So, I took my Star-Tribune to Dunn Brothers the other day. Whilst sipping my medium full-city roast, I read, again about all the stupid ideas the federal and state governments is trying to impose on us. Of course, there are the TRULY STUPID IDEAS like sending troops and billions to the middle-eastern country du jour, decreasing funding of poor, disabled and elderly, or messing with Social Security.
Today, I am addressing those GREAT ideas people bring up and everyone gets on the bandwagon. The stories today addressed the following issues: Government regulation of the amount of salt in prepared food, taxing pop, bullying, putting obese children into foster care, texting while driving, missing children and adults, making sure the morning-after contraceptive is restricted to prescription status, investigating a nursing home where Alzheimer's patient were having SEX!, and on and on.
Back home again, I talked with my brother. His new motto is: "If you don't look out for yourself, no one will." I am giving him license to preach this after his year of medical mismanagements
First let me say I have been obese since I sprang from my mother's ample loins. I was blessed with parents that loved me and loved each other fiercely. I had such a wonderful childhood, I feel guilty. My family supported me, didn't force me to eat vats of lard and chocolate, but instilled within me a sense of self-esteem. Of course, they tried incentives to make me loose weight. They took me to specialists.
The thought of anyone taking me away from my family because I was obese makes my blood run cold. Would I have had a successful career, a beautiful life, great friends, stability? Would I, in retirement, work my massive ass off volunteering for humanity and all life? You decide.
Was I bulllied? The fat kid? Again, you decide. No, we didn't have the internet in the 50s and 60s, but we did have bathroom walls. We had real words - titterings, giggling, and nasty insults; we had cliques. Was I ever chosen for a Red Rover team at recess? Nope.
OK, I am not athletic, I am even less graceful. But I had a beautiful soprano voice. And I cultivated that, I accumulated 7 years of college, developed an interest in a world outside my own arm's length, and the Red Rover thing was probably the last hardship I encountered.
So, enough about me.
Now the governments want to legislate against bullying.
How?
The government wants to legislate against obesity.
How?
The government wants to legislate what foods I eat? My sugar, my salt intake?
How?
They government wants to make unplanned pregnancies easier for people.
Huh??
The government wants to legislate against missing persons - just as long as they are cute, blonde, and white.
How?
The government wants to legislate against texting whild driving.
How?
The government doesn't want patients with dementia to have sex.
Why?
And it goes on. I have one question.
WHATEVER HAPPENED TO PERSONAL RESPONSIBILITY???
Bullying, diet, driving habits, using drugs in kids? This is NOT a legislative matter, it's a matter of PARENTAL RESPONSIBILITY. No, I didn't say TEACHER RESPONSIBILITY. PARENTAL!
Teachers are hired to teach, not parent.
So I am saying to the Governments of the United States, Minnesota, Olmsted County, and City of Rochester:
We do not need your parenting. We don't need your sanctamonous scolding so we can feel bad about our choices. We do not need you to tell us how to live our life if we live it within the boundaries of the constitution. Sure, these personal things are EASY to legislate, and it makes you feel like you are doing something for us.
What we need is for you to stop fighting, start talking, start listening, and take responsibility for yourselves. We have some MASSIVE problems and if you want this great country/state/county/city to continue concentrate on legislating issues which will do just that!
Tuesday, January 3, 2012
Sunday, April 24, 2011
A Tribute to my good Friend, Nancy Lee
There are friends and then there are Friends. I have many friends, and I thank God for them. But those who are Friends almost deserve a different word in the English language. These are the Friends who are a significant part of your life. They know your secrets, your foibles, your accomplishments, and can make an accurate recommendation of a movie or a book, being correct about 98% of the time. Because they know you - they know your preferences; what makes your eyes glaze over, what makes you walk out of a movie. These Friends are, simply put, woven into the fabric of your life.
Out of the blue, you get a call, a message, or someone comes to your house. Your friend is no longer.
April 22, 2011, was when I got the call. My Friend Nancy Lee died that morning. Her daughter found her in her home.
Was it a surprise? No, not really. Nancy Lee had lived a good life. She raised four children of whom she was rightfully proud. Her grandchildren and great-grandchildren carry on the genes, becoming talented, educated, and upstanding citizens of the 21st century. She has been there for them, attending countless games and concerts, inserting her superior knowledge and values into their lives.
About ten years ago, Nancy Lee began having heart problems. A heart attack, subsequent surgery, and what we can only call a "bum ticker" slowly and gradually consumed Nancy Lee's life.
Yet, these problems, along with particularly nasty rheumatoid arthritis, did not defeat her.
She was a stubborn one, my Friend Nancy Lee.
As I expected would happen, Nancy Lee checked out on her own terms.
No hospitalization. No emergency room. No hospice. No schlepping oxygen or heart devices. No relatives around her hospital bed, weeping or gnashing of teeth. Nothing short of a miracle would have made her well. She knew that. And although she didn't voice it to me or maybe even to her family, we knew that, too.
My respect and love for this woman goes back to my first years in Rochester. We both sang in Rochester Symphony Chorale. I was looking to continue my voice training and she came highly recommended as a voice teacher and coach. If I were to write what I learned from her I would surely run out of RAM, ROM, and all the hard drives I have. I never sing as much as a hymn or the National Anthem without putting one of her pearls of wisdom into it. She was brilliant. It wasn't long before we became friends, as we realized those passions and dispassions we had in common.
We both had a passion for music. Concerts, MPR, recordings, PBS, especially classical, instrumental and voice. We didn't always agree - she was kinder than me!
We both had a passion for animals. She was a dog person. I was a cat person. We didn't let that break up our friendship. It's all about the respect. She always had one of more dogs, loved them and cared for them with a genuine zeal.
We both had a passion for politics. We frequently met for breakfast or dinner, and our conversation inevitably turned to the state of the governing bodies. We rolled eyes over the latest press, laughed or cried at what we felt would destroy our country. Our e-mail accounts flew back and forth with the latest little juicy spot of liberalism we found. Did you hear Rachel or Jon Stewart, or were you listening to MPR this afternoon?
Both of us moaned at the desecration of the English language. Eyebrows shot upon hearing the words jew-le-ry or re-la-tor. Misspelled words on a menu would prevent us from returning to a restaurant regardless of the food.
There were times I would be sliding from my chair to the floor at a restaurant as Nancy Lee pointed out a mistake in the menu or told a wait person we were women, in response to their innocent question of "What can I get for you guys?"
I couldn't drag Nancy Lee to a rock concert or a Twins game. But that was OK. I have other Friends who go to them.
Sadly, you didn't wait long enough to see Vincent D'Onofrio return to Law and Order: Criminal Intent.
So, my dear Friend, you are up there coaching the angels on the proper way sing to the Heavenly Host. Your presence will be missed by so many of us. Yet, I expect at the next Symphony concert you will be hanging out up there in the second balcony enjoying the concert. Your legend lives on.
Out of the blue, you get a call, a message, or someone comes to your house. Your friend is no longer.
April 22, 2011, was when I got the call. My Friend Nancy Lee died that morning. Her daughter found her in her home.
Was it a surprise? No, not really. Nancy Lee had lived a good life. She raised four children of whom she was rightfully proud. Her grandchildren and great-grandchildren carry on the genes, becoming talented, educated, and upstanding citizens of the 21st century. She has been there for them, attending countless games and concerts, inserting her superior knowledge and values into their lives.
About ten years ago, Nancy Lee began having heart problems. A heart attack, subsequent surgery, and what we can only call a "bum ticker" slowly and gradually consumed Nancy Lee's life.
Yet, these problems, along with particularly nasty rheumatoid arthritis, did not defeat her.
She was a stubborn one, my Friend Nancy Lee.
As I expected would happen, Nancy Lee checked out on her own terms.
No hospitalization. No emergency room. No hospice. No schlepping oxygen or heart devices. No relatives around her hospital bed, weeping or gnashing of teeth. Nothing short of a miracle would have made her well. She knew that. And although she didn't voice it to me or maybe even to her family, we knew that, too.
My respect and love for this woman goes back to my first years in Rochester. We both sang in Rochester Symphony Chorale. I was looking to continue my voice training and she came highly recommended as a voice teacher and coach. If I were to write what I learned from her I would surely run out of RAM, ROM, and all the hard drives I have. I never sing as much as a hymn or the National Anthem without putting one of her pearls of wisdom into it. She was brilliant. It wasn't long before we became friends, as we realized those passions and dispassions we had in common.
We both had a passion for music. Concerts, MPR, recordings, PBS, especially classical, instrumental and voice. We didn't always agree - she was kinder than me!
We both had a passion for animals. She was a dog person. I was a cat person. We didn't let that break up our friendship. It's all about the respect. She always had one of more dogs, loved them and cared for them with a genuine zeal.
We both had a passion for politics. We frequently met for breakfast or dinner, and our conversation inevitably turned to the state of the governing bodies. We rolled eyes over the latest press, laughed or cried at what we felt would destroy our country. Our e-mail accounts flew back and forth with the latest little juicy spot of liberalism we found. Did you hear Rachel or Jon Stewart, or were you listening to MPR this afternoon?
