The Simplicity of the Marvelous Interweb - a Moving Fiasco

Because my move-in date would be near Labor Day,  I started working on getting internet and tv services weeks early, thinking to avoid a delay in installation.  After all, how complicated could it be?

I discovered that ATT and Charter both supplied services to my building in Fond Du Lac.  I contacted Charter first.  I was online and saw that I could bundle TV, Internet and a land line phone for $29.99 each.  Although I didn't need a land line phone, I thought this might be a good deal, so I contacted them online and got into a chat box.

I told the lady what I wanted, but she obviously had a script she was not allowed to leave.  So after several frustrating minutes, she got to the end and. . . . . POOF!  She was gone.  Well, these things happen.

I started over and got a different person on chat.  I told him that I'd just been dropped, but, you know. . . . that script.  So even though I answered his questions before he asked them, he continued to ask them.  It was a little funny.  Finally, we approached the end and. . . . . POOF!  He was gone.  It was less funny.

Third time's the charm, right?  Different person, of course.  Went through the script again and made it all the way to the end and the lady told me it would be $124 something per month and it would be September 19 before I could have installation. Huh?  How do you do math?  Isn't there anyway I can just get internet and the most basic TV for less than that?  She began reading from her script, no doubt from the bullet point that said, "Customer complains about price."  The short answer was no.

Although I was very happy to be talking to live people, these people were barely live.  They obviously weren't allowed to vary from the script at all.  How does that help?  A computer would have been just as good.  I was frustrated.

So I went online to ATT.  I explained my situation.  They were very understanding.  They said I could get internet and TV for $80 and the bottom line was actually $80. I could have installation Sept. 5.   I was happy.  I called Charter back and said, no thank you.  I wish to cancel.

The very attentive lady asked why.  I told her.  She said that she'd have to have tell her supervisor, who would call me.  Indeed the supervisor called me and asked what they could do to make me stay with Charter rather than ATT.  I was annoyed.  I told her not a ding dang thing.

Happy with my choice, I continued with my move.

I was actually even happier when ATT contacted me and said the installer would be here September 1.  Wow, early!  Great!  The very nice man arrived and looked around and said, "You know, we'll have to install a satellite dish, right?"  No.  I did not know that.  In fact, that was something I discussed in the chat box weeks earlier.  He explained that Charter and Spectrum used to be two different companies and that there was often miscommunication, blah, blah, blah, and promised to cancel my order for me.  He left.

By now my head was a bit scrambled.  The Marvelous Interweb and TV Fiasco, wasn't the only fiasco this move had presented. I called Charter and explained that I'd just moved here and was comparing ATT and Charter.  I didn't mention my earlier experience with them.  NO WORRIES.  They could be here September 6 and install everything and it would be $99.  Really?  Okay.

September 4, I got a text asking if I wanted to keep my appointment for installation for September 5 at 9 a.m.   I replied yes.  I forgot to read the details.

So this morning, September 5, a very nice young man named Jon came to install my internet, but not my TV.  Huh?  Well, okay.

Then it hit me.  Oh, brother!  This was ATT not Charter.  The first guy hadn't actually cancelled my order.  I should have known better.  Jon had already done a bunch of work.  I explained to him and as I did so, my frustration grew.  I so seldom lose my cool, that I'm not well practiced at it.  But Jon, who had done absolutely NOTHING wrong, heard it all.  He listened to me and actually understood.  He presented an alternative.

He said I could get only ATT internet and use Netflix and Amazon Prime on my TV and if I wished, there was an app I could get to stream tv, blah, blah.   Huh?  Why wouldn't I do that?   I love Jon.

Now that I had internet, I checked my emails for notices from Charter.  There were none.  I will have to call them to cancel my installation appointment, which I THINK is for tomorrow.

Forrest, Trees, Religion

Recently I've been picking the brain of a friend of mine who is Sikh about his religion.  I'm intrigued with learning about different religions. 

I have a love/hate relationship with religion. One one hand, I'm fairly sure that groups of people tend to get tangled in rules and laws and interpretations until they miss the entire point of their own religion and this causes war and fear and hate. On the other hand, I think it's a good thing to figure out what we believe, and it is lovely to find a group of like-minded people with whom to celebrate life.
 
There is nothing wrong with building in some reminders of what we believe, because knowing what is right and acting accordingly seem to be separate things. But when we cease questioning our own beliefs, we abdicate a huge responsibility to actually connect with God. It's a paradox, eh?

