My birthday stripper

My youngest (well, all of them, really) loves to wind me up. After my birthday last week, Northwood announced he was going to send a stripper to my house.

I told him gee, I was going to make plans to be out of the country that day.

“I’ll send one that’ll wait for you,” he responded.

“You do and I’ll haunt you so bad you’ll never have a minute’s peace!” I threatened back.

“Just watch,” he said. “Your stripper will show up next Friday. Be ready!”

Today is next Friday.

My stripper just showed up.

It’s a precision wire stripper, for 20 to 30 gauge, copper wire only, please.

You gotta love a kid like that!

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Threescore years and ten

and counting.

I’ve hit my Biblical threshold (threescore and ten = 70, in case you don’t remember what a score is). Even though every day before that was a gift, somehow every day since has felt like an extra-special gift. I’m sure that will fade with time, but for now, I’m enjoying the heck out of it. It’s good to feel grateful for being alive… still. Despite everything that’s tried (and trying) to kill me off.

Therefore, I’ve decided I’m going to do a Grandpa.

He took up cello at 68 because he’d always wanted to play it and never had the chance (he played violin and viola as long as I can remember, but cellos are expensive; he came into a small inheritance and bought one, then found and restored the pawn shop one you boys remember [it was later appraised at $10,000], which sounded much better than his “boughten” one, and which your father subsequently ruined by leaving it in the basement. I had to sell it for $250). He enjoyed it immensely for 10 years before he fell over dead one morning.

I’ve always wanted to play saxophone. I was shunted first from bass clarinet (which looks ridiculous on an 8-year-old child) to clarinet, even though I pleaded for sax… because it suited what the band director needed.

Screw that.

I’m looking around for a decent used alto sax and (assuming I can find one; I have a former music-teacher friend and two woodwind repair shops on the lookout for me, but there doesn’t seem to be one single band/orchestral instrument rental/sales place in Abq, which is WEIRD in a city of 800,000, and yes, I’ve contacted the school system) I intend to have a blast playing it. Even used ones aren’t cheap (if I can get a decent one for $700, it’ll be a steal; $900 makes me squeak but is more likely), but I’m living on gifted time. Why not do some things I want to do, have always wanted to do, and enjoy them as much as possible ’til I fall over? Plus, saxes tend to require a more definite touch than clarinets and flutes; hence Trogdor should be less of a problem even if I can’t find a mitigating waveform/frequency (but I think I will).

Yes, I could get a cheap-ass Chinese kit for $200. It would likely require $500 in work to be playable. It would sound like run-over tin cans. Not going there. My ear is too educated for that (remember, I’ve been reading and playing music since I was 2). I want to enjoy this, not fight with it.

Wish me luck in the hunt.

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Ripped-up ‘dream’ house

They say that dreaming about a house is really dreaming about your life—if you believe that sort of thing. It seems dream interpretation people in general hold pretty strongly to that line of thought. Look it up some time.

It’s been years since I had a “house” dream, and until this they’ve always been great, adventurous fun—a completely new house to explore, or a familiar house with new rooms and/or really interesting, beautiful, unusual, or ultra-futuristic things in the rooms, or unfamiliar but friendly and fascinating people to talk to. Each time, a new, unexplored room or area would appear. Sometimes a new (sports!) car would be in the garage or the driveway. Once the house contained a complete new apartment within itself, and another time a superbly equipped new kitchen with all the appliances turquoise. They were entertaining dreams. I liked them. I also haven’t had one in probably eight or ten years.

Last night I had an unsettling “house” dream—the first like this. The house was mine—I knew that, though I couldn’t tell it from looking. Wallpaper and drywall were ripped off and hanging, broken and shedding gypsum. Holes had been kicked and hammered in the walls; electrical wires, plumbing, and similar internal structure torn out and left lying, some of it rusty, on the floor. Smoking green fluids pooled here and there, leaving holes around them. Complete inside walls had been torn out, exploded, or otherwise destroyed. Construction disaster covered floors in piles that it took some effort to climb over or get around. Floor joists stuck up, broken, looking for a chance to stab a person in the chest (or it felt that way in the dream). Appliances were pulled out, twisted out of shape, sparking, and kind of frightening. The ceilings, roof, and exterior were in equally bad shape. It looked as if a hurricane and tornado had collided and fought it out on my poor wee house.