Both of us moaned at the desecration of the English language. Eyebrows shot upon hearing the words jew-le-ry or re-la-tor. Misspelled words on a menu would prevent us from returning to a restaurant regardless of the food.
There were times I would be sliding from my chair to the floor at a restaurant as Nancy Lee pointed out a mistake in the menu or told a wait person we were women, in response to their innocent question of "What can I get for you guys?"
I couldn't drag Nancy Lee to a rock concert or a Twins game. But that was OK. I have other Friends who go to them.
Sadly, you didn't wait long enough to see Vincent D'Onofrio return to Law and Order: Criminal Intent.
So, my dear Friend, you are up there coaching the angels on the proper way sing to the Heavenly Host. Your presence will be missed by so many of us. Yet, I expect at the next Symphony concert you will be hanging out up there in the second balcony enjoying the concert. Your legend lives on.
Friday, March 11, 2011
It's not about me anymore, is it?
Long ago and far away, I was a recent college graduate. I was cool and I was hip and I was liberal and I discovered Saturday Night Live. My friends and I knew that at 11:30 PM every Saturday night we would procure our favorite mind-altering substance and lots of munchies and we would tune in. It was funny; it was aimed at us intelligent left-wingers. We understood the jokes and could repeat the skits verbatim the next week at work, and we were cool and we were hip.
It seemed a natural progression from Laugh In and the Smothers Brothers Comedy Hour. Our show. My show.
So it continued, every Saturday night at 11:30, or 10:30,
I am not so sure when it was, but sometime in the last 2 years or so, I came to a realization. SNL was no longer written for me. And furthermore, it had not been written for me for the last 20 years or so. It had become a struggle. I would watch the opening bit, usually political, which was good. After that, I would find my attention waning, I no longer understood the skits, I didn't know who the hosts were, I didn't know nor like the musical guests. I found myself reading the paper, doing a puzzle or a sudoku, and usually after the Weekend Update, I was on my way to dreamland. Yet I continued to watch. It's a hard habit to break.
Along with this startling revelation has come another, more significant one: I am no longer a member of a target demographic. Well, jeez, no wonder nothing makes sense any more. Good movies are few and far between, TV continues to throw out sitcoms and reality TV shows. Clothing choices are dismal; manufacturers assume I want to bare my all-to-ample body to those around me. News broadcasts, newspapers, and websites are inundated with pop culture and assume that I care. I am a 64 y/o caught in a society that doesn't care what I like. And if anyone out there want's to go get a coffee or glass of wine on a late Saturday night, give me a call.
It seemed a natural progression from Laugh In and the Smothers Brothers Comedy Hour. Our show. My show.
So it continued, every Saturday night at 11:30, or 10:30,
I am not so sure when it was, but sometime in the last 2 years or so, I came to a realization. SNL was no longer written for me. And furthermore, it had not been written for me for the last 20 years or so. It had become a struggle. I would watch the opening bit, usually political, which was good. After that, I would find my attention waning, I no longer understood the skits, I didn't know who the hosts were, I didn't know nor like the musical guests. I found myself reading the paper, doing a puzzle or a sudoku, and usually after the Weekend Update, I was on my way to dreamland. Yet I continued to watch. It's a hard habit to break.
Along with this startling revelation has come another, more significant one: I am no longer a member of a target demographic. Well, jeez, no wonder nothing makes sense any more. Good movies are few and far between, TV continues to throw out sitcoms and reality TV shows. Clothing choices are dismal; manufacturers assume I want to bare my all-to-ample body to those around me. News broadcasts, newspapers, and websites are inundated with pop culture and assume that I care. I am a 64 y/o caught in a society that doesn't care what I like. And if anyone out there want's to go get a coffee or glass of wine on a late Saturday night, give me a call.
Thursday, January 20, 2011
E-Readers for Everyone!
Everyone should have an e-reader. I say this not because I want everyone to read, although that would be a good thing. No, I say this because I want everyone to stop asking me about mine.
I LOVE my Kindle. I keep it in my handbag and pull it out to read everywhere - waiting rooms, coffee shops, restaurants, movie theaters, airport gates, etc.
If anyone happens to be around, they will ask the big 3 questions:
Q1. Is that a Kindle (Nook, e-reader, one of those "book things")? A. "yes"
Q2. Do you like it? A. "yes, very much"
Q3. How many books can you have on there?
A: Well, here is where I draw the line. I really don't know. And, really, what does it matter? You can only read one at a time. And then there is the thing of books actually stored on it and those you have in your archieves or somewhere in the great Kindle storage facility in the ether. So I make something up. Sometimes I say "three", sometimes I say "4000", sometimes I just say "lots". And sometimes I just pretend I don't hear them.
I LOVE my Kindle. I keep it in my handbag and pull it out to read everywhere - waiting rooms, coffee shops, restaurants, movie theaters, airport gates, etc.
If anyone happens to be around, they will ask the big 3 questions:
Q1. Is that a Kindle (Nook, e-reader, one of those "book things")? A. "yes"
Q2. Do you like it? A. "yes, very much"
Q3. How many books can you have on there?
A: Well, here is where I draw the line. I really don't know. And, really, what does it matter? You can only read one at a time. And then there is the thing of books actually stored on it and those you have in your archieves or somewhere in the great Kindle storage facility in the ether. So I make something up. Sometimes I say "three", sometimes I say "4000", sometimes I just say "lots". And sometimes I just pretend I don't hear them.
Saturday, December 18, 2010
Things I Hate About Winter
Winter theoretically begins on the winter solstice, December 21. Here in Minnesota, however, we start one, usually two months before that, and go on way past the vernal equinox in March. We accept this. We know what is going to happen, and we stoically plod on through our lives, as it is as normal as the sun coming up in the east every morning. It's what we do, it's where we are, it's the life we have chosen.
There are, however, some annoying things which my relatives in California and Washington State don't think about when I beg them to feel sorry for me.
Darkness. Here at lattitude 44, it's dark WAY too long. As I write this at 4:15 PM, the sun is tickling the horizon and will be gone in about 15 minutes. We rejoice for the winter solstice, knowing we will gain a precious few minutes of light every day for the next 6 months.
My brakes. One of the things we learn to do is driving without the use of our brakes. We have learned to drive with our accelerators only. Braking, even with anti-locks, on an icy road is asking for a spin, a fishtail, an increase in our insurance premium, and an otherwise really bad day. I like my breaks. I'd like to be able to use them year around.
Snow. When there is a big snowfall, we love our snow removal workers, snowplow drivers, etc. They should get all the plates of Christmas cookies baked in the midwest. They do a splendid job of scooping us out. We want it off our streets, sidewalks, parking lots, our driveways,etc, but we don't really think about where they PUT IT. Initially, it goes from the street back in our driveways, and that give and take goes on for a while. Streets get a buildup on the side or in the middle of the road, then several days later they may scoop it up in trucks and take it - where??? the Mississippi? Lake Superior??. Often it builds up along the streets. Corners are huge bunkers. No way to tell if another car is coming. You just have to nose out and hope they are able to stop (see last para.)
By spring, if we haven't had a thaw, the roads get so narrow because of side buildup you just close your eyes and hope that no one is coming toward you in the tunnel that used to be 4th Avenue.
Mittens. Absolutely necessary accessories. Gloves are for wimps. Good mittens save digits. Every year I splurge on good mittens, usually thick wool or down. I do this every year because they wear out or usually, I loose one of them. For all their splendor, however, mittens are awkward. Hard to use a key, pick up a piece of paper, turn radio dials, fish coins out of your handbag to pay for your hot coffee at the drive-in.
Everything freezes. This includes your water bottle you keep in the car, your iPod and GPS in your car, your tires (ka-bump, ka-bump), and if you aren't careful, you and your friends and pets.
Walking. Best done in a mall or a SuperTarget during the winter. Those of us living in a winter climate adopt a strange, sort of waddling walk in the winter. It keeps our feet on the ground whilst maintaining our center of gravity in the center of our body. Compacted snow turns into dense, hard (10 on the mohs scale) ice and stays until sometime in May of June in many shaded places. We all know about YakTrax.
Is there anything I LIKE about winter? I have been thinking about that for several days.
1. it's closer to spring than fall
2. Being retired (too cold? oh, well...)
3. vacations
4. cats do not try to get out the front door
Six months from now, we will be complaining about the heat and of course, the humidity.
There are, however, some annoying things which my relatives in California and Washington State don't think about when I beg them to feel sorry for me.
Darkness. Here at lattitude 44, it's dark WAY too long. As I write this at 4:15 PM, the sun is tickling the horizon and will be gone in about 15 minutes. We rejoice for the winter solstice, knowing we will gain a precious few minutes of light every day for the next 6 months.
My brakes. One of the things we learn to do is driving without the use of our brakes. We have learned to drive with our accelerators only. Braking, even with anti-locks, on an icy road is asking for a spin, a fishtail, an increase in our insurance premium, and an otherwise really bad day. I like my breaks. I'd like to be able to use them year around.