If we take the big three Abrahamic religions as an example, we can easily see how they have evolved. Abraham had this crazy idea that there was one god, not a bunch of gods. Those nutty, stubborn Jews stood up to well established Egyptians, wandered in the dessert, and overcame all sorts of things. Moses was given supreme laws from God. Actually, the Jews came up with many, many, many laws about how to live. Many of them make sense to me, some do not. Neither Moses nor God asked for my opinion.

Jesus came and was recognized by some Jews as the messiah they'd been awaiting. He taught some very simple truths which were recorded by followers into gospels. He said to love one another, to have faith that this isn't all there is, more is possible than you have been led to believe. In fact, he even invited non-Jews to listen to what he had to say, which was pretty ding dang radical. But some people (who remain Jews) chose to continue to wait and others (who became Christians) built a whole religion around Jesus.  And things began to get confusing.
The Jews split off into various groups depending on which teachings and laws they thought were the most important.

The Christians, who had originally agreed that there were just too dang many rules and they should concentrate on "Love one another," started adding rules about hierarchy of the church, who gets in and who stays out, when people should kneel and when they should stand and pretty soon, people lost sight of the forest for the trees. So they protested! Those protesters said that they were going to interpret the Bible for themselves and that they were going to go straight to the source for forgiveness and stuff like that. Well, that's cool. But it wasn't long before Protestants and Catholics wanted to start killing each other over who was right and who was wrong.  

Gospels were accepted and rejected by groups of people who probably believed they knew what was best, but were quite human and had some personal agendas. Some things were emphasized by some groups and minimized by others. And always the rules and the laws got complicateder and complicateder.

Then Mohammed came and was given insight. He believed in the very same God that Abraham and Moses and Jesus believed. He believed Jesus was right on track and that his mother, Mary, had a very special connection with God And then the rules and the laws and the interpretations. OY! And pretty soon, in terms of the age of the Earth, we've got Muslims, Jews, and Christians all worshiping the same God, declaring themselves peaceful and wanting to murder each other.  

It's enough to turn people completely off religion! And many have turned right off it. Many have become so full of anger about religion and hypocrisy that they are full of hate. I don't even pretend to be someone who knows everything on TV, but I know that hate gets us into trouble.  

So I like to dig into things myself. I like finding out what other people believe and what structure they accept or create in order to remind themselves to do what is right and connect with God. And what I find is that at the very core, people usually believe pretty much the same things.    Feel free to debate with me, because that's how I learn best.  

We tend to believe

        -  There is something bigger than ourselves

        -  We can learn a lot from people who've figured things out

        -  We should love

       -  We should choose well

I guess I think that religion has it's place and that place is to teach us to love.  In psychology, when we're trying to figure out if someone is hallucinating or actually hearing God speak to him, we often ask what they hear God saying.  If God is telling them to crash a car filled with explosives into a hospital, as a psychologist, I'd be pretty sure that this was a mental illness. 

Along the same lines, I'd think if your religion tells you to hate and/or kill people who believe differently or dress differently or love differently; maybe you'd better find a new religion.  Because don't we all really know we're supposed to love one another?  I mean c'mon. .  . don't we all really know that?

Because I'm an American, Dammit!

     A gorgeous, mocha-colored American friend of mine, whose heritage is Cuban and African, recently repeated a question on her Facebook page, about the appropriateness of people who are ecru wearing dreads.    I responded.
     I said that I'd wear a saree, a fez kofta, and tennis shoes if I wanted.  I'd henna my hands and pierce my nose if I want.  I'll wear an hijab if I want (takes great care of bad hair days and covers that neck problem) because I am an American mutt.   My hair isn't going to dread.  It just won't.  It's too fine and straight, but if it would cooperate and I wanted dreads, you betcha I'd let it dread.
    I don't understand this problem with "appropriating ethnicity."   Isn't imitation a form of flattery?  And unless I give strangers my DNA for analysis, I don't really know what sort of bits I have.
    Je suis une Americane comma dammit!
    Traveling always allows me to appreciate our American stew.  One thing I realize is that we are so not homogenized.  In any American city, one can get any sort of cuisine one might think of and many fusions one would never have suspected.  Why not have sushi for a starter, haggis for an entree and creme brûlée for dessert while wearing salwar kameez?   Well, okay, so we can probably all think of a reason not to group those three foods, but you get my drift.
    We are strong when we allow all the spices to simmer together.  Rock and roll has roots in blues and jazz which has roots in African music, and bluegrass has hints of Celtic music, and guess what?  Real musicians have always sampled because they get it.  If you can use bag pipes with your saxophone and violin, go for it.  Just don't leave out the drums (spoons, wood blocks, cymbals, hip bells. . . . . ) and cut loose the dance.
    You can shoot me if you want to, but you can't scare me.  I'm an American, dammit and I reserve the right to sample all cultures.
    