I remember feeling appalled, but not surprised or angry; I just started cleaning. My kids were there. They were livid, trying to clean things up, and seriously angry.

My children’s father was also there. Just watching.

Bizarre.

I don’t know what to think about this. I don’t believe dreams in general have any real meaning; yet I don’t see how something like that could have anything to do with consolidating memories, solving problems (which I’ve had happen many times in dreams), or anything on that order. Nor do I think of my life as a wreck. It has wrecky parts, but so does everyone else’s.

It’s a mystery, and I hope it doesn’t come back!

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More than 70 years…

… and this is still happening. Talk about a bottomless well of abysmal ignorance.

Me to Alaska Airlines:

Dear Alaska,

I like flying your airline. It has a direct flight to my son’s place, for one thing. And it’s at our local airport! With planes and everything! And tarmac! Only problem is…

My son just tried to get one of your customer service agents to change the name on my ticket to match the name on my TSA Pre-check info. I live in NEW MEXICO.

Please to notice NEW.

We have been a state—one of the 50!—since 1912, and since then have had enough bozos across the country not know that that our state magazine has been able to publish, every month for at least the 60+ years I’ve been alive, a piece called “One of Our 50 Is Missing.” That’s 828 articles about eight hundred twenty-eight ignoramuses who think we’re foreigners.

Guess why? Because somebody, somewhere, ALWAYS insists that we’re a foreign country, and subject to all sorts of extra fees and costs. Which is what this CS agent demanded my son shell out.

News flash: NEW MEXICO HAS BEEN PART OF THE UNITED STATES FOR 110 YEARS.

ONE. HUNDRED. TEN. YEARS. 110, in case that helps. We are home to the oldest continuously inhabited city in the entire United States.

Please to inform your customer service people of this. We do tend to get a little tetchy about it after this long. And I would really rather not switch airlines.

Thank you ever so much

Alaska back to me:

Hi. We do not charge to change the name on a reservation, and that would need to go through our reservation department at 800-252-7522 or text 82008. They would be happy to assist 🙂

– Brandy

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Naming the Beast, Part 1

Being heartily fed up with calling the tremor “the tremor” or “the damned shaky hands,” I have decided to name it.

I’ll grant it’s a bit of a throwback, but here it is: That monster is now Trogdor the Treminator.

Who knows which of my stinking chronic conditions will be next? Oh, the tension!

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I have news for you, Google Maps.

Even though I am a child of l-o-n-g distances and have driven longer ones (3,000 miles in three days once, alone), I had a little trepidation about driving the 500+ miles to Northwood’s house. It’s been, after all, more than two decades since that last long drive, 100-200 is about the most I’ve done in quite a long time, and I have sleep issues that didn’t exist then.

Add to that the fact that I have no maps (next time, I bring my old atlas tattered and torn); I have to depend on Google. When it tells you “go this way to avoid that,” and you’re looking at your phone screen, there’s no way to check out the geographical context and see if it’s making a geographically reasonable recommendation. That’s probably why people drive into rivers and oceans and off cliffs while using Google Maps.

Then there’s the “intermittent fatigue” thing; since my lengthy (three-month-plus) bout with extremely severe GI issues, starting last February (which I’m sure has turned out to be long covid but I didn’t test so can’t prove it), I’ve been hit usually around mid-morning with the kind of fatigue you get after surgery. Not the “yawn, gee, I’m tired” kind, but the “I feel fine, I’ll go do this, it’s going well, WALL SMACK THUNK” kind that unpredictably knocks you if not on your ass, at least onto whatever horizontal surface is nearby.

So yeah, I was a little apprehensive about the drive, and that doesn’t help, either. But all was going well—I only drank three or four ounces of the Ultra-Strong Coffee I took with me around the time the wall usually rises up and growls “feed me,” and wasn’t doing badly.

Pulling off the freeway at Raton to get gas, I picked up some snack stuff, too. Started to head back to the freeway when the Google voice—I’ll swear it had a frantic inflection—said, “Turn right on US 64 to avoid a two and a half hour construction slowdown on I-25 north.” (Read the italics as if the world is ending.)