Snow. When there is a big snowfall, we love our snow removal workers, snowplow drivers, etc. They should get all the plates of Christmas cookies baked in the midwest. They do a splendid job of scooping us out. We want it off our streets, sidewalks, parking lots, our driveways,etc, but we don't really think about where they PUT IT. Initially, it goes from the street back in our driveways, and that give and take goes on for a while. Streets get a buildup on the side or in the middle of the road, then several days later they may scoop it up in trucks and take it - where??? the Mississippi? Lake Superior??. Often it builds up along the streets. Corners are huge bunkers. No way to tell if another car is coming. You just have to nose out and hope they are able to stop (see last para.)
By spring, if we haven't had a thaw, the roads get so narrow because of side buildup you just close your eyes and hope that no one is coming toward you in the tunnel that used to be 4th Avenue.
Mittens. Absolutely necessary accessories. Gloves are for wimps. Good mittens save digits. Every year I splurge on good mittens, usually thick wool or down. I do this every year because they wear out or usually, I loose one of them. For all their splendor, however, mittens are awkward. Hard to use a key, pick up a piece of paper, turn radio dials, fish coins out of your handbag to pay for your hot coffee at the drive-in.
Everything freezes. This includes your water bottle you keep in the car, your iPod and GPS in your car, your tires (ka-bump, ka-bump), and if you aren't careful, you and your friends and pets.
Walking. Best done in a mall or a SuperTarget during the winter. Those of us living in a winter climate adopt a strange, sort of waddling walk in the winter. It keeps our feet on the ground whilst maintaining our center of gravity in the center of our body. Compacted snow turns into dense, hard (10 on the mohs scale) ice and stays until sometime in May of June in many shaded places. We all know about YakTrax.
Is there anything I LIKE about winter? I have been thinking about that for several days.
1. it's closer to spring than fall
2. Being retired (too cold? oh, well...)
3. vacations
4. cats do not try to get out the front door
Six months from now, we will be complaining about the heat and of course, the humidity.
Thursday, September 9, 2010
Toilet Paper
You know how sometimes on Law and Order, for example, they start a show on Law and Order, SVU and end it on the original Law and Order (RIP)? Well, this just might be the first blog to do that very thing. I would suggest you start by reading
So, then back to the subject at hand. I am on a quest to find not only the best and most reliable toilet paper, but the best and most reliable method of dispensation. I have travelled far and long, and am sorry to say, I have found neither.
When did toliet paper rolls become the size of cash register tape? At least an inch has been shaved from the ends of the rolls. Sign of the times, I guess. Like candy bars and Campbells Soup. Fun-size toilet paper.
Along with the decrease in size has come the decrease in the stability of the paper. Whereas back in the day, the paper was made from the mighty oak and pecan, it is now fashioned from balsa wood, or maybe even some sort of polymer made in a third-world country.
Growing up, there was no difference in toliet paper holders. The dispenser consisted of two side hooks and a small dowel to hold a roll of paper. Easy, cheap, effective. Patrons had a choice of how much they wanted. The only variation was in grade school, there was a small metal bar to prevent us from taking more than one square. Apparently this was to cut cost, or conserve trees; likely the former, since no one had an inkling of what conservation of resources was in the fifties. This was particularly frustrating for those of us who were lucky enough to reach puberty and experience all it's manifestations while still in grade school.
Present day restrooms, unfortunately, have almost universally converted to the megaroll and the huge enclosure bolted into the wall. Now, these devices would be wonderful if those who installed them would stop to think a moment about the mechanics of pulling the paper out of them. The action, folks, is DOWN. The patron grabs the paper, and pulls DOWN to withdraw their chosen number of squares. It shouldn't take a construction engineer to determine the placement of these dispensers. I know there are folks who have frequented more public restrooms than I, but I would say the majority are installed within 3 feet of the floor. Not acceptable. One tug of the end of the roll and the paper is on the floor. OK, not where I want my toilet paper to go prior to my use of it, fifteen second rule notwithstanding.
SO, if you happen to be a toilet paper dispenser hanger, heed my warning. Hang that thing high - preferable about 3-4 feet from the ceiling. People will like you much more. If you can't do that, just go back to the old two hooks and a dowel (sans the little metal restrictor). I don't know anyone who doesn't like that.
So, in conclusion, let me reflect on a recent observation. At the new Target Field in Minneapolis, where the AL Central Leading MINNESOTA TWINS play, I approached the restroom. Imagine my delight to see a line of 5 coming out of the men's room and NO LINE coming out of the women's room. Exquisite!
When I am King: Dry, Dry Again
by Chet Haase (yes relation).
Not only do Chet and I have the same genetic material pulsing through our veins, we apparently are equally frustrated by modern technological advances in public restrooms of our times. I will add to Chet's blog that my favorite hand-drying device is at a movie theater in Minneapolis. Patrons are asked to insert their hands in a machine with vertical holes, then are literally blown away by a gust of air that will dry your hands in about 3 seconds, whilst rendering the skin on your hands to look like the picture in every physics book of the first human to experience g-force. The lights in the theatre probably dim, and the air pressure chance in the restroom alone causes your ears to pop. Just sayin'.So, then back to the subject at hand. I am on a quest to find not only the best and most reliable toilet paper, but the best and most reliable method of dispensation. I have travelled far and long, and am sorry to say, I have found neither.
When did toliet paper rolls become the size of cash register tape? At least an inch has been shaved from the ends of the rolls. Sign of the times, I guess. Like candy bars and Campbells Soup. Fun-size toilet paper.
Along with the decrease in size has come the decrease in the stability of the paper. Whereas back in the day, the paper was made from the mighty oak and pecan, it is now fashioned from balsa wood, or maybe even some sort of polymer made in a third-world country.
Growing up, there was no difference in toliet paper holders. The dispenser consisted of two side hooks and a small dowel to hold a roll of paper. Easy, cheap, effective. Patrons had a choice of how much they wanted. The only variation was in grade school, there was a small metal bar to prevent us from taking more than one square. Apparently this was to cut cost, or conserve trees; likely the former, since no one had an inkling of what conservation of resources was in the fifties. This was particularly frustrating for those of us who were lucky enough to reach puberty and experience all it's manifestations while still in grade school.
Present day restrooms, unfortunately, have almost universally converted to the megaroll and the huge enclosure bolted into the wall. Now, these devices would be wonderful if those who installed them would stop to think a moment about the mechanics of pulling the paper out of them. The action, folks, is DOWN. The patron grabs the paper, and pulls DOWN to withdraw their chosen number of squares. It shouldn't take a construction engineer to determine the placement of these dispensers. I know there are folks who have frequented more public restrooms than I, but I would say the majority are installed within 3 feet of the floor. Not acceptable. One tug of the end of the roll and the paper is on the floor. OK, not where I want my toilet paper to go prior to my use of it, fifteen second rule notwithstanding.
SO, if you happen to be a toilet paper dispenser hanger, heed my warning. Hang that thing high - preferable about 3-4 feet from the ceiling. People will like you much more. If you can't do that, just go back to the old two hooks and a dowel (sans the little metal restrictor). I don't know anyone who doesn't like that.
So, in conclusion, let me reflect on a recent observation. At the new Target Field in Minneapolis, where the AL Central Leading MINNESOTA TWINS play, I approached the restroom. Imagine my delight to see a line of 5 coming out of the men's room and NO LINE coming out of the women's room. Exquisite!
Monday, July 19, 2010
ALL ABOARD!
They strip us down, x-ray us, go through our stuff, subject us to foot fungus, and force us to put our gels in a small plastic bag. They have confiscated my toothpaste, admonished me for taking my plastic bag out of my carry-on, admonished me for NOT taking my plastic bag out of my carry-on, asked me to turn on my computer, unhook my iPod, and throw out a perfectly good bottle of water. They make me sit for hours in a seat ripped out of a miniature doll house next to a child with a live mouse under his cap. They charge me for food, wine, coffee, carry-ons, checked bags, blankets, peanuts, and restroom use. They change my gate after I have walked several miles to change planes. I live in fear of being forced to shamefully exit the plane for being too large or being stranded for 12 hours without air conditioning. Everyone in my row looks like a terrorist.
"ENOUGH!" I said. And I Googled Amtrak.
My friend Char dropped me off that night about 2 hours before I was scheduled to board the Empire Builder, from Winona, Minnesota on the Mississippi River to Edmonds, Washington, just north of Seattle. The little depot was locked but the sign said it would open at 6:30 PM. I waved nervously as she left me there with my piles of luggage, my IPod, Kindle, computer, and bags of food and drink.
At 6:30 PM, as the second hand passed the 12, I entered the Winona Amtrak Depot. Little did I know that at that door, I passed through a tear in the space-time continuum as we know it and entered a parallel universe.
The Amtrak universe is a great place. Everything and everyone is just a TEENY BIT DIFFERENT.
No Amtrak depot has been updated or remodeled since the Roosevelt Administration (that would be Teddy). Benches are sticky dark wood with 90 degree angle, arranged in church pew formation to discourage visitation. The most modern convenience is a 40 y/o Mr Coffee; tar sputtering in the carafe. Pop machines serve cans with a mechanical lever, not a little gizmo that goes to your selection and drops it gently into a padded chute. Restrooms have doors made from the same dark wood, substantial toilets and powdered soap.