You can take it to church!

     India made me think.  I thought about, or noticed, paradox a lot.  Here's a biggie:  I am heavier now than I've ever been in my life.  It's just a fact and a number.  And I've never felt more beautiful than when I was in India.    Now why is that?
     I suppose it could be in part because people flocked to ask to take their picture with me.  I'm fairly sure they'd not seen much like me lately.  Ha.  I was hanging out with people in their twenties - beautiful people by anyone's standards - and they regularly told me I was beautiful.  I guess I just decided to relax and believe them.
     A few decades ago I had a bit of a problem eating.  I needed to closely control how much I weighed and what I ate. I was so good at that!  I thought I looked good.  Now when I see pictures of me, I think about how very sad I was.  I'm sure that Dougie, my internist, will tell me that I absolutely must lose weight to be healthy, but I can't take that skinny boy too seriously.  I mean, really, what the heck.
     I am convinced that beauty actually does (I know, I know, we've heard it all our lives, but I just figured out that it's true!) come from within.  I am of my creator and I know it.  How could I not be beautiful?
     Oh, yeah, and here's another pair of socks (or paradox, if you prefer).  I had 31 hours of airplane time all together so I loaded up my Kindle with some light reading.  I took Gnostic Gospels along with some of the NT to chew on again while I was up in the air.  So I'm going to the ancient land of multi-limbed and colorful gods and goddesses and I'm buffing up on Christianity.  I was about to say that one thing had nothing to do with the other, but I don't believe in coincidence so very much.
    Spending so much time with Hindus, Muslims, and Sikhs gave me the rare opportunity to delve more deeply into comparative religion, which is a huge love of mine.  And get this - all believe in One God.  Sure, the Hindus have that great buffet of manifestations of God, but when it comes right down to it. . . . . just One.  And he Koran talks about Mary, the mother of Jesus more than the NT does.  Everyone seems to agree that Jesus has it together.
    And here's another twisty turny.  I blame religious fundamentalists for the wars and evil that is tearing this planet apart.  I make no excuses for that belief.  However, I don't blame people who strive to be Christ-like, or people who read the Koran as a Book of Peace.  I blame institutions that have much to gain from centuries of twisting and ruling and interpreting holy books to suit their needs.  Yeah, they come in every flavor.
    At one point, I asked a Hindu friend if Krishna died.  Yes, Krishna died.  I was a bit startled.  He's sort of he big dude.  I said something about gods not dying in other religions.  He replied that Jesus died.  And get this.  I found myself explaining the resurrection of Jesus to Hindu.  Yes, I did!
    I'm not eating the meat these days, though I can't say it's because I believe that every Hindu god in on a cow.  I just think it's not a sustainable, and therefore not a responsible way for me to live.  I've tried to be kosher in some sense for a long time, not because I'm Jewish, but because if one thinks about it, it doesn't make sense to eat pigs, which are so similar to humans that we use bits of them in our bodies to repair hearts, etc., or shell fish, which are Nature's garbage disposals.  I don't have a lot of trouble staying away from birds of prey, so there's that. . .
    I believe there are some practical rules in religions and there are some rules that need to be considered within the context of history and culture.  I don't think I should own any slaves, for example, and I'm not in favor of stoning people (with rocks, that is) or making menstruating women live outside the city limits.  I'm not sure why the Sikhs believe that they should never cut their hair, although, they mostly seem to have beautiful hair, but it makes total sense that they believe people should earn their livings honorably and basically be good people.
   I reckon that when it comes to religion, we all have a responsibility to read and think and wonder and question continuously.  So many just blindly accept an entire menu - others are so ding dang angry about religion that they throw the baby out with the bathwater.*
   Anyway, I don't profess to know the answers.  But I'm having such a grand time asking questions.   I'm grateful.




*  Thomas, the doubting disciple of Jesus, and Mary report about many times that the water Mary used to bathe the infant Jesus was used to cure people of various problems.  I hadn't connected that with the phrase until I just now used it in this post?  