I debated ignoring it, but decided not to. US highways in NM can be a little rough, but they’re usually pretty good. So I drove my 27 miles, turned left, and (O, foolish me) listened to Google. “Turn right on County Road 34.1 and…”

Oh, shit! I thought. I knew what this meant for the probably 800 miles to get back to the freeway. See, many county roads in NM are dirt. Not even graveled. Just rutted dirt with potholes the size of Rhode Island, often little more than single lanes, and studded every quarter-mile or so with poorly to un-maintained cattle guards.

Evidently, no one has ever informed Google of this fact.

And I was right. All told it was about a 70-mile detour (to get me from Raton to Trinidad, Colo.—about 30 miles apart), all but 27 of which was on squirrelly dirt roads with a max suspension-saving speed limit of about 45. I tried to take delight in seeing four pronghorn antelopes, two longhorn cattle, a bunch of black angus, and a few listless, bored horses. It didn’t help, though I did think about trading the car for one of the horses and heading out as the crow flies rather than the road twists.

Eventually, it got me back to the freeway, and possibly even around the 2.5-hour construction delay. But it had taken 70 miles and three full hours to “save” me from that delay.

I was no longer inclined to trust Google Maps, and the journey wasn’t even half over.

By the time I did finally arrive (suspension intact!), I’d learned that sometime in the last 20 years, it’s become a Thing to rocket through downtown Denver at 90 mph; run into delays for three crashes (other people’s, thank goodness) and a stalled car (ditto); and had Google tell me to get off I-25 north to stay on I-25 north. A lot of construction was going on in that area, and once again, the Goog didn’t know what the ever-lovin’ peewaddins it was doing: I got off, went halfway around an unfinished traffic circle, then right back onto the same I-25 I’d been on and would have been a quarter-mile farther along had I ignored it.

By the time I arrived at Northwood’s it was about two hours later than I’d expected (I guess 90 mph made up some of that 40 mph time, eh?) and I was utterly drained and useless. Fortunately my granddaughter, The Divine Miss M, is generous with her energy and unflagging cheerfulness, and Northwood and Mrs. Northwood are … well, Mrs. Northwood is a kind and welcoming hostess. My son, of course, just kind of shrugged at me and the two of them looked at each other a few times during my tale and grinned: “Oh, yeah, we forgot about that part.”

Lest that not be enough, we have also now set up my hand-me-down iPhone from Snaotheus, which means I have no idea how trustworthy this version of Google Maps will be. Once I get to I-25 south, I am not getting off it for love, money, nor anything else but gas.

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Adios, R

R passed peacefully this evening, with L, two of his kids, and a spouse or two there reading to him and playing cello. They’d moved him to a quiet hospice room with lots of windows and light, and fresh air blowing through, along with more privacy. I don’t think a person could ask for a better exit. Mind how you go, LeftBrain; may your journey over the black sand be swift and sure, and the party be richer for your presence. Much love to you and yours, L.

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Bad days become worse days

It’s been a tough week here in Albuquerque. And more so in Tennessee.

I’ve been the intermediary between a knitting friend and the many people we know in common while her husband has been in an induced coma in cardiac ICU. Today, Google kicked me over the top.

L, R, and some friends were hanging out the other day when R, her husband, just dropped to the floor. He’s had A-fib for a while, but I thought it was pretty well controlled. He had no pulse, so they immediately started chest compressions.

(Aside: CPR has a much better reputation than it deserves. Most people believe the CPR stories they see on medical dramas are true, and they aren’t. They don’t do the compressions properly or in the right place (given what they can do with props, it wouldn’t be difficult to make it look right), and there’s only like a 20% survival rate overall–not just among young, middle-aged, or old people, but all people who have CPR done outside a hospital. Surveys show most people think survival rate is around 75%, and with no neurological damage. Among people my age, that survival-to-discharge-from-hospital number drops precipitously (like to 5%) and also comes with danger of broken ribs, lacerated livers, and more. The first three or four days afterwards are quite dangerous, especially for the brain. No one, but no one, pops up immediately after CPR and says, “Oh, what a lovely day! Let’s go for a six-mile run!” This is why I have a DNR. If my heart stops while I’m eating ice cream with you, just let that be my last sight.)

At the hospital, the bloodwork showed no enzymes indicating heart damage (so no MI–myocardial infarction, or heart attack). The best they could figure was some weird electrical pulse and the A-fib collided at the wrong time. They put R in an induced coma (to prevent some of those dangerous things) and yesterday, started trying to bring him out.