All the people throughout the trip were wonderfully friendly except the dining room host who kicked me out when I showed up for an 8:30 dinner reservation at 8:27. (I would guess he trained with TSA and gate agents at the evil airports.)
The seats were comfortable, the scenery was spectacular. The food was amazingly fresh and well-prepared. Other passengers were friendly but mostly kept to themselves. Park rangers boarded the train and guided us through Glacier National Park and the Cascades in Washington. No derailments, no robbers on horseback, no murders or cows on the track.
Apparently there is a federal regulation that all dead, rusty cars and wrecked heavy machinery must be stored within 200 feet of a railroad track. If this is an art form, the Empire Builder track is the Louvre.
There are many 5 minute stops in small, sagebrush-encrusted ghost towns. Looking like colorful cardboard posters against the sepia-toned platform, 40-50 people waited to board, and an equal number of folks got off, disappearing back into the universe as we know it.
About 40 hours after I left Winona I, too, re-entered life as I knew it. My brother was there to take me to the nearest Starbucks, then home to shower.
So, if you are not restrained by time (a retired lady guilty pleasure) and if you are damn sick of pilots dictating the position of your tray tables, take a bold step into the Amtrak Universe. Live long and prosper.
"ENOUGH!" I said. And I Googled Amtrak.
My friend Char dropped me off that night about 2 hours before I was scheduled to board the Empire Builder, from Winona, Minnesota on the Mississippi River to Edmonds, Washington, just north of Seattle. The little depot was locked but the sign said it would open at 6:30 PM. I waved nervously as she left me there with my piles of luggage, my IPod, Kindle, computer, and bags of food and drink.
At 6:30 PM, as the second hand passed the 12, I entered the Winona Amtrak Depot. Little did I know that at that door, I passed through a tear in the space-time continuum as we know it and entered a parallel universe.
The Amtrak universe is a great place. Everything and everyone is just a TEENY BIT DIFFERENT.
No Amtrak depot has been updated or remodeled since the Roosevelt Administration (that would be Teddy). Benches are sticky dark wood with 90 degree angle, arranged in church pew formation to discourage visitation. The most modern convenience is a 40 y/o Mr Coffee; tar sputtering in the carafe. Pop machines serve cans with a mechanical lever, not a little gizmo that goes to your selection and drops it gently into a padded chute. Restrooms have doors made from the same dark wood, substantial toilets and powdered soap.
All the people throughout the trip were wonderfully friendly except the dining room host who kicked me out when I showed up for an 8:30 dinner reservation at 8:27. (I would guess he trained with TSA and gate agents at the evil airports.)
The seats were comfortable, the scenery was spectacular. The food was amazingly fresh and well-prepared. Other passengers were friendly but mostly kept to themselves. Park rangers boarded the train and guided us through Glacier National Park and the Cascades in Washington. No derailments, no robbers on horseback, no murders or cows on the track.
Apparently there is a federal regulation that all dead, rusty cars and wrecked heavy machinery must be stored within 200 feet of a railroad track. If this is an art form, the Empire Builder track is the Louvre.
There are many 5 minute stops in small, sagebrush-encrusted ghost towns. Looking like colorful cardboard posters against the sepia-toned platform, 40-50 people waited to board, and an equal number of folks got off, disappearing back into the universe as we know it.
About 40 hours after I left Winona I, too, re-entered life as I knew it. My brother was there to take me to the nearest Starbucks, then home to shower.
So, if you are not restrained by time (a retired lady guilty pleasure) and if you are damn sick of pilots dictating the position of your tray tables, take a bold step into the Amtrak Universe. Live long and prosper.
Friday, July 2, 2010
Boycott?
In the late 1940s, Chester returned to his family from the military. He worked at several jobs, and eventually bought a service station in his small Iowa town. He first contracted with Mobil, then Cities Service, then Citgo, and eventually Gulf Oil. His business grew to include four service stations and a thriving farm delivery service. He was a hard worker, a community leader, and a loving and responsible husband and father to his 3 children.
As you probably know or have guessed, Chester was my father. I loved and respected him, learning from him the ways of responsible living, loyalty, and service to the community. He gave discounts to teachers and clergy. He forgave more debts than we will ever know. The only time I saw him cry was when he had to fire an employee because he was drinking on the job. When he died in 1986, more people came to his funeral than would fit into the rather large church.
Were Chester to learn of the BP oil spill in the Gulf of Mexico, he would be as helplessly saddened and outraged as am I.
Boycott BP, they continue to tell me. I admit when I see the sign on a service station I am initially repulsed. I would cheer at the prospect of hurting this giant corporation as they continue to destroy our country, its people and the innocent animals who live there, while their executives continue to lavish in the lifestyle to which they have become accustomed.
But I can't. I can't touch them. The fact is, only about 200 service stations in the US are actually owned by BP. The rest are privately owned; their owners only contract with BP to sell their products.
So it appears that to boycott BP only hurts the Chesters of the world. Think about it next time you drive by a BP station. Then go home and send some money to the people who are cleaning pelicans and rescuing turtles.
As you probably know or have guessed, Chester was my father. I loved and respected him, learning from him the ways of responsible living, loyalty, and service to the community. He gave discounts to teachers and clergy. He forgave more debts than we will ever know. The only time I saw him cry was when he had to fire an employee because he was drinking on the job. When he died in 1986, more people came to his funeral than would fit into the rather large church.
Were Chester to learn of the BP oil spill in the Gulf of Mexico, he would be as helplessly saddened and outraged as am I.
Boycott BP, they continue to tell me. I admit when I see the sign on a service station I am initially repulsed. I would cheer at the prospect of hurting this giant corporation as they continue to destroy our country, its people and the innocent animals who live there, while their executives continue to lavish in the lifestyle to which they have become accustomed.
But I can't. I can't touch them. The fact is, only about 200 service stations in the US are actually owned by BP. The rest are privately owned; their owners only contract with BP to sell their products.
So it appears that to boycott BP only hurts the Chesters of the world. Think about it next time you drive by a BP station. Then go home and send some money to the people who are cleaning pelicans and rescuing turtles.
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
Rock and Roll with Pamela
I attend concerts. Lots of concerts. I see orchestras, chamber groups, opera, vocal concerts, soloists, free concerts and the big bucks kind. I often get the best seats, and I hold my breath during the drop dead gorgeous passages, my throat aches when a singer vocalizes in the ranges I cannot. I play the piano with my fingers along with the performers. I am blessed to be able to attend these events, and pray I will never have to take ticketmaster off my favorites bar.
I love the Rock and Roll. My goal is to see all the rock icons from my lifetime before I go to the great nosebleed section in the sky. These icons are my own designation, not those of Rolling Stone. These icons are the groups, the bands, the sound that have shaped my life. I have dragged them through all the good times and the bad, with the people who affected my travels and the forks in the road of Pamela's life. Every guitar chord opens a window in my mind and a little movie plays. It's overwhelming.
Obviously my icons are getting old along with me. Some have died, some just look like they are dead. I know why they continue. There is NOTHING like a performance high. The worship of adoring fans is endorphinic, if that is a word. Most don't need the money. They are there for me and my fellow boomers and for the kids and grandkids we are so desparately trying to turn on to the good stuff.
In the past 5 years, I expect I have seen about 30 of my icons. Each one brings out a new rule for my fellow concert attenders. Here is a summary:
1. IF YOU DON'T LIKE THE GROUP, DON'T GO. You will just make it miserable for the rest of us.
2. SHUT UP. Applaud, hoot, whistle in moderation and when appropriate. Unless invited by the performer, DON'T SING ALONG. I paid to hear them, not you.
3. SIT DOWN. Not a big deal in an audience of the youth, but with us boomers, we have worked for 100 years and our feet hurt, and our backs hurt. We paid for the seat and we can't see through you.
4. IT'S NOT ABOUT YOU. Your drooling boyfriend may be enjoying your off-tempo swaying and writhing, but I don't. Save it for later.
5. STAY PUT. Wait for the intermission to disturb everyone in your row. Gotta pee? Quit drinking so much beer.
6. NEVER BRING A BABY TO A ROCK CONCERT. Must I explain this? In fact, don't bring a child to any concert unless the name contains the word SESAME.
See? It's that easy! Enjoy Rockin in the Free World. But don't mess with Pamela
I love the Rock and Roll. My goal is to see all the rock icons from my lifetime before I go to the great nosebleed section in the sky. These icons are my own designation, not those of Rolling Stone. These icons are the groups, the bands, the sound that have shaped my life. I have dragged them through all the good times and the bad, with the people who affected my travels and the forks in the road of Pamela's life. Every guitar chord opens a window in my mind and a little movie plays. It's overwhelming.
Obviously my icons are getting old along with me. Some have died, some just look like they are dead. I know why they continue. There is NOTHING like a performance high. The worship of adoring fans is endorphinic, if that is a word. Most don't need the money. They are there for me and my fellow boomers and for the kids and grandkids we are so desparately trying to turn on to the good stuff.