Labels

     We spend so much time and energy labeling.  I'm not necessarily talking about the outrageous labels that our society insists exist on all sorts of products, though those have gone right on over the top, too.  I'm talking about how we label each other and ourselves and places and all parts of Earth.
      We got stuck in the evolutionary "Us and Them, I think.  I suppose it was necessary for our ancestors to distinguish between people of their clan and those of another in order to stay safe.  I guess it's important (though I'm not entirely sold on this notion) that different sports teams be able to tell who the other team is.  But really, labels aren't nearly as needed as we tend to believe.
      True, it takes some time and understanding to get beyond labels, but I think it's worth it.  We get an idea that terrorists are Muslim.  Muslim's wear funny head dress.  So people with funny head dress must be terrorists.  In that bit of non-logic many misuses of labelling are evident.

1. Muslim.  What does that mean to you?  What does it mean to my friends Junaid and Zoya?  I can guarantee you, there are three different answers there.
2. Funny head dress?  Sikhs have been attacked in this country because they wear turbans.  Sikhs aren't Muslim, and in fact are about as far from terrorists as one could get.  I wore a hijab around my deep South community and received jeers from some young men in a pick up truck at a traffic light.  (I caught myself.  I was about to label those young men).  Funny head dress, indeed.  I reckon a few generations ago there were people who believed that yamulkes were worn to cover horns.  Maybe it's hats that scare us.
3. Terrorist.  I know there are terrorists because sometimes I feel terrorized.  However, my terror stems largely from my government.

     When we say Black and White and are referring to people, we are throwing gasoline on a pile of burning leaves.  Black and white are opposites AND they don't apply to people.  We are all shades of brown.  Sure, it takes longer to say, "chocolate," or "latte,"  or "ecru"  but it is more accurate.  And God help me if we have to start guessing and saying German-American or Italian-American or African-American all the time.  How accurate is it and so what the heck anyway?  American should be enough.
     I began thinking about "race" again on the plane to India.  The young man sitting next to me was Brazilian.  He looked Indian to me.  Same heavy, shiny black hair and medium brown skin, dark eyes - very handsome.  He told me that I looked European.  I asked him what that meant and he told me I had a long face.  I've never been told that before. Across the aisle was a man who appeared "Asian."  By that, I guess I mean he could have been Chinese or Japanese or Vietnamese.  Mostly his face was covered by a blanket as he attempted to sleep the entire way.  Then I realized that people from India (who look like the Brazilian) are referred to as "Asian."  Oh, I got so confused, that I just gave up.
     Maybe it's because I am an American mutt that I get confused by race labels.  Color labels are complicated enough, but how is Jewish a race?  And Indians, like Americans, come in all shades of brown.
    When I leave the race blank empty on forms (which is something I always do) bureaucrats get ticked.  The lady at the driver license examination station glared at me and put a big W in the space.  I reckon that stood for Whatever.
   It's not only our color that we have an overwhelming urge to label, it's our age.  Are we young, middle-aged, adults or maybe even seniors?  And does it matter?  Does the way you treat me revolve around how many times this body has been around the sun?  Oh, I hope not.
   We label dialects, accents, noses, hair, wealth, and hair spray.  We just love to label.  I don't think we could communicate without using the shorthand of labels, but I think we would all do well to be aware of the labeling we do.
    Try this exercise.  Remember that beauty is in the eye of the beholder and behold all the beautiful people around you while trying not to use labels.  Let me know how that works for you.


 
   

Delhi, Indira Ghandi, and Strangers

      How to describe Delhi.  Delhi is an explosion of sight, sound, scent, taste, and touch.  It is chaos.

     Like Hong Kong, Sydney, London, Chicago, and I assume every mega city, Delhi has mega beauty.  Every tiny bit of public land is landscaped.  Nearly fluorescent magenta, orange, and yellow flowers along with soft yellow, pink and white, compete for pride of place against the artificially watered green spaces.  Old temples and monuments compete with modern sculptures.  On the skirts of the city, which expand daily, big cranes and sky-craping apartment buildings testify to the continuous burst of population.  There are also families living under bridges and shady trees.  High end fashion stores and street venders and everything in between.  That’s what Dehli is. 

     It is too much.  Too loud.  Too  hot.  Too bright.  Too spicy, beautiful, strange and familiar.  Delhi is not what I came to India to see, but it is the gate.  One has to go through the gate to get to the meadow, I reckon. When it was time to come home, there was Indira Gandhi International Airport just waiting to swallow me up again in her shimmering neon, spice-dripping jaws.  