He was unresponsive.

He remained unresponsive.

They did an MRI, and L heard the words “global hypoxic event” along with some others she didn’t quite catch (or take in). “Global hypoxic event” means the brain was deprived of oxygen long enough to have affected function in all of its systems, and no way to know how much. It is not a phrase you ever want to hear; it most likely means “the heart may be beating, but no one is home nor will ever be again.” In fact, L said, “I think he’s gone. We may have saved his body, but everything that makes him who he is is gone.”

So today she and her kids made the decision to withdraw life support. I don’t know the status right now; she’ll call or text when she has the bandwidth for it. His body could live for an undetermined amount of time, or it could go quickly. I hope for a quick, gentle exit for all their sakes.

In all this, I’ve been delivering bad news to our common friends, sometimes a couple of times a day, and fielding/passing along love and sympathy. I had no idea how painful bearing nothing but bad news could be. But it is excruciating.

Today, I had to tell everyone that R was gone. That tore me up badly enough that I wasn’t sure I could even make it to the endocrinology appointment made last October.

I had to drive way way out to the new guy’s, and just as I got to the part of town I don’t know at all, Google suddenly decided to cut out voice direction (it’s not reception; I’ve driven out there before with no problem). On these freeways, you don’t pull over and stop to try to figure out the problem if you value your life and your car. All I could do was balance the damn phone on my knee, try to read the badly reflecting screen, read signs, add “in 1.3 miles” to what was on my odometer, watch traffic, avoid crazy drivers, try not to look like a crazy driver, and hope. It is a flat-out miracle that I got there in one piece. I still have no idea why that happened, but 25 miles of that was about all the extra stress I could handle for one day.

When their touch-screen check-in didn’t work, I lost it. Fortunately, they were very kind and helped me get at least a tiny grip, so I could get into the exam room before I started to blubber.

I managed to get through the appointment OK; and I got home. Those are miracles enough for one day. My heart is broken for L and her family, and she’s far enough away that I can do nothing practical to help her except take this little burden of message-delivering off her shoulders. I’m glad to be able to do that, even though it hurts. I can’t imagine the pain she’s enduring (with her usual clear-eyed courage, pragmatism, and dignity), moving from half of a happy couple with lots of retirement plans to a widow so suddenly and unexpectedly.

This is so unfair. Sometimes, life sucks like a brand-new jet engine.

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I just sat on

my foxgloving “dinner.”

Which was a bowl of cereal I’d set on the couch while I went to get something. When I came back maybe 90 seconds later–okay, maybe 120–I’d forgotten it was there. Didn’t even look. Just sat on it.

A bowl of cereal.

Apparently I have a really flat ass, because not a drop of cereal, protein powder, or almond milk left the bowl or transfered itself to my person.

Man, I am SO calling that a win. And laughing my ass off. I can be such a dope!

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Hey, sir!

For the second time this week, a store clerk (in two different stores) called me “sir.” Given that I’m about as cis-het as you can get, I find this both humorous and bizarre. This has never happened before, even though I’ve had super-short hair for, golly, six or eight years now. I don’t quite know what to think.

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Yet another mil(l)estone

The thing about getting older is that you start to lose parts of yourself. They don’t seem like important parts at first–it’s harder to bend over to pick things up, it takes longer to do things, you know that drill.

But then you start losing things that are part of your identity. Parts without which you can’t imagine still being yourself.

That bloody tremor is one of those things. It’s reached a point such that I have to hold with both hands a small measuring cup filled with water in order to pour it straight-ish (no guarantees). Using my fountain pens went out the door years ago. The only way I can type half decently is to anchor my hands and wrists to the keyboard and only use my fingers (which still double- and triple-tap keys, but trying to hold my hands in proper typing position provides only gibberish). It’s stolen my precision, my accuracy, the things that made me good at much of my profession (and things I really enjoy doing). I can’t reliably cut up vegetables without putting, let’s say, a little too much of myself into my work, so I just don’t cook anymore.

After trying for 10 years in Bellingham to get one of my neurologists to refer me to occupational therapy, my new one here immediately thought that was an eminently reasonable request, particularly given my reactions (read: really bad) to the only two A-team drugs that exist for tremors.