In the past 5 years, I expect I have seen about 30 of my icons. Each one brings out a new rule for my fellow concert attenders. Here is a summary:
1. IF YOU DON'T LIKE THE GROUP, DON'T GO. You will just make it miserable for the rest of us.
2. SHUT UP. Applaud, hoot, whistle in moderation and when appropriate. Unless invited by the performer, DON'T SING ALONG. I paid to hear them, not you.
3. SIT DOWN. Not a big deal in an audience of the youth, but with us boomers, we have worked for 100 years and our feet hurt, and our backs hurt. We paid for the seat and we can't see through you.
4. IT'S NOT ABOUT YOU. Your drooling boyfriend may be enjoying your off-tempo swaying and writhing, but I don't. Save it for later.
5. STAY PUT. Wait for the intermission to disturb everyone in your row. Gotta pee? Quit drinking so much beer.
6. NEVER BRING A BABY TO A ROCK CONCERT. Must I explain this? In fact, don't bring a child to any concert unless the name contains the word SESAME.
See? It's that easy! Enjoy Rockin in the Free World. But don't mess with Pamela
Monday, May 3, 2010
When Did We Stop Trusting the Experts?
My formative years were smack in the middle of the most comfortable time in the last century - the Fifties. Life was good, life was safe, everything and everyone was good, Mom and Dad loved me and each other. God, our doctors and the government were looking out for Pamela. We dutifully stood in line for our polio vaccines, we believed the American Dental Association, fluoridation of water, and the makers of Wonder Bread. When we went to the shoestore, we stood under the x-ray machines looking at the bones in our feet. We got under our desks so as not to be hit by the "fallout" from nuclear weapons the Russians would surely drop.
Back then we trusted them. The government, the church, the medical community, the scientists, and corporations. And we didn't question them. Consequently (or not) Pamela has all her teeth, never had polio, survived the cold war, found out she had wide feet, has never had scurvy or rickets, and though she really doesn't like Wonder Bread, her body grew in at least twelve different ways. I guess we will never know if Pamela was injured because of the blind trust she and everyone else held so dear.
So, here we are, 50 years later, and it doesn't appear that anyone trusts anyone any more. The government - well, that came crashing down for many of us in the 60s as they sent men of my generation off to fight. Watergate, the chaser, did in the rest of the country. Then the media took over, enough said.
I never really understood the corporate world, especially the financials. I grudgingly invested some of my money, which waxed and waned until I gave up watching. It seems they have given us a reason not to trust them any more, yet the madness continues.
Growing up in a medical field, I learned the scientific method. The well-designed and properly conducted study leading to the statistically and clinically significant results. Yet, many drug recalls later, after those of us dutifully taking estrogen-replacement therapy for years received a rude awakening, it seems no one trusts the medical community any more. Many studies have shown that vaccines do not lead to autism, yet we put our trust in zealots who apparently know more, thus exposing our children to diseases we thought were in our rearview mirror.
What is important here is this: The experts STILL know best. For all the mistakes, good things still happen. The government DOES do good things. People still DO make money in the stock market and the investments can still thrive over a period of time. Drugs and procedures DO save many lives. Teachers DO usually know best. Clergy, for the most part, stay inside the boundaries of behavior and are on our side. Folks are still looking out for Pamela, because, it's their JOB. They are the experts of the welfare of Pamela.
And Russia never dropped The Bomb.
Back then we trusted them. The government, the church, the medical community, the scientists, and corporations. And we didn't question them. Consequently (or not) Pamela has all her teeth, never had polio, survived the cold war, found out she had wide feet, has never had scurvy or rickets, and though she really doesn't like Wonder Bread, her body grew in at least twelve different ways. I guess we will never know if Pamela was injured because of the blind trust she and everyone else held so dear.
So, here we are, 50 years later, and it doesn't appear that anyone trusts anyone any more. The government - well, that came crashing down for many of us in the 60s as they sent men of my generation off to fight. Watergate, the chaser, did in the rest of the country. Then the media took over, enough said.
I never really understood the corporate world, especially the financials. I grudgingly invested some of my money, which waxed and waned until I gave up watching. It seems they have given us a reason not to trust them any more, yet the madness continues.
Growing up in a medical field, I learned the scientific method. The well-designed and properly conducted study leading to the statistically and clinically significant results. Yet, many drug recalls later, after those of us dutifully taking estrogen-replacement therapy for years received a rude awakening, it seems no one trusts the medical community any more. Many studies have shown that vaccines do not lead to autism, yet we put our trust in zealots who apparently know more, thus exposing our children to diseases we thought were in our rearview mirror.
What is important here is this: The experts STILL know best. For all the mistakes, good things still happen. The government DOES do good things. People still DO make money in the stock market and the investments can still thrive over a period of time. Drugs and procedures DO save many lives. Teachers DO usually know best. Clergy, for the most part, stay inside the boundaries of behavior and are on our side. Folks are still looking out for Pamela, because, it's their JOB. They are the experts of the welfare of Pamela.
And Russia never dropped The Bomb.
Friday, March 5, 2010
The Killer Whale
I continue to be amazed at the media questioning what could have caused a killer whale to kill. I am saddened to say the least at the death of a young woman, who was only doing her job when she met with a horrible fate, the victim of an encounter with a killer whale.
How many times must we hear of these incidents? Lions, whales, monkeys. They "turn on" their trainers, handlers, owners.
Folks, animals are put on this planet for a reason. That reason is not for the entertainment of humans. However you choose to believe we enter the world, realize that all of the magnificent creatures comprise this amazing ecosystem we inhabit. Animals seek out their habitat, they define and live in it, doing what their instincts tell them to stay alive and thrive in their community. When other creatures infringe on that habitat, they do what they must to survive, including killing.
Of the species infringing on the habitats of all animals, the human one is by very very far the most devastating. We have threatened to extinction thousands of animal species. Obviously, we must live, too. But until we learn to respect all creatures, their habitats, and their rights to live free, we will continue to threaten not only their right to live but ours as well.
We continue to attend and support water parks, zoos, rodeos, circuses, and other forms of "entertainment" so we can see animals "perform". Can anyone prove these animals are there of their own free will? Did that calf volunteer to be roped and tied up? Would that lion rather be in a tent jumping through a ring of fire that living his life in the wild with other members of his pride?
We assign human traits to them, we capture them and we exploit them for our own joy.
My friend Char, who shares my views, tells of a friend who asked her "if we don't patronize a water park, how will we see these animals?" The simple truth, of course, is that we don't. Anyone so intent on seeing an orca whale can get a degree in marine biology and study them in their natural environment without disturbing their lives.
I would love to see George Clooney. The sad truth is that, in all likelihood, I never will. No promoter would dream of capturing George and charging admission to see him perform.
I share my home with four cats. Back in the ancient days, perhaps in Egypt, someone decided cats should be domesticated or tamed. Once an animal crosses that line, the chance of them living on their own becomes a hardship. We welcome domesticated animals into our homes, thus bringing the cats or dogs into our families, where they are hopefully welcomed and treated with the love and respect they deserve.
I propose we look at our lives and those of the animals with which we share this beautiful planet and ask ourselves what would be best for all.
How many times must we hear of these incidents? Lions, whales, monkeys. They "turn on" their trainers, handlers, owners.
Folks, animals are put on this planet for a reason. That reason is not for the entertainment of humans. However you choose to believe we enter the world, realize that all of the magnificent creatures comprise this amazing ecosystem we inhabit. Animals seek out their habitat, they define and live in it, doing what their instincts tell them to stay alive and thrive in their community. When other creatures infringe on that habitat, they do what they must to survive, including killing.
Of the species infringing on the habitats of all animals, the human one is by very very far the most devastating. We have threatened to extinction thousands of animal species. Obviously, we must live, too. But until we learn to respect all creatures, their habitats, and their rights to live free, we will continue to threaten not only their right to live but ours as well.
We continue to attend and support water parks, zoos, rodeos, circuses, and other forms of "entertainment" so we can see animals "perform". Can anyone prove these animals are there of their own free will? Did that calf volunteer to be roped and tied up? Would that lion rather be in a tent jumping through a ring of fire that living his life in the wild with other members of his pride?
We assign human traits to them, we capture them and we exploit them for our own joy.
My friend Char, who shares my views, tells of a friend who asked her "if we don't patronize a water park, how will we see these animals?" The simple truth, of course, is that we don't. Anyone so intent on seeing an orca whale can get a degree in marine biology and study them in their natural environment without disturbing their lives.
I would love to see George Clooney. The sad truth is that, in all likelihood, I never will. No promoter would dream of capturing George and charging admission to see him perform.
I share my home with four cats. Back in the ancient days, perhaps in Egypt, someone decided cats should be domesticated or tamed. Once an animal crosses that line, the chance of them living on their own becomes a hardship. We welcome domesticated animals into our homes, thus bringing the cats or dogs into our families, where they are hopefully welcomed and treated with the love and respect they deserve.
I propose we look at our lives and those of the animals with which we share this beautiful planet and ask ourselves what would be best for all.
Saturday, February 20, 2010
Airports
So, I retired.