    My friends took me in as far as they could, which wasn’t far.  The guard at the first line told me to go to line 3.  The officer at line 3 told me to go to line 8.  Line 8 turned out to be customer service.  There were a couple of problems.  I was very happy that I’d gotten to the airport three hours early.  The entire trip home was a bit confusing.  I’d received the first half of a message - never could open the rest of it - saying my flight had been changed to Friday from Thursday.  Even though I’d gotten international calling on my phone, I had one bugger of a time trying to get through to my airline.  As it turned out, my flight hadn’t been changed, but I didn’t find that out in time.  

  (You see, traveling around in India isn’t quite as straight forward as it is in the US.  Yes, we had a car and a driver, but in order to make that a paying prospect, one must also have roads - and, I might add, rules of the road would be a great start.)

   Anyway, I’d changed my ticket by phone, but had no print out and the guards at the door wanted something in WRITING.  So the nice people in customer service were ready to issue me a paper ticket when the nice people found that my last name was misspelled on the ticket in the marvelous interweb.  Missing a P,  so it didn’t match my passport.   

   My friends hung in there with me and quite frankly looked much more worried than I felt.  I think I was too tired to worry.  Actually, one doesn’t just take off for India alone if she hasn’t already turned everything over to someone much greater than herself.  I sort of figured that God had this one, I had major people watching to do.  

   I made it through those hoops and stood in line.  A very, very long line.  In fact, this line, so crowded with people trying to color inside the lines, following the cue ropes like sheep too confused and tired to cause much trouble, claimed a casualty while I was shuffling along in it.  One man who appeared to be Chinese just couldn’t take it any more.  Being in the middle of a sea of shoulder to shoulder people can get to a person - especially someone who is too short to see the shore.  He took off, under the ropes, through the legs of people.  Poor dude.  

     “While in line I med a Sikh from Punjab.  His name, of course, was Singh.  He had on shoes with curled up toes and a voice like bells that ring”   I actually did meet this young man, who struck up a conversation with me over my camera.  Quite possibly it’s the fact that I was singing “Put On a Happy Face” that made me so approachable.  After that, however, I was singing song with lyrics about Singh the Sikh from Punjab made up on the spot.  I commented on his cool shoes and said I wished I had some like it to take to my grandson.  He offered to give me a pair from his bag.  Seriously.  How nice is that?  He looked to me to be in his twenties, was heading on his first ever flight to Malaysia.  We talked about people and God and travel.  His English was better than mine.  He invited me to return to India soon, and this time to visit “Us, in Punjab.”  It was a priceless interaction.  And that’s what travel is all about.  

     Where is the wisdom in not talking to strangers? Wouldn’t we all be strange if we all followed that rule.  Nearly everyone I talked to during my Indian adventure was a stranger to begin with.  In fact, I had conversations with people without a common language.  That can be uncomfortable or fun, depending on how hurried I allow myself to feel.  I’ve found that for everyone except airport security people, a smile and manners go a very long way.  

     I'm so grateful.

Laundry and Other Luxuries

I'm doing my first laundry after returning from India. While there I did laundry in a bucket and really didn't think much of it, except that I wasn't doing a great job.  

How spoiled I am to have a machine that will wash my clothes, another that will dry them if it's raining or I am to lazy to hang them outside to dry. I have cold, filtered water and ice at the touch of the glass to the fridge. With the touch of other buttons my home gets hotter or cooler. And last night when I woke at 2:30 this morning trying to figure out where and when I was, I notice how incredibly quiet it was. Amazing! Such riches!

We drove home from the airport on such smooth, uncrowded highways, surrounded by clean, green trees and grass. We didn't stop for a single cow. 

I loved visiting India and I will never be the same person I was before I experienced it. One change is that I appreciate how very spoiled I am living in America. Yeah, we've got some major problems here, but dang, it's a pretty place. An easy place.  

As the world continues to shrink, we'll all have to continue to adjust. We need to learn to appreciate not only what we have, but what others have as well. We're not "The Greatest Country on Earth," though we have so very much to be grateful for. There is no greatest. 

I realize now how grateful I am for top sheets on beds and wash clothes, warm water any time, electricity that is constant, traffic rules and lights, police who don't expect bribes, and Western toilets.  I do miss the bidet sprays, ayurvedic soaps, little packets of ???? breath freshener, and freshly squeezed sugar cane juice.  I sort of  miss the cows and goats, but I don't suppose most people would.  