I saw my new hand therapist today and came home with four more sheets of exercises to add to the 1.5″ folder of PT exercises I already have for various failing body parts. She was quite optimistic that I’ll be able to gain more control over the hands (and the neck) than I now have, so we shall see. (She also confirmed that yes, I am hypermobile, which is why I have a lot of joint instability [my entire childhood was spent wrapped up in Ace bandages. Every day I do a series of exercises to self-correct sacroiliac (SI) joint alignment]. I’m just grateful it doesn’t seem to be severe enough that one of the ghastly syndromes that can accompany it–like Ehlers-Danlos or Marfan’s–has descended on me. Or at least not horrifically.)

I’ll never be able to do good calligraphy again, but if I can just get so I can actually write legibly, and maybe draw without a painful grip on the pencil, I’ll be content.

She was quite intrigued with the little weighted glove I’d made using fabric, elastic, and bird shot. It would be more helpful if I remembered to keep it where I can reach it when I need it.

In another discouraging loss that’s been coming for a while: Yesterday, I wanted to open a jar of bread-and-butter pickles. It took like ten minutes of grunting and squeezing and pulling with the grippy gloves before I finally could pop the seal. And my hands hurt so badly afterwards. Mom’s arthritis is in every joint in both hands, and it is not interested in what I want to do; only in what it can prevent. There goes another little bit of competence.

I stopped by a friend’s today to pick up some extra garden produce she has, and she’s found a spiffy tool for breaking that seal. It’s called a Jarkey, and looks like this:

She has one and says they’re the bomb. A little lip on the underside slides beneath the cap and pops the seal, after which you can just open it. What a concept! I’m very grateful to her for getting it for me. Until I can buy Man Hands somewhere, this will do. Pickle jars, beware! (The wide-mouth jars hurt more to open than narrower ones. Probably something to do with leverage and strength.)

And now, back to some editing.

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The restaurant fracas-see

My immigrants’ group takes our two Honduran boys to lunch every Thursday at a different restaurant. One of our guys, Steve, loves picking out the restaurant and always insists on paying for everyone (he’s a sweetie). Today, it was just the four of us at A Taste of the Caribbean, a little downtown place that was quite awkward to get to.

Our waiter was an attractive young man with really nice dreads. When he brought drinks, I noted that it might be wise to bring a pitcher of water (for me) to save himself some steps when I needed refills. “Gotcha,” he said. It never showed up.

We ordered: some yuca (you can get that at Walmart here!!) fries, cod fritters, a pulled-pork sandwich, an actual plate with recognizable meat and rice, and a shrimp salad. None of these is difficult or time-consuming to prepare, but we didn’t get our food for an hour. Steve’s fritters were way overdone; I was hoping the batter was dark because spicy, but no. Brayan said his rice was meh and David pulled all the tomato bits and raw onion out of his salad. (He has a surprising number of food quirks for a guy who grew up poor in Honduras–or maybe didn’t have access to some things and never developed a taste for them.)

When Steve handed the Kid a 50 to pay for the food, he mentioned that since it had taken so long to get it to us, perhaps they were understaffed. He was quite pleasant about it.

Kid leaned over me and the table and got up in Steve’s face (his elbow was in mine). “This is a family business. You can’t talk to people here like at McDonald’s. You gotta treat me with respect. Don’t talk to me like that.”

Steve didn’t escalate; he just handed the kid the $50 and said, “We’re ready to leave now, thank you.”

The kid put the $50 in the cash register and walked back into the kitchen. And didn’t come out. We sat there another 10 minutes before he brought out someone else’s food, and Steve mentioned on Kid’s way past that he’d like his change, please. Kid ignored him, went back into the kitchen.

Another 10 minutes (we’d been there an hour and a half now), and Steve went up to the counter. No one was there, but an older woman was between the back of the counter and the kitchen, so Steve went behind the counter to ask her for his change so as not to make a loud, everybody-look thing out of it.

While he’s talking to what I assume was the kid’s mother, Kid comes charging out of the kitchen, fists balled up, yelling, “You can’t be back here! You tryin’ to rob us? Get away from the cash register!” and other less complimentary things.

Now, Steve is like my age and has had a stroke, so his left side doesn’t work really well. He looks about as intimidating (and dishonest) as a hamster. Kid is young and strong. Assumed-mom moved in front of Steve; an older man (Dad?) came out of the kitchen and grabbed Kid from behind in a bearhug. I could hear what sounded like calm-down noises coming from him, but Kid is kicking and flailing and yelling. Brayan and David (our kids), and the roughly 6’2″ man sitting next to us with his family, all got up and headed for the melee. The man next to us actually got in there and, being three times Kid’s height, walked him backwards while probably-Dad pulled him back into the kitchen.

