bit" until the pill did its work. Henry again was lovely, making me tea and bringing me his blankie (yes, he still has one - she's now a member of the family).

Three hours later, I woke up to find him watching cartoons and eating cereal at 11 pm. This morning promises to be fun...

I don't know how many of you experience migraines. Imitrex works, slower than you'd like, and pretty much always knocks you out. The key is to take it AS SOON AS YOU FEEL THE MIGRAINE, not like me, who pretty much ignores the signals until it demands full attention and acquiescence. You really need to get out of denial and act immediately if you don't want to end up in the emergency room, painfully reciting all your medications, doctors, insurance info and medical history over and over while an ice pick is being hammered into your temple, waiting around while a meth addict trashes the place, eventually getting a shot that makes you throw up and knocks out the headache while a nurse's assistant feeds your child doughnuts and Pepsi at three in the morning. Not that that's ever happened or anything.

Just saying.

On the brink of the next number

Hmm. I'm writing this on the eve of my fif-somethingthorother birthday, and I can't say I'm feeling that happy about things. It isn't about the aging part, though certainly that isn't tons of fun. I'm finding the wisdom and self-acceptance is worth the wrinkles and bumps. You just have to laugh at it all, really. The cosmic joke.

But anyway, as I've mentioned, I tend to use these (arbitrary) milestones as markers in my life to stop and look back, assess and reflect. This one finds me in a not-so-great mindset tonight.

I'm employed at a job I excel at and love, but my salary has plunged to a 20-year low and I'm not sure I can swing it.
I'm (barely) out of a hurtful dead-end relationship, but I miss his spirit and passion and love terribly.
I'm surrounded by happy busy friends, yet feel more isolated and alone than ever.
My dog is lame and in pain and can't understand why I won't play frisbee.
My pond leaks, my brakes squeal and my son still wets the bed.

(Should I go on?)

But yet. 

Every day I'm thankful for the experiences and luck I've had. Every day I'm grateful for my son, my home, my friends, my family. I take responsibility for the choices I've made and where they've led me.

Non, je ne regrette rien. Me and Edith Piaf.

Wed. cop-out

How's this for a lazy post? Just re-read this one - it says it all for me today.

Almost Blue

Do you ever get in one of those moods?  Sad, nostalgic, moody, adrift?  Anomie, malaise; I could go on...

This post title refers to a great version of a song by Elvis Costello (no, not the album Almost Blue), but nobody says it better (or more) than Van Morrison:

In the afternoon, baby in my room
When the lights are dim way beyond the hill
In the afternoon, baby in my room
When I'm really down get me off the ground
Melancholia, melancholia, melancholia

In the morning time when I go outside
In the morning time it's like that all the while
In the afternoon when I'm in my room
Every single day, it won't go away
Melancholia, melancholia, melancholia

And it's in my heart, when we're apart
And it stops and starts, and it's in my heart
Every single day it's always in my way
When I'm making hay, all I've got to say
Melancholia, melancholia, melancholia

Well it's in my blood and it's in my veins
Here it comes again, when I'm in the rain
In the wind and rain, well the sun don't shine
Well it's always mine, all of the time
Melancholia, melancholia, melancholia

And it's in my life and it's all the time
It doesn't go away when the church bells chime
In the evening time when I drink my wine
In the evening time when it's on my mind
Melancholia, melancholia, melancholia

It's only melancholia
Oh melancholia, oh melancholia, oh melancholia, oh melancholia
Melancholia, melancholia
They call it, call it melancholia, call it melancholia, call it melancholia, call it melancholia
Call it melancholia, melancholia, melancholia, melancholia

OK, we get it, Van! You're seriously bumming!

I'm feeling the same way today.

The Definition of Insanity

Insanity: Doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results - Albert Einstein

I can honestly say that I've only made one mistake in the last four years. However, I just keep making it over and over.

Maybe this time, it will be different.

Top 10: manly qualities edition

I recently read an article about how you can manifest your ideal man by identifying and writing down the 100 desired traits you're looking for. (This was not in a trashy magazine. Really.) 

Sounds like casting a spell with eye of newt and hair of dog, but less messy. So, here are:

Top 10 qualities I look for in a partner.

(If I list only 10, does that mean I'll get only 1/10th of a man?)

1. Intelligence. This is the deal-breaker. I've met a lot of nice friendly guys, but they just don't have it upstairs. I'm not talking about academic intelligence, but the ability to understand, challenge, and stimulate.
2. Sense of humor, of course. I remember saying: "Everything he says makes me laugh, even when it's stupid." My friend Hans replied that's what every guy hopes to hear. Maybe I'm just simple-minded.
3. Compassion. Kindness, caring, warmth, tolerance; however you put it, it's another deal-breaker, really. I could never date a man who's rude to a waiter, as a minor but telling example.
4. Chemistry. Since my mom occasionally reads my blog, I'll leave it at that. Crucial, but is occasionally misleading. I'm just saying.
5. The ability to dredge up a positive attitude, even in the face of discouraging situations.
6. Energy. Vim, vigor, drive, what have you. Not a slug.
7.  Self confidence. Not the in-your-face kind, but the ability to trust and like oneself.
8. Able to give and receive support -- it's the basis of a partnership.
9.Open to commitment. To me. (Well, that rules out the last eight guys I've been involved with. Hmmm, could that possibly be a pattern of some kind?)
10. Passion. Of all kinds, for all kinds of things.

Reading this over, I realize this quite accurately describes Neighbor X. With the notable exception of #9, of course. Am I asking too much?

A lowercase buddhist

When asked my religious beliefs, I kind of think it sounds pretentious to say "I'm a Buddhist." So I babble a little about following Buddhist beliefs and that I was raised a Unitarian and attend the Central Oregon Unitarian Fellowship. (Yes, Universalist is in there too - it's just such a long name).

My spiritual practice these days consists of (inconsistent) sitting meditation and reading Buddhist writings. I try to live the Middle Way and follow the Eightfold Path of right thought, right speech, right action and so forth. I attend Buddhist services and retreats, been blessed in a Buddhist Refuge Ceremony by a real lama, and even have a Tibetan mantra tattooed on my ankle, for goodness sakes. So why don't I claim to be A Buddhist with a capital B?

Maybe because, with all that, I still don't feel I've earned the right. Clearly, it's not how you define yourself, it's how you live your life. As the Buddha said, the jewel is in the lotus, which is the meaning of the plaque above and my tattoo.

What do you say when people ask you?