heat wave

We’re still in the heat for another day or so.  Around 90°F (32°C) today again.   Early this morning I walked through our fairly shaded neighborhood to a post box and noticed that the breeze was coming from the west, which is good news.

Over the last few days, any wind was coming from the south, as in Desert Southwest, where the hot air has been parked.  When the wind comes from the west, it means the air is coming from the ocean currents, bringing cooler air, instead of the hot air from the overheated interior land mass.

Desert Southwest:  that's HOT!

Desert Southwest: that’s HOT! (46°C)

Yaaaay.  Subdued I am by the heat and by the efforts to keep the house cool.  I was never meant to live in the heat, but my years in Tucson taught me how to manipulate air currents, curtains, sun blocks, fans, and swamp coolers.    (And, of course, now I have my portable air conditioner.  Thanks, Ma!)

It always helped that I was outdoors despite the 100-deg heat.   Often in the 9,000-ft mountains above Tucson, tootling up the switchback road in the red 1965 VW convertible Bug, always getting a vapor lock after we’d hit some cool elevation.  <:-D

gigantic red sunflower

gigantic red sunflower

One October, I moved directly from Tucson to Anchorage, and as I paused at the top of the mobile stairway parked next to the plane, seeing the mountains and ocean that surrounded the city, I knew soul-deep I had come home.   True that I panicked slightly at the 45°F (7°C) temp that greeted me.

That winter I learned about cold, with a stretch of two weeks of -20°F (-28°C).  I brought with me the love and need to be outdoors and discovered that I loved to be outdoors in the cold:  camping, skiing, mountaineering.  I will always know how to live in the cold with little thought or strained effort.

my happy Alaska place at my dresser

my happy Alaska place at my dresser

happy in the mountains at 10°F!  A Raven friend.

happy in the mountains at 10°F! A Raven friend.

 

 

 

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Life… in pictures

asleep

asleep

awake

awake

making room for what you want

Many hundreds of lifetimes ago, a friend sent me a clipping from a newspaper.  I may have it still, in the stacks of detritus I had to save (for some reason!), but I dunno where.

The author used the metaphor of a red sweater.  The title and content approximate this:

Make Room in Your Life for What You Want

She had a perfectly serviceable red sweater in her closet, but didn’t wear it very often because it made her butt look big. Or something.  She didn’t feel good when she wore it.

So, when she saw the most beautiful red sweater in a shop window, she didn’t buy it because she already had a red sweater and didn’t have the money to be buying yet another one.

She figured out that if she’d give away her own red sweater that made her feel crummy, she could have the new, shiny red sweater that made her feel great.

True.

Make room in your life for what you want.  Draw lines and boundaries and mean it.  It’s OK to like what you like and to want what you want.   Otherwise, you’re living someone else’s life, and really, that doesn’t work.   Life can be cut short in an instant and gee-whillikers, wouldn’t it be cool to have fun NOW?!

What’s one thing that just popped into your head?  Why not head for it and see what happens?  It’s OK if it’s a person that isn’t fitting….

PS.  Don’t be daunted by the price you’ll pay–there has to be a trade-off.  Loss for gain.  Et damn cetera.  Just hang on through the change; it can be cold without the shelter of a familiar sweater, but doesn’t have to be scary.

you know how when you’re drunk…

… you sometimes try to carry on civilized conversation?  Maintaining, we used to call it in the other-drug-addled days.   And sometimes you give away the besotted-show when happening on a single word?  Here’s one that’s a killer for me when I’m sober!

Go ahead, you say it, but do keep to the intended number of syllables.  If you can.

equanimity

PS.  hahahhahahahaha

(PPS.  I am posting with the tag and category Humor.  How long has it been?!  Lordy, will wonders never cease?  Prolly not, cos that’s how it has been working for me.  The wonders, that is.  Working.  Me.  Grateful.)

choices, fallback positions, and faith

Recently, I’ve been faced smack-on with having to pursue one option or another.  Time to reflect on that idea, the idea of choice.

What to choose and how to make the decision?

My choices have been an either/or, but not both.  What would I choose and how to make the decision?

I found the answer to “how” by remembering a theory of successful negotiation–always always always have a bottom line, a position beyond which you do not progress.   Stand there quietly in that confident knowing.

The “what” came immediately because of the how, but this does not assume that it was easy.  So, “how” comes first.

The how is:  we have to know what we want, the shape of a path, even if we don’t fully know the path.  Choosing causes the path to veer and wind toward a goal, perhaps, or just allows a peaceful stance, one of acceptance of choices made.

Fallbacks

A fallback position, the choice I could make if other options don’t seem to be working or presenting themselves, sounds like a good idea.   In theory.  In reality, adding an option that we don’t really want just adds tension and does not allow for acceptance.   So, no, I don’t want a fallback position because I don’t want to give up on paving my path with the choices I am interested in.