Steve did eventually get his change, but the Honduran boys were mumbling extremely uncomplimentary things in Spanish about not treating customers that way and some even less complimentary things I didn’t quite catch (and it’s probably a good thing).

We, at least, will not be back, and I suspect the other four tables of people will think several times before they go there again, too. I’m not sure if Kid needs anger management, drugs, to stop taking drugs, was really angry about something else, or what, but wow. I have honestly never ever seen that kind of thing happen in a restaurant. Occasionally in a cowboy bar, but never a restaurant.

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The (Almost) Interminable Saga of Mom and the Phone Woes

Recap: Since arriving at Snaotheus’s house, my phone has not sent or received calls. This coincides with the decommissioning of the 3G network. In the last two days, I spent roughly four or five hours with tech support, trying to figure out why certain settings will give me Internet and MMS images, but no phone calls; while others will allow phone calls, but no Internet or MMS images. Consensus among the tech folk was, to date, that my particular phone model was (of course!) among a small (read: thousands rather than millions) number that do not have whatever it takes to use the 4G network. Even though there’s a tiny “4G!” icon waggling at the top.

A-a-a-and now, in the next episode in our Ongoing Saga of Mom and the Phone Woes, we find our heroine getting up close and personal yet again with tech support…

This morning, the tech tells me to turn the phone off, take it outside at noon my time, and stand there for ten or fifteen minutes while they do a massive dump of some kind, hoping to get all the other phones like mine to update and accept whatever bit of code is needed for them to work.

So I dutifully stand outside in the rain for 15 minutes at noon, looking rather foolish. Especially to a group of 28 high school kids who are walking up the block on the other side of the street. They stare at me. And stare. I holler, “I’m waiting for the mother ship!” They stop staring and dissipate, rather quickly. I come back in and … nope, no phone calls. Dial out, beep, call ended. Once again, I call tech support.

“OK… yep, did that… mm-hmm… yep, did that, too… yep, that’s what’s entered under that heading… now what?”
mumbles from other end of line
“No. I went outside and stood in the rain for 15 minutes, but the mother ship never showed and I still can’t make calls.”
mumblemumblegiggleyou’refunnycracklemumble
“OK, so what are my options?”
mumblecracklemumblemumblesplurf

“Options” turn out to be “you’re gonna hafta get a new phone, lady, because there’s something in there that we can’t fix.” (This isn’t a big surprise; the battery’s not holding a charge well and the phone’s seven years old.)

So I call the down-the-street Target store. They have two of the recommended inexpensive and on-sale models in stock. I tell the kid who didn’t answer the phone when I called but did after I got booted to customer service and CS called him, and whom I know to be a sullen twit because of a previous encounter during which he sniped that their tech (dedicated to my carrier) had quit last week, to stick one of their two units in his pocket ’cause I’ll arrive in 10 minutes.

Climbing (literally) into Paco the Pick-up, I brave the mid-afternoon traffic to which I am surprised to discover I’m somewhat less accustomed, park Paco, and stagger through the store to electronics, which for some reason is always at the back of every store that has an electronics section. I purchase said new phone, ignoring Sullen Kid’s snarky remarks, rush back out so Paco won’t get lonely (you never know what a lonely red pick-up might get up to), and careen back to Snaotheus’s house.

After half an hour or so, I work out how to get into the packaging.

I take out the phone and plug in the charger in a spot somewhat less likely to be a deathtrap for the new phone when grandchildren bounce past. Knowing this will take a while, I look over the Dreaded (and generally Dreadful) Quick Start Guide.

It makes the Double D grade.

They always sprinkle liberally into the copy words such as “simple,” “easy,” “merely,” ekcetra (sic), in lieu of actual clear instructions, when what they should say is, “This is going to take you at least half a day and maybe more, because a lot of things we’re not telling you about will go wrong, so get ready for Set-up Hell and probably two or three more lengthy phone calls to tech support.” (Fortunately, I’ve discovered how to bypass the customer service queue and get an actual human who’ll transfer me to tech support immediately because he doesn’t want to talk to me.)