I can travel, I can go anywhere I want. I have the time. I have the bucks. I have the cat sitter. What I am afraid I cannot do is airports.
Pigs in a factory farm are treated better than the average flyer.
I am fortunate to live in a city with a small airport, and I generally fly to and from there. Check in takes about a minute. TSA takes about two. You usually know the TSA people from the community, from church, from work - and they are Minnesota nice because their jobs are good. I can't remember the last time I flew out of anywhere but Gate 4, which is about ten feet from the TSA area. Life is good.
Airport behavior interests me. Everyone is always in a hurry. Makes sense, I guess if you have a short connection. Or if you are attempting to flee the law or a really pissed-off spouse or co-worker.
Well, hello there, Mister. You were the one who slammed into me! I was the one with a fresh hot cup of coffee and you ran over my foot with your grossly oversized carry-on bag. Now that I have arrived at my gate, I see you are on my flight. That's funny. Our flight doesn't leave for another 2 hr and 45 minutes. I am sure, however, it was important to you to get here before me. (You would have anyway, since I had to stop at the medical station for treatment of hot coffee burns and a broken toe).
Some of the things they sell at airports puzzle me. Why would I buy and iPod from a vending machine at an airport? Vikings sweatshirts? Few people going from one flight to another will be Vikings fans at the Minneapolis airport. The few fans that do go through there likely already have one, and it likely cost 1/10 what this one does. Does it make sense to buy and consume an energy drink when you are going to sit in a crowded tin can for the next four hours and 37 minutes? Why would you buy a piece of luggage at the airport? You already have one and it's packed and they say you can only take one as carry-on. Unless you take it back to your car in the long-term parking lot and then you would have to go through TSA again. At that point, I would deem you mentally unfit to fly.
Sigh. So I retired. And I am going to look into Amtrak.
I can travel, I can go anywhere I want. I have the time. I have the bucks. I have the cat sitter. What I am afraid I cannot do is airports.
Pigs in a factory farm are treated better than the average flyer.
I am fortunate to live in a city with a small airport, and I generally fly to and from there. Check in takes about a minute. TSA takes about two. You usually know the TSA people from the community, from church, from work - and they are Minnesota nice because their jobs are good. I can't remember the last time I flew out of anywhere but Gate 4, which is about ten feet from the TSA area. Life is good.
Airport behavior interests me. Everyone is always in a hurry. Makes sense, I guess if you have a short connection. Or if you are attempting to flee the law or a really pissed-off spouse or co-worker.
Well, hello there, Mister. You were the one who slammed into me! I was the one with a fresh hot cup of coffee and you ran over my foot with your grossly oversized carry-on bag. Now that I have arrived at my gate, I see you are on my flight. That's funny. Our flight doesn't leave for another 2 hr and 45 minutes. I am sure, however, it was important to you to get here before me. (You would have anyway, since I had to stop at the medical station for treatment of hot coffee burns and a broken toe).
Some of the things they sell at airports puzzle me. Why would I buy and iPod from a vending machine at an airport? Vikings sweatshirts? Few people going from one flight to another will be Vikings fans at the Minneapolis airport. The few fans that do go through there likely already have one, and it likely cost 1/10 what this one does. Does it make sense to buy and consume an energy drink when you are going to sit in a crowded tin can for the next four hours and 37 minutes? Why would you buy a piece of luggage at the airport? You already have one and it's packed and they say you can only take one as carry-on. Unless you take it back to your car in the long-term parking lot and then you would have to go through TSA again. At that point, I would deem you mentally unfit to fly.
Sigh. So I retired. And I am going to look into Amtrak.
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
I am back, I think
So, I retired, nearly nine months ago.
During those lovely lazy, crazy, hazy days of summer, I blogged with regularity and passion, so willing to put out my message: that retirement was the new norm for the human condition, the ultimate aspiration, the gold at the end of the tunnel (or is it rainbow?)
Well, make no mistake. I continue to feel that way.
I am happy, deliriously so, and content, stress free (well, OK, I guess I never have been really stressed); I am "keeping busy." I am "not loosing brain cells." I am not "bored." I "still have friends." I "haven't adopted any more cats." I don't "stay in bed all day." I "shower and get dressed every day."
What I haven't done is add to my blog.
Why, you might ask. The simple truth is, I really have no idea. I sometimes sit at my computer for hours, let my cursor hover over the icon, and then I play another hour of text twist instead while watching MSNBC or the Food Network. Just not in the mood.
It might be the weather. If you don't live in an area where there are 150 degree differences between the seasons, you might not understand this. We in Minnesota are completely different folks in summer and in winter. I love the springtime, hate the fall, love the summer and see winter like a college class in physical chemistry. A real bitch of a class, but ya gotta get through it to get to biochem, pharmaceutical chem, etc, etc, etc, so you can graduate and make money to buy stuff. Blogging is somewhat of a summer thing. Winter is for hunkering down in sweaters and vests and mittens and fleece and down. Not blogging.
So, here I am again. Hopefully, I can get this on a schedule. February is here and the days are getting longer, the snow no longer hides my view of the house across the street. The cats will go near the windows again and are starting to think about good places to shed their winter fur. Life is, indeed good.
During those lovely lazy, crazy, hazy days of summer, I blogged with regularity and passion, so willing to put out my message: that retirement was the new norm for the human condition, the ultimate aspiration, the gold at the end of the tunnel (or is it rainbow?)
Well, make no mistake. I continue to feel that way.
I am happy, deliriously so, and content, stress free (well, OK, I guess I never have been really stressed); I am "keeping busy." I am "not loosing brain cells." I am not "bored." I "still have friends." I "haven't adopted any more cats." I don't "stay in bed all day." I "shower and get dressed every day."
What I haven't done is add to my blog.
Why, you might ask. The simple truth is, I really have no idea. I sometimes sit at my computer for hours, let my cursor hover over the icon, and then I play another hour of text twist instead while watching MSNBC or the Food Network. Just not in the mood.
It might be the weather. If you don't live in an area where there are 150 degree differences between the seasons, you might not understand this. We in Minnesota are completely different folks in summer and in winter. I love the springtime, hate the fall, love the summer and see winter like a college class in physical chemistry. A real bitch of a class, but ya gotta get through it to get to biochem, pharmaceutical chem, etc, etc, etc, so you can graduate and make money to buy stuff. Blogging is somewhat of a summer thing. Winter is for hunkering down in sweaters and vests and mittens and fleece and down. Not blogging.
So, here I am again. Hopefully, I can get this on a schedule. February is here and the days are getting longer, the snow no longer hides my view of the house across the street. The cats will go near the windows again and are starting to think about good places to shed their winter fur. Life is, indeed good.
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
Well, this isn't really fair...
So I retired.
Yesterday morning, at 3:44 AM, my carbon monoxide detector started to chirp. Now, I generally sleep like a dead woman, and never wake up for things like tornado warning sirens, thunderstorms, or cats walking on my body. For some reason, chirping a mere 4 feet away caused me to emerge from stage 4 sleep. This device, with an obvious life-saving purpose, will begin to chirp when the battery is low. When the battery dies, it screams.
So, at 3:44 AM, with my usual hyper vigilant reaction to being brought out of a deep unconsciousness, my first thought was, oh, well, I don't have to worry about it. I am RETIRED.
Several minutes passed. Likely not a logical conclusion. Do ya think???
This particular device is so very hard to open. It is plugged into the wall, and when you pull it out, it begins to scream. It's a VERY LOUD scream. I can't get the back plate off. Do I have an extra 9-volt battery? Where are the instructions? File folders. Misc household appliances. Ah, here it is. English, I need English. OK, use your thumb and push down here. Battery won't come out. Broken fingernail. Damn. PLEASE stop screaming!! Battery - YESSSS! Down below the box of old checks. AHHHHHHH!
This happened before. I didn't want to deal with it so I put the damn thing under several pillows in my car. I could still hear it.
Next morning, I was contemplating the whole event. That first thought - I don't have to deal with this any more. Several thoughts like this have been swirling around since retirement. OK, I no longer must work. So, doesn't work include such things as making coffee? Emptying the cat box? Brushing one's teeth? Laundry? Cleaning out the closets?
Guess not. It would be nice, though. Someone from my former place of employment comes every day and says, "Hello, Ma'am, I'm here to clean your cat box!" He proceeds to scoop out and exits with a smelly bag, just like the Ghost Busters, saying, "Thanks, Ma'am, I'll see you tomorrow!" Mayo Feline Excrement Removal Service.
Well, I was back asleep after 20 minutes or so. Dream on.
And, Note to Mayo:
Load the Grind/Brew with 3 heaping scoops Trader Joes Peaberry, and a little over 2 cups of drinking water...
Yesterday morning, at 3:44 AM, my carbon monoxide detector started to chirp. Now, I generally sleep like a dead woman, and never wake up for things like tornado warning sirens, thunderstorms, or cats walking on my body. For some reason, chirping a mere 4 feet away caused me to emerge from stage 4 sleep. This device, with an obvious life-saving purpose, will begin to chirp when the battery is low. When the battery dies, it screams.