Having a fallback position presents too many options and causes paralysis.  Have to choose, to narrow down, to whittle away the swirling fog of confusion and plant my feet firmly somewhere.  Anywhere.  To do as my landscape design instructor kept hammering into us:  “Get in the boat.  Stay in the boat.”  (By which he meant, choose a theme/intent and stick with it.) More

quick thought

Spiders‘ decision to post short blurps has encouraged me to do same.

The day after Big brought me home from the hospital, we needed me to apply for financial aid to the hospital.  (At least I think it was the day after… it was in the first few days at least.)  I sat at the table looking at the half-page form where I had to indicate income.

I got my contact info entered, but was getting foggy and overwhelmed.  Suddenly, I burst into sweat!  Brainwork made me overheat!  hahahahahaha  and holy-moly!  (OK, so I burst into tears, too, and moaned about being overwhelmed.)

That’s all folks!

it really would have cost much less to go to Italy! For 3 months!

In a previous post, I ranted and raved about wanting health care and not health insurance.  Thanks to this hospital, I got health care and am alive to be my own strange self!

I’m in a weird mood, so….

If I had insurance, the portion that the insurance company would have paid would still have left me hurting financially. The hospital may be writing off this cost–apparently, they’re doing that A LOT these days!

Gaslighting

For you regular visitors, you know I’ve been spending a fair bit of time with the TV for company.  McHale’s Navy, Peter Gunn, Rifleman, and movies when I feel like it.  You know also that my brain remains fuzzy from the excitement created by the hospitalization in early February.

For several weeks now, I’ve thought I was truly losing my marbles because the TV has been changing channels spontaneously!   Did I blonk the remote?  Is our TV dying?  Is someone outside the window changing the channel?!  What the heck?!

Hmmm…. I finally figured out it wasn’t me or a helpful neighbor.

The Sun has been dictating my television watching!  Earth has been the target of bursts of intense solar energy.  All the warnings about disruption of electronics are true!

It’s happening now, during a replay of the movie Notting Hill.  There I am keeping an eye on a nice lil ole romance while I read or do something else and I suddenly realize that the TV is showing us how to mix peanut sauce in a food processor.  Usually at the romantic dialogue or meaningful glances…  sigh….  It’s hard enough right now, Mr. Sol.  Gimmee a break!

Glad I’m not flying an aeroplane; the TV is challenge enough!

112.8 — recollections

The thoughts trickle into consciousness in unconnected still images, a slideshow of a trip I did not sign up for.   But paid plenty for.

The hour before we went to emergency, Big Mister took my temp and told me the high number.  A few minutes later, he asked to be reminded what it was.  I said with certainty that it was 112.8.  I didn’t feel well.  Off we went to the hospital.

Waiting in the ER lounge, throwing up into my vomit condom, amidst the other sickos, sorry that they were in the same confined space with my antics.  The headache that blinded me with pain and nausea.  Teetering back to the welcome desk, right eye closed and left eye only a slit, fuzzy hat pulled low, with Big hanging onto my reeling self, and me telling them I was sure it had been more than 45 minutes.  By then, we had waited more than two hours.

Later, seeing IVs hanging out of both arms.  The ones for the right arm were tough to get started because the nurse couldn’t catch a vessel, sunken as they were from the massive dehydration and low blood pressure.

Being encouraged strongly to have the lumbar tap to rule out meningitis.  Getting two doses of Verced, otherwise remembered by me as Xanadu, so I was blessed to miss the actual puncturing of my spinal column.

On the bed-ride to the CAT scan of my head, pulling the sheet over my face because the lights hurt my eyes.  Not really all there for the CAT scan.  The caballos muertos at the hallway intersections were murder on my headache.  Round trip.

In the ER, the nurse behind me who stuck the oxygen cannula in my nose “to give her body support.”  I was sinking into oblivion then.

Seeing Big’s serious, focused, and worried face.  I would have died quietly, not struggling and shouting, but smiling at Big and holding his hand or somehow telling him I loved him, but not realizing it was the last time.  Absent.

Thank you Michael McGinty and Christina for keeping me going.

The bed-ride to the hotel room where I’d be staying for a while.  Sheet pulled up over my face again to shield my eyes from the stabbing lights.  Wondering if the folks in the hallways thought I was a dead body being transported somewhere.

Looking out the picture window at the night sky, winter trees silhouetted, the only time I could stand to look out the window.  Confused about where I was, even when Big told me that my room overlooked Wright Park not too far from home.  Thinking I was in another hospital because that was the only hospital I could think of, the place I had spent countless hours with Mom, and a place where I observed, with drawn-out and exhausting horror, her going through the worst of her own bout with sepsis.