The human population is really just one big family reunion. It's so very good to get to know our cousins.

Chasing the Elephant

One day during my trip to India was set aside for riding an elephant.  Sanjul's father knew someone in a nearby (nearby is relative) village who owned an elephant and Sanjul arranged for us to go ride it.  Of course, this involved the family of the people who owned the elephant hosting us in their home and eating, along with visiting nearby temples, and ancient structures.

Over incredibly bumpy roads that got more and more narrow as we drove, dodging cows, pigs, water buffalo, goats, people, and every sort of vehicle imaginable, we headed off to the village.  There we were hosted by an extremely nice family.  The man told me in his handful of English words (note that this is a handful  more than I have in Hindi) that he retired from his post in 1976 and that he was now 83 years old.  He told me over and over and over again how happy he was that I came to visit them.  Amazing.

We had curry and rice and lots of water!.  This curry is as different from Thai curry as coffee is from coke.  It's very tangy.  Per Sanjul's request no one made "spicy" food for me.  Hmmmmm.  

We inspected an ancient gate - probably part of a fort.  It's difficult to tell as grand stone gates seem to appear out of nowhere.  A lady approached and through sign language asked to have her picture taken.  Very often, people ask to take a "selfie" with me, though this lady had no phone or camera.

This beautiful woman wanted me to take her picture.

We walked up a gazillion very big steps to a temple.  I was happy to sit while someone from our party went back down the steps to the village to get a key to get into the temple once we got there.  That's the way in India.  No hurry (unless you're driving a car).  By the time the man with the key arrived, every child from the village and half the adults were there to see me.  Such beautiful children!

The temple itself was amazing and I received some holy water from a Brahman priest, to drink.  Then after photos and a long goodbye, we went to a different village to find the elephant.  On the way, as the roads got more and more narrow, we had to stop a couple of times to have a bridges built over ditches that crossed the streets.  We had to have people leave the car to maneuver the car around corners that were never intended for automobiles.  During these stops, children came to the window of the car to look at me.

This little beauty was wondering just what I was.

 Inside the temple were paintings of the history of India according to Hindu holy texts.

So on we pushed to get to the village where the elephant was to be.  Alas, when we got there, we found the temple that hosted the elephant, but the elephant had gone on to a different village for an appearance at a different temple.  So we went elephant chasing.

After getting stuck in roads that were two inches wider than the car, one too many times, we gave up on the elephant.

Oh, well.  Can't do everything in one trip, right?  But on our way out of Jhansi, a couple of days later, toward Delhi where I'd catch my flight home, Sushil started yelling, "Get your camera!"  Straight ahead was a wall of gray.  An elephant!

I jumped out of the car with my camera and started clicking at the critter which was as big as a house.  The young man riding the elephant said, "Yes, yes!  You can ride!"

Wow.  So I was going to ride an elephant?  I waited for a ladder.  There was no ladder.  Through interpretation by Sanjul and sign language, I understood that I was first to stand on a nearby wall.  How I was to get on top of the wall was left to me.

Let me just say that back in the day, I was a great tree climber.  I climbed!  Let me also say that I'm 61 and not petite.  But dang it, I climbed that wall.  I'm sure it wasn't pretty, but I climbed that sucker.  So now, atop the wall, I waited for a step stool  or something, since the top of the elephant was at least as far from the top of the wall as the wall was from the ground.  The elephant and I looked eye to eye, and I think we had a moment there.  I'm pretty sure the elephant was laughing at me as he continually slapped me with his ear, which was about my size.

I was told to climb up the elephant.  Climb up the elephant, indeed.  I discussed this with the elephant and we both had a chuckle.  Then Sanjul helped me to jump down off the wall.  When I asked why they didn't have a ladder or something, Sushil explained that Indians just want to take a blessing from the elephant, not sit over it.  Ahhhhh.  I get it.  Well, I got my blessing.

What a trip!
I'm so grateful.