So, at 3:44 AM, with my usual hyper vigilant reaction to being brought out of a deep unconsciousness, my first thought was, oh, well, I don't have to worry about it. I am RETIRED.
Several minutes passed. Likely not a logical conclusion. Do ya think???
This particular device is so very hard to open. It is plugged into the wall, and when you pull it out, it begins to scream. It's a VERY LOUD scream. I can't get the back plate off. Do I have an extra 9-volt battery? Where are the instructions? File folders. Misc household appliances. Ah, here it is. English, I need English. OK, use your thumb and push down here. Battery won't come out. Broken fingernail. Damn. PLEASE stop screaming!! Battery - YESSSS! Down below the box of old checks. AHHHHHHH!
This happened before. I didn't want to deal with it so I put the damn thing under several pillows in my car. I could still hear it.
Next morning, I was contemplating the whole event. That first thought - I don't have to deal with this any more. Several thoughts like this have been swirling around since retirement. OK, I no longer must work. So, doesn't work include such things as making coffee? Emptying the cat box? Brushing one's teeth? Laundry? Cleaning out the closets?
Guess not. It would be nice, though. Someone from my former place of employment comes every day and says, "Hello, Ma'am, I'm here to clean your cat box!" He proceeds to scoop out and exits with a smelly bag, just like the Ghost Busters, saying, "Thanks, Ma'am, I'll see you tomorrow!" Mayo Feline Excrement Removal Service.
Well, I was back asleep after 20 minutes or so. Dream on.
And, Note to Mayo:
Load the Grind/Brew with 3 heaping scoops Trader Joes Peaberry, and a little over 2 cups of drinking water...
Sunday, August 2, 2009
Say it ain't so...
So I retired.
Several weeks ago, I read the annual list of words added to the Merriam-Webster's Collegiate Dictionary, Eleventh Edition. This year, the list includes words such as earmark, goji, memory foam, shawarma, and webisode. So, OK, now I can feel free to use these words in a sentence without a trace of guilt, and in truth, use them confidently because I know their meaning. I have memory foam pillows and I love them. I once watched a webisode of 24 because I messed up the Tivo. Naproxen was another word added this year, well, heck that drug has been around since the early '80s and in my profession have used it indiscriminately and without knowing I was committing an etymologic faux pas.
Nevertheless, it's always good to know your language is legitimized.
Since I have been reading these lists, I have often wondered about the word ain't. One of the first things you learn in grade school is that this little word is NOT REALLY A WORD. I never quite understood why, but always harbored the knowledge that it was right up there with picking your nose, not washing your hands after peeing, or putting bananas in the refrigerator. I remember my first-grade teacher wagging her index finger while warning us of the dire consequences of such talk. It's likely I was in college before I actually used it. When I have used the word ain't in a sentence, I have felt the ugly twinge of guilt and briefly looked around for uniformed and armed Funk or Wagnell.
Come to find out ain't IS in the dictionary, meaning "am not, have not or do not". Good. Things have changed in 55 years. However, there is an additional comment that while increasing in popularity, it is widely disapproved as nonstandard and more common in the habitual speech of the less educated.
Apparently we are not yet totally vindicated. By using this word, I have cast doubt on my 7 years of postgraduate education and well, yes, my entire profession.
Ain't it the truth? I retired.
Several weeks ago, I read the annual list of words added to the Merriam-Webster's Collegiate Dictionary, Eleventh Edition. This year, the list includes words such as earmark, goji, memory foam, shawarma, and webisode. So, OK, now I can feel free to use these words in a sentence without a trace of guilt, and in truth, use them confidently because I know their meaning. I have memory foam pillows and I love them. I once watched a webisode of 24 because I messed up the Tivo. Naproxen was another word added this year, well, heck that drug has been around since the early '80s and in my profession have used it indiscriminately and without knowing I was committing an etymologic faux pas.
Nevertheless, it's always good to know your language is legitimized.
Since I have been reading these lists, I have often wondered about the word ain't. One of the first things you learn in grade school is that this little word is NOT REALLY A WORD. I never quite understood why, but always harbored the knowledge that it was right up there with picking your nose, not washing your hands after peeing, or putting bananas in the refrigerator. I remember my first-grade teacher wagging her index finger while warning us of the dire consequences of such talk. It's likely I was in college before I actually used it. When I have used the word ain't in a sentence, I have felt the ugly twinge of guilt and briefly looked around for uniformed and armed Funk or Wagnell.
Come to find out ain't IS in the dictionary, meaning "am not, have not or do not". Good. Things have changed in 55 years. However, there is an additional comment that while increasing in popularity, it is widely disapproved as nonstandard and more common in the habitual speech of the less educated.
Apparently we are not yet totally vindicated. By using this word, I have cast doubt on my 7 years of postgraduate education and well, yes, my entire profession.
Ain't it the truth? I retired.
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
Tomatoes
So I retired.
I seem to keep track of the orbit of the planet not by months or seasons, but by the availability of fruits and vegetables.
You will see a theme here. Food. It keeps me going. I not only live to eat, it's my prime directive.
My seasons go kind of like this - Texas red grapefruit, fresh Asparagus, pears, fresh peas, raspberries, beets, bing cherries, home grown tomatoes, blueberries, Colorado peaches, fresh melons, honeycrisp apples, winter squash.
Thus abideth Pamela's seasons. But the greatest of these is probably home grown tomatoes.
Most of the year, tomatoes are like salt or pepper. An ingredient in many of my favorite things, like pasta sauce, pizza, salads, etc. They are there, but they don't elicit comment.
But in late July and August, you grab a bunch at the farmers' market or a roadside stand and suddenly you break out in song. You cry and you dance, and you make a damn fool of yourself.
The last two weeks at the Farmer's Market, the sellers of tomatoes were inundated. Folks were stepping on toes, tipping occupied baby strollers, and committing felonies just to get a basket of fresh tomatoes picked several hours earlier. I was there. I came out unscathed, fortunately. I got them home and stood over the sink just eating them one after the other.
I have two tomato plants on my patio. Every day I watch for the presence of orange lycopene or whatever makes it a proper tomato, and I know it's only several days away. Another reason to get up in the morning.
I seem to keep track of the orbit of the planet not by months or seasons, but by the availability of fruits and vegetables.
You will see a theme here. Food. It keeps me going. I not only live to eat, it's my prime directive.
My seasons go kind of like this - Texas red grapefruit, fresh Asparagus, pears, fresh peas, raspberries, beets, bing cherries, home grown tomatoes, blueberries, Colorado peaches, fresh melons, honeycrisp apples, winter squash.
Thus abideth Pamela's seasons. But the greatest of these is probably home grown tomatoes.
Most of the year, tomatoes are like salt or pepper. An ingredient in many of my favorite things, like pasta sauce, pizza, salads, etc. They are there, but they don't elicit comment.
But in late July and August, you grab a bunch at the farmers' market or a roadside stand and suddenly you break out in song. You cry and you dance, and you make a damn fool of yourself.
The last two weeks at the Farmer's Market, the sellers of tomatoes were inundated. Folks were stepping on toes, tipping occupied baby strollers, and committing felonies just to get a basket of fresh tomatoes picked several hours earlier. I was there. I came out unscathed, fortunately. I got them home and stood over the sink just eating them one after the other.
I have two tomato plants on my patio. Every day I watch for the presence of orange lycopene or whatever makes it a proper tomato, and I know it's only several days away. Another reason to get up in the morning.
Monday, July 27, 2009
To return or not to return
So I retired.
On August 1, 2009, I can return to work. Mysteriously, my former employer wants me to take three months off before I can come back and work as a supplemental employee. They say this is a federal law to protect me, the <65 y/o retiree. I am not sure why I needed this protection. Nonetheless, this three month period has nearly elapsed. During my period of "protection", several things have happened:
1. I have realized that retirement is far better then I could ever expect.
2. I have developed a routine that does not include working.
3. I have forgotten about 90% of the information I once knew about drugs.
4. I have less money than I did when I worked.
So, being that #4 has trumped #1,2, and 3, I e-mailed my ex-boss today and said I was ready to come back and work up to 3 shifts/month. That's all I can work unless I want to give back part of my social security payment. I would NEVER want to do that!
So we shall see. Maybe they don't need me. Maybe they don't WANT me!!
I am doing a couple volunteer nights/month at the Salvation Army Free Clinic. It's a good gig. It's a challenge, especially since most patients don't speak English and I need to tell them about their meds. My knowledge of French and German has pretty much dwindled, which is OK, because I haven't had a French or German patient yet, and likely won't. But when I feel I have gotten the message across, it's a good feeling, and I feel useful once again.
Maybe going back won't be so bad.
On August 1, 2009, I can return to work. Mysteriously, my former employer wants me to take three months off before I can come back and work as a supplemental employee. They say this is a federal law to protect me, the <65 y/o retiree. I am not sure why I needed this protection. Nonetheless, this three month period has nearly elapsed. During my period of "protection", several things have happened:
1. I have realized that retirement is far better then I could ever expect.
2. I have developed a routine that does not include working.
3. I have forgotten about 90% of the information I once knew about drugs.
4. I have less money than I did when I worked.
So, being that #4 has trumped #1,2, and 3, I e-mailed my ex-boss today and said I was ready to come back and work up to 3 shifts/month. That's all I can work unless I want to give back part of my social security payment. I would NEVER want to do that!