Given that the grandkids are about to arrive home from school, I wisely decide to let the phone charge and worry about set-up tomorrow, when things will be quieter and I should have time to screw things up thoroughly, account for the Malignant Personal EM Field, hit wrong keys with fat shaky fingers, ekcetra (also sic).

And despite all my miserable, frustration-laden history with these things, I still seem to have (cue Albert from the Hogfather movie) hoPe, emphasis on the explosive portion of the P. I know I’m delusional; I know I’m making Don Quixote look like a cynical oaf; but we’ll hear more about that next time on the all! new! upcoming episode of….

gongs and bells sound unmelodiously

The Ongoing Saga of Mom and the Phone Woes. Don’t miss it!

two days later

It was the best of times; it was the worst of times. Rather than trusting to the double-D “quick-start guide,” I called tech support and made them walk me through the whole thing. Good thing, too, because the QSG would have fouled it up royally. Surprisingly, it worked the first time with only a small glitch or two. After another day and a half of customizing the thing so I can live with it (which Snaotheus doesn’t understand; but it had two-plus screens full of crap I’ll never use and whose icons would obscure what I did want to find), I now have a phone that Makes Calls, Sends Texts, and even lets me look at new photos of The Divine Miss M. And the battery lasts forever.

It still surprises me how incredibly stressful I find setting up New Tech to be. It shouldn’t, given that everything generally goes Horribly Wrong from the get-go (which is probably why the stress, really) and I’ve been in that space for about five months, but it does. Still, the phone woes are likely mostly over.

For now.

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And that’s all, folks.

You’ll be glad of that, I’m sure. 99% of all of that, done for the Discworld Guild Wars on ravelry.com, was just to motivate myself to keep going amidst increasing anxiety and unrecognized depression symptoms.

Yep, the Brain Crash came, and despite 40 years of experience with major depressive disorder, I didn’t recognize it until I was farther down the spiral than I initially thought.

So things will proceed with great slowness now. The box of jewelry-making supplies has been sitting at my feet for more than a week waiting for me to have the spoons to take things out and figure out how to organize them. Many piles are still around (though on a good day, I’ve gotten a few taken care of) and will stay there ’til the brain is closer to healed. Well, not healed, since that will never happen, but until I have a little more balance back in the brain. Which requires reinstating all the extremely time-consuming self-care I have not done for more than a year.

The only good thing, I guess, is that I aten’t dead yet. Forty years with a disease that frequently causes suicide; I guess that has to be a win.

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Enough sleep works wonders

“So there! That’s what I can do when I gets enough mongatorilizin’ freakin’ sleep!” the Widow Dressing announced, speaking sternly out loud to her new house, hands on hips. Her stance was just shy of aggressive, her head sticking forward like a belligerent chicken.

Her day had started off a little rocky, taking three whole hours to get four packages ready to mail, but when she finished that, she hit high gear and got a whole bunch of rearranging and putting things away and laundry folding and even a couple more boxes emptied out. She felt justifiably proud of herself, and now she was going to sit down and knit, by golly, and maybe even eat a few chocolate peanuts.

“Hah,” she said. “I win for once. I hope Pocky comes by tonight to see it.”


Some of the stuff that had been on the steel shelving fit in the mostly useless cabinets over the fridge, freeing up steel shelf space.


Clear counters by the sink…


Clear counters by the stove… amazing!


Big appliances moved on the steel shelves to make space for all the big, heavy, and tall stuff spilling out of the pantry by the kitchen, like the whole grains and large quantities of beans and dried foods…


Leaving enough room for the smaller, more normal pantry-like things like cereal and canned goods…


And closed pantry doors! That look (temporarily, we know) neat and tidy! (I do not know why the pantry doors (it’s an IKEA Billy with M-something doors, that are intended to go with it, added on) don’t meet in the middle; they’re built that way. It’s weird.)


And we can get into the closet now, and emptied another box. Though we do not like the only available towel storage, which looks sloppy no matter what you do to it. And I forgot to take a photo of my dad’s little walnut cabinet, which sits in the bedroom and holds sheets and Essential Chemical Compounds.


And the pile of stuff to go to the post office, we hope tomorrow.

Whatever extra drugs I took last night, I hope I can duplicate. A week of this and I could probably get everything done and get it out of my hair!

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