The Blessing of Helplessness

     The trip to India has truly been a blessing - so many blessings.  The first that came to mind was practicing letting go and realizing how helpless and out of control I am.
     I didn't think much about it until I landed in Newark from Charlotte - the first leg of my journey.  I had to wait for my carry-on to be delivered from the cargo.  Yes, that's right.  Then I ran to a place where I was told to get onto a bus that would take me to the gate from which I needed to depart.  On the bus, while waiting for the driver to decide it was time to leave, a passenger showed me his watch.  I had 16 minutes until my next flight was to leave and I was sitting in a bus that was not moving.
     Breathe.  Remember that you never are really in control.  Either that or you are always in control.  Either way. . . . . relax.
     Strangers wished me good luck as I ran through the airport waving to the people at the gate who called me by name.  Ahhhhhh. Made it.
     The idea of being helpless came to me rather forcefully while in a large steel vehicle flying 45,000 feet or so above some ocean.  Of course, I really don't know for sure where we were as I couldn't see out any windows and even if I could have, I wouldn't have been able to figure out where we were.  But I had punched in numbers on a plastic keyboard some days earlier, then picked up some slips of paper at an airport.  A stranger patted me down after some scanning machine did something to me.  Then I got on the huge vehicle and took off.  Strangers served me things that I did not shop for nor prepare.  I was completely at the mercy of technology and others who knew how to use it.  I felt fine.
     Landing in Delhi did nothing to help me forget how helpless I was.  People at immigration weren't overly friendly.  I don't think they liked their jobs and this American smile got me no where.  But I got through all that.  While at the luggage carousel, I  pulled out my phone to find that the sucker had nearly NO juice.  Not sure how that happened.  I went to an INFO desk and asked if there was a "usual" spot to meet people.  The unhappy lady pointed to an exit and I went for it.
     Many, many Indian people stood holding up signs with people's names, but not my name.  I waited.  I thought.  I pondered.  I went past that barrier and noticed that outside there were many, many more Indians holding signs with names.  So I dragged my luggage out into the heat that was startling.  But I didn't see my name, nor did I see my friend.  So I turned to go back into the airport and the guard, who carried a big, long gun told me no.  Can't go back in once you are out.  I sighed.  He briefly smiled and motioned for me to go in to the air conditioning.  Bless him!
     I sat.  I waited.  I pondered.  Then the guard was stepping into the building yelling, "Lady!"  I looked up and he motioned for me to come.  Honey, when a uniformed man with a gun motions to me in an airport, I'm obeying.
     Sanjul had seen me through the glass doors and convinced the guard to call me.  I met Sanjul's young cousin and the driver, who spoke no English and drove through mad traffic as only a mad man could.  My knuckles were white.
     Breathe.  Remember that you are never in control. . . . . 
     Before getting off airport property, we were stopped by police, who found some reason to ticket.  I never was sure what.  It would mean a trip back to go to court for Sanjul or. . . . . . a bribe.  Yep.  Police opening asking for - and receiving bribes.
     The car was full of fast paced, multi-toned Hindi conversation, of which I understood ZERO.  They could have been discussing how they were going to divide up the meat once I was butchered.   I trusted that they weren't and I was actually a bit too tired to care.
     But guess what?  We made it to the hotel.  I got a room with a comfy bed and I slept like a sleeper on Sleep Day in Sleepville.  I did not dream.  I just let go.  And in the morning I had the first of wonderful Indian coffee.
    Totally out of control and grateful.

Just One Room

I've been redecorating my living room for many months now.  The process is nearing the end.  In two days my couch, chair, and ottoman will be delivered and then all the pieces will be here.  Just a matter of putting it all together and a couple of finishing touches. I've put a lot of planning, thought, and dollars into this project and I'm already pleased with it, even though the results are still mostly in my head. I have recurring daydreams of me curling up on my new couch and reading.

Yes, of course, I can read any place else.  And yes, I know that it's only a matter of time before I'll want to redo another room, but it's kind of a big deal for me and it's been a lot of fun.

There are nine other rooms in this house, a deck, a front porch, and a patio in the Garden of Many Groovy Things.  There is an every growing mini-orchard and veggie gardens and sun gardens and shade gardens and herb gardens and many big trees.  There is always tweaking to be done.  Always something that needs paint touched up or pictures rearranged or swept or vacuumed - you get the idea.  But the living room has been the one room that's been taking most of my thought and energy lately.

But it's just one room.   I've lived in several houses including a cabin on a ridge in Appalachia and an apartment on the north side of Chicago and lots of places in between.  Some were grander than others, some were older, one apartment was a very basic studio with the best roof-mate a person could imagine.  It was a tiny apartment and I only lived there for a couple of years, but it was a very big time.

I can imagine life as a room.  You enter it, decorate it, change it up, look out the windows, and eventually leave it.  Maybe you change the color of the walls.  Maybe the ceiling leaks.  Maybe the floor squeaks.  But it's just one room.  There are other rooms in other houses in other cities, states, countries. . . . heck probably even planets.