Turns out that I was the one struggling to surface from the killer that sepsis can be in a hospital not far from home.

Hearing the IV pumping in my right ear all the time, so much so that it became a lullaby to sleep, rather than an annoyance.

Oh the headache.  Close the curtains, the light is knifing through my head.

Being so cold that the shivering hurt.  Asking politely for more blankies.  Ringing for the nurse to beg for Tylenol for my searing headache.  Hearing the voice ask me what I needed, but I didn’t know where it was coming from so I took a chance and spoke to my companion, the IV stand.

Still got the remedy even though that’s not where the speaker was lodged.  Looking at the pole and figuring that it was logical that there’d be a speaker cinched against the pole, among the boxes that controlled the rate and mix of the bags of fluids pumping into me.

Dancing with the IV pole every hour and each time getting tangled in the call button cord.  Couldn’t figure my way out of that, so had extra steps thrown in.   Danced.  Every damn hour.

Brushing my teeth.  Finally.

The next to last day in the hospital, Big visiting after work.  Suggested we go for a walk.  Since I had the easy acc-ass hospital gown on, I asked for a rump cover of some sort.   Put on nonskid slippers.  Unplugged the IV stand from the wall.  On the walk kept blonking my toes on the sticky-outie legs with wheels.   In my head, far far away.  So weak that walking required concentration.

Seeing a conference in the corridor outside a patient’s room.  Heard one medico say, “We’re looking for a stiff.”  Big assures me that I did not hear that.  Yes I did!

Discovering that I was lodged in oncology, a very quiet unit where people are very, very sick.  That’s where they found the isolation room for me and my disease.  I didn’t mind; I appreciated that it was quiet all the time in my room. No TV, no visitors, no roommate who wanted to chat.   There was also no phone.  Didn’t matter.

Being so far away, removed from understanding life around me.  Quite calm, just very far away.

Thank you Gwen, Alicia, Alocasia, Kathy, and Oliver.   Thank you Alocasia for talking to me about your trip to the Cinque Terre in Italy, where I had planned to go.

Getting home … falling into the routine, but actually unable to keep up.  Sleeping and sleeping, then napping hard.   Reduced to basics, but showering and dressing each day.

Many, many days after I got home, realizing that the C. diff had been trying to toxify me to death, one strain of my own bacteria running rampant and causing systemic havoc.    That I had outsmarted sepsis even though I didn’t realize I was in a contest.

Still, 6 weeks later, I can’t seem to surface from this odd calm, a quiescence best described as a flat affect.  I have for some time realized that I have no enthusiasm for going to Italy, that in effect, I don’t care.  How did that happen?   The distance from real life is exacerbated by the physical recovery, the regaining of physical strength.

I have become aware that my brain is not working the way I assume.  Concentration enough for reading a series of historical novels set in Ancient Rome that I’ve read before, but otherwise seem to be working through a benign fog.

I look like me and go through the motions, but I am elsewhere.

pole dancing: for those special occasions

It’s not that kind of thing, the kind of dancing you’re imagining right now.  But afore I splain what I really came here for, I have to digress to muse about the thing we’re both thinking about even though that’s not it.

Here in the grand ole US of A, a new physical fitness phenomenon seems to have taken hold in our ranks:  pole dancing!  Women apparently get together for professional coaching and even sometimes have private pole dancing parties, a new kind of night out for the girls.

Pole dancing has been considered exotic dancing.   Now, don’t go writing to me–I’m not denigrating exotic dancing.  Dancing in any form is incredibly athletic.

I’ve seen the movies.   Never in those movies did I see in evidence a women’s giggly party.  I saw drooly-chinned, glassy-eyed, staring men holding wads of cash to share with said dancers.   Smokin’ and drinkin’ hard likker plus sometimes women standing on tables.  The atmosphere was decidedly not the neighborhood yoga place.

(I got in trouble for that very thing in first grade–standing on a desk, well actually, it was desks, plural, and I walked on them–off I was sent to the principal’s office.  They thought they could stamp out Lil Miss Ooo, I Wanna Try That by scaring me with the Big Guy when I was 7.  I was scareder of the classroom coat closet where all the wet wintry clothes steamed in the clanking radiator heat.  Yoo-hoo, Fairmount Elementary School in West Orange, NJ!   It didn’t work!)

(We now return from the Eddie Izzard aside.)

Just wondering which highly-paid consultant was sittin’ in his cube thinkin’, and suddenly snapped his fingers and shouted, “That’s it!  I’ll make millions!”

How did pole dancing go from the smoke-filled perceived dens of iniquity where 99 percent of the women in evidence were on a stage, writhing around a firehouse pole, wearing their scanties?