So we shall see. Maybe they don't need me. Maybe they don't WANT me!!
I am doing a couple volunteer nights/month at the Salvation Army Free Clinic. It's a good gig. It's a challenge, especially since most patients don't speak English and I need to tell them about their meds. My knowledge of French and German has pretty much dwindled, which is OK, because I haven't had a French or German patient yet, and likely won't. But when I feel I have gotten the message across, it's a good feeling, and I feel useful once again.
Maybe going back won't be so bad.
Sunday, July 26, 2009
Oatmeal
So I retired.
After I retired, I realized I would be eating breakfast at my house EVERY DAY! No more sneaking down to the cafeteria every morning for a bagel, English muffin or french toast. That most-important-meal-of-the-day would now be the sole responsibility of Pamela and Pamela alone. I started with toasting my own bagels and muffins, alternating with cold cereals. I figured I could do that for the rest of my life.
Then I started thinking about oatmeal. Oatmeal, the now food, the stick to the ribs, good for the heart, yet ever-so-slimy breakfast. The slime always bothered me a bit, but then I started thinking about oatmeal with blueberries, raspberries, strawberries, raisins, dried cherries - well, you get the picture. I could live forever if I could just have oatmeal and an anti-oxidant-packed fruit every morning! I just had to get over the slimy part.
So I started researching oatmeal. Never ever eat instant oatmeal, my friends warned. Gotta go for the real thing, with the red, white, blue round box. I made a serving in the microwave and managed to get it down the first morning. The next day, however I went back to my English muffin.
More research. To make a long story short, I discovered steel-cut oats and then I discovered something called Red River, which is a mixture of several different grains you prepare like oatmeal. Both take FOREVER to cook. Prepared in the microwave, they spatter all over and it takes about 15 minutes to clean up.
Bottom line, I have come to something that makes it worth getting up in the morning.
Mix 1/2 steel-cut oats, 1/2 Red River together. I prepare about 4-6 servings in a large pot, put the whole thing in the refrigerator. In the morning, I warm a portion in MW, add my anti-oxidant-laden fruit, and a little milk. MMM-MMMM!!! I have mastered oatmeal!
If only world peace was so easy!
After I retired, I realized I would be eating breakfast at my house EVERY DAY! No more sneaking down to the cafeteria every morning for a bagel, English muffin or french toast. That most-important-meal-of-the-day would now be the sole responsibility of Pamela and Pamela alone. I started with toasting my own bagels and muffins, alternating with cold cereals. I figured I could do that for the rest of my life.
Then I started thinking about oatmeal. Oatmeal, the now food, the stick to the ribs, good for the heart, yet ever-so-slimy breakfast. The slime always bothered me a bit, but then I started thinking about oatmeal with blueberries, raspberries, strawberries, raisins, dried cherries - well, you get the picture. I could live forever if I could just have oatmeal and an anti-oxidant-packed fruit every morning! I just had to get over the slimy part.
So I started researching oatmeal. Never ever eat instant oatmeal, my friends warned. Gotta go for the real thing, with the red, white, blue round box. I made a serving in the microwave and managed to get it down the first morning. The next day, however I went back to my English muffin.
More research. To make a long story short, I discovered steel-cut oats and then I discovered something called Red River, which is a mixture of several different grains you prepare like oatmeal. Both take FOREVER to cook. Prepared in the microwave, they spatter all over and it takes about 15 minutes to clean up.
Bottom line, I have come to something that makes it worth getting up in the morning.
Mix 1/2 steel-cut oats, 1/2 Red River together. I prepare about 4-6 servings in a large pot, put the whole thing in the refrigerator. In the morning, I warm a portion in MW, add my anti-oxidant-laden fruit, and a little milk. MMM-MMMM!!! I have mastered oatmeal!
If only world peace was so easy!
Thursday, June 25, 2009
What are you going to do when you retire?
So I retired.
I was counting days, months, years for about 3 years before it actually happened. From the time I started working, I planned to retire on my 62nd birthday.
I live alone, I have no dependents, I have no one to whom I must consult or with whom I must agree or compromise. That was my plan and I carried it out with sheer perfection.
About six months before the BIG DAY, folks started asking me "What are you going to do when you retire?"
In those early days, I would respond, "Oh, I don't know, volunteer work, travel, read, etc, etc..."
Then I started changing the answers, "Oh, I think I will move to Hawaii, marry a prince from a small country in Africa who emailed me, join the rodeo..."
Soon, my standard response was "Throw out my pantihose, and shoot my alarm clock..."
Finally, in a moment of exasperation, I started saying, "I have NO IDEA!!"
And I didn't. I had never retired before. I had never taken more than 2 weeks vacation from work. I had conformed to a schedule since that day in 1952 when Mom pointed toward the grade school and I trundled off to fulfill my first obligation.
It would be like asking someone what they will have for dinner on August 22, ten years hence.
So I retired.
I was counting days, months, years for about 3 years before it actually happened. From the time I started working, I planned to retire on my 62nd birthday.
I live alone, I have no dependents, I have no one to whom I must consult or with whom I must agree or compromise. That was my plan and I carried it out with sheer perfection.
About six months before the BIG DAY, folks started asking me "What are you going to do when you retire?"
In those early days, I would respond, "Oh, I don't know, volunteer work, travel, read, etc, etc..."
Then I started changing the answers, "Oh, I think I will move to Hawaii, marry a prince from a small country in Africa who emailed me, join the rodeo..."
Soon, my standard response was "Throw out my pantihose, and shoot my alarm clock..."
Finally, in a moment of exasperation, I started saying, "I have NO IDEA!!"
And I didn't. I had never retired before. I had never taken more than 2 weeks vacation from work. I had conformed to a schedule since that day in 1952 when Mom pointed toward the grade school and I trundled off to fulfill my first obligation.
It would be like asking someone what they will have for dinner on August 22, ten years hence.
So I retired.
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
THE check
So I retired.
Last week I received what I believe, is the first check ever issued to me by the Federal Government. This is a big deal to me. I don't think I ever got a rebate check because my income was too high. I applied for Social Security several months ago and last week was my initial payment.
Oh, I wanted to photocopy it and frame it and just hold it for a while. Well, of course, that didn't happen because they just dumped it into my bank account.
So now I am a "pensioner". I am "on the dole". I am on "public assistance".
FICA! I watched that part of my deductions get larger and larger with every paycheck report. Would I ever get it back? It seemed like it would never come back to me. All the worries we had about SS! Would it be there for me? I am unusually optimistic about such things. Now they say it will be there until sometime in the 2030s. I hope so.
It's an incredibly small amount, of course. Added to my pension, it's somewhat over half my old salary.
And I still must pay tax on part of it. What's with that?
Last week I received what I believe, is the first check ever issued to me by the Federal Government. This is a big deal to me. I don't think I ever got a rebate check because my income was too high. I applied for Social Security several months ago and last week was my initial payment.
Oh, I wanted to photocopy it and frame it and just hold it for a while. Well, of course, that didn't happen because they just dumped it into my bank account.
So now I am a "pensioner". I am "on the dole". I am on "public assistance".
FICA! I watched that part of my deductions get larger and larger with every paycheck report. Would I ever get it back? It seemed like it would never come back to me. All the worries we had about SS! Would it be there for me? I am unusually optimistic about such things. Now they say it will be there until sometime in the 2030s. I hope so.
It's an incredibly small amount, of course. Added to my pension, it's somewhat over half my old salary.
And I still must pay tax on part of it. What's with that?
Monday, June 22, 2009
It's finally here!
The economy has tanked. The stockmarket is in freefall. Evil individuals are confiscating our money and our lives. Our new leadership is assuring us it will get better, but not for some time and we all have to work together. It's not a good idea to change our jobs. 401Ks are unrecognizable. Layoffs. Loss of healthcare benefits and pensions. The planet is in chaos, and I am a member of the planet.
So I retired.
I had a great job. A six-figure income, great benefits, and was getting a 3% cost of living adjustment. I am a member of a profession in the throes of a shortage due to some bean counter who, in the early 90s, made a decimal error and reported to the great Universities that we would need 1/10 of the folks that we actually did. They cut their class sizes and sent us into a tailspin. I was near the top of the seniority list. I really liked my job as a clinical pharmacist at a major medical center, likely the most prestigious in the US. I got along great with and respected my coworkers. Yes. I was living the good life.
So I retired.
So I retired.
I had a great job. A six-figure income, great benefits, and was getting a 3% cost of living adjustment. I am a member of a profession in the throes of a shortage due to some bean counter who, in the early 90s, made a decimal error and reported to the great Universities that we would need 1/10 of the folks that we actually did. They cut their class sizes and sent us into a tailspin. I was near the top of the seniority list. I really liked my job as a clinical pharmacist at a major medical center, likely the most prestigious in the US. I got along great with and respected my coworkers. Yes. I was living the good life.
So I retired.
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