I’m trying to imagine me calling up, say, my sister-in-law and telling her I was having a pole dancing party and that she was invited.  What’s that she said?  Oh, no special clothes required.

Every time I’m amongst some quiet little neighborhood  shops and I see a sign advertising pole dancing, I start, do a double-take, and then the damn wondering pops up again.  It really feels like the Emperor’s New Clothes to me–has anyone actually asked a question about the interesting background of this new pasttime?  My local YMCA doesn’t seem to offer pole dancing classes (thank you!), but they probably wouldn’t, would they?

Whew.  I’ve been needing to get that out of my brain for a long time!

The reason we’re here tonight boys and girls is thus:  my own very recent pole dancing experience was with the IV pole attached to me by clear, flexible tubing for four days and three nights (don’t buy that vacation from the travel agent!).

I landed in hospital two weeks ago, with IVs hanging out of both arms.   I promise to spare the icky-poo details, but the diagnoses (yes, plural) were sepsis and C-Diff.  Each is life-threatening and requires death-defying intervention, which I did, defy death.  Big ole raspberry!  Thhhbbbbbtttt!  The C-Diff was brought on by those handy-dandy antibiotics I’d begged for just a week before so I could be infection-free for my trip to Italy.

I was sposta fly to Italy on the 22nd, but I was busy lying around being all weak ‘n’ stuff.

Will be rescheduling Italy as soon as my brain returns strongly to the building.  I keep wondering about that, too:  why does my brain-power drop when my blood pressure drops?  Oh.  The blood-juices can’t get up that high.

To be continued…

© No Stealing!  That’s what the little c in the circle means!
© lahgitana and Rockin’ the Purple, 2012. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to lahgitana and Rockin’ the Purple with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

third-party commentary on 2011 and the coming of 2012*

* in as much as this moment in time is just a moment created by we folk desperate for shape to our lives now that we forget to look at the cycles of sun, moon, and stars.

well, this one was just funny!

why are chopsticks round?

Standing here at my temp gig looking between my lunch in the microwave and the coffee stir-sticks, which are flat.

Wondering why chopsticks are round?  And slippery?

© No Stealing!  That’s what the little c in the circle means!
© lahgitana and Rockin’ the Purple, 2011. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to lahgitana and Rockin’ the Purple with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

inside-out again

I just saw in the early-morning mirror that my jammie-top is inside out.

That doesn’t bother me as much as knowing the care I took last night to be sure the jammies were right-side-to.

Again with the sleeping

Scene:  Deep of night, bedroom in a suburban US house, occupants sleeping.

Players:  Husband, Wife, Cat.

Wife: “zzzzzzzzzz…”

Husband:  “zzzzzzzzzz…”

Cat:  “zzzzzzzzzz…”

[A noise interrupts the zzzzzzzzzzs.]

Husband:   “zzzzzzzzzz” “snorrrrkkkkkk  snoorrrrkkkk  SNORRRKKKKK…”

Wife:  [gently nudges Husband with foot.]

Cat:  “meow!”

The scene continues:

snorrrrkkkkkk SNORRRKKKKK snoorrrrkkkk…”

[nudge.]

meow!”

snorrrrkkkkkk  snoorrrrkkkk…”

[nudge.]

MEOW!”

snorrrrkkkkkk SNORRRKKKKK snoorrrrkkkk…”

[nudge.]

Meeee-OW!”

[Husband sleeps on:  “snorrrrkkkkkk.”  Wife had been kicking the cat.]

(True story.  A fond memory of telling the story to Mom and Sistah in a crowded coffee shop, wherein we laughed so hard, loudly, and long that we attracted attention, but couldn’t stop!  People laughed along in the contagion of hilarity even though they couldn’t hear the story.  I think.)

© No Stealing!  That’s what the little c in the circle means!
© lahgitana and Rockin’ the Purple, 2011. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to lahgitana and Rockin’ the Purple with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

Crossed brain wires

I sometimes see things that aren’t there.

No, not like that.

Reading signs has become entertainment instead of edification:

Passing a church with one of those scrolling electronic reader boards, I saw:

“A mighty mattress is our God.”

Passing a horse ranch, there was a hand-lettered sign advertising a logical product for sale:

“Cowspot”

I can’t see what’s happening with the brain pathways for my optic nerves (no pun intended, but accepted!), but it sure makes life fun with unexpected ways to think about things.

Think about those two mis-reads up there.  Maybe I read those signs correctly?

I am special and getting the subliminal and secret messages!

© No Stealing!  That’s what the little c in the circle means!
© lahgitana and Rockin’ the Purple, 2011. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to lahgitana and Rockin’ the Purple with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

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