Sometimes we get all hung up on decorating that one room.  We can get so caught up in draperies that we forget to look out the window.  We get so ambitious about lamps and area rugs that we forget there is at least one door.  So if we knock a lamp over and it breaks or the carpet gets threadbare, we get all weirded out (that's a medical term, by the way) and panicky.  We forget that there are other rooms in the house.

Things happen.  Water flows downhill and shit stinks.  Rust never sleeps, yet the circle just keeps rolling.  There is always another room.  That's why the Universe installed doors.

I'm grateful.

A Dream in Three Parts

A doozy of a dream.  Whew!  No wonder I wake exhausted.  I'm going way out on that limb to be really honest, so if naked honesty is going to make you uncomfortable, don't read.  Remember it's a dream.

Part One - Danny and Dying

First I was in a large cabin with several people. one of whom, Danny, has been a friend for decades.  I'm not sure who the others were, but I knew them.  I realized I was having a heart attack and new I was going to die, so I told Danny.  He said, "Just a minute, I have to go do something."

I thought, that he was really going to feel badly if he came back and I was dead.  (In real life, I have done something like this.  A friend whom I loved dearly told me was dying and I refused to believe it.  I just couldn't.  And so, I was not around when he actually passed.  I've felt awful about that.)  Anyway, in the dream, Danny had come to the party with  me and left with some girl, whose name may have been Pamela.  I had been trying to tell him that I really didn't mind when I felt the heart attack come on - and I didn't mind.   (In real life, Jim came to my party as my guest and left with a "friend" of mine.  This was a million years ago when I was an undergrad.  I really did care then.  Boy, did I!)

So I tried to hold on, for the sake of my friend, Danny.  And I did.  He returned and we began making love.  (Yes, this was a dream and if he reads this he'll be embarrassed!)  At the moment of climax, I died.  Petit mort, my foot.  My first thought was that poor Danny was going to feel terrible about this and I really didn't want him to.  What a way to go, though as far as orgasms go it was cut short.  Go figure.

So I realized I was dead and I sort of flew around and conversed with people I knew who were still living.  People from all parts of my life were there and I could go from one to another.  I was amazed that I was having two way conversations and I asked Joe, who in real life had been a priest, about it.  He and subsequently others, explained that they could see parts of me or hear me, but that they wouldn't remember it later.  I said, "Oh, so that's how it works."

A group of men from all parts of my life asked me if I yet realized all the men who had loved me in my life.  I said that I did not.  Someone was reading me a list of names, including at least one boy with whom I'd attended elementary school in waking life.  The list was long and I kept saying, "Wow, I didn't know that.  I wonder why they never told me."  The reader of the list told me that many of them had told me, but that I couldn't hear it.

I realized I was going to soon go to the next plane, so I needed to get going if I were going to converse with everyone I wanted to.  Someone reminded me that I could go through walls and time easily, and by George, I could.

I saw Danny, and told him to be happy and that Pamela was not good for him, then we both laughed.  I saw many people and explained that I realized that when they spoke to me, they wouldn't remember content, but they may remember feelings, so I loved them all greatly.

Part Two - Escape from Alcatraz

I began watching Escape From Alcatraz, which in my dream I had seen many times and in my dream it was quite different from the actual movie.  But I was actually in the movie.  I was with the two men who were escaping and the story continued long after we got to the mainland.  First we used a rubber raft with a little trolling motor and a light to escape the island at night.  When we saw the guards coming down the beach after us, we set the raft off in one direction so they'd shoot at it.  We went behind a big boulder where we had hidden a speed boat.  (It's a dream, remember.)  Then we turned off the lights and sped toward a far point on the shore.  Then we let one light come on for a short time, then turned it off and went a different direction.  We were indeed tricky.  We got to shore, but we knew that soon people would be coming after us.

Often during the movie I would get really anxious.  Well, who wouldn't with people shooting and chasing!  Then I'd have to remind myself that this was just a movie - one I'd seen so many times - and I knew everything would work out just fine and I should just relax.

We made it to the house of the sister of one of the men.  She was having a garden party, but the guests all left and she made us cream of asparagus soup, although one of the guys didn't think he was going to like it.  Then she made them suits to wear so as not to be suspicious.  Outside young couples were walking around the neighborhood, looking at houses with for sale signs in front of them.  I was reminded of my daughter getting her house and told them the story about how happy they were.  My daughter said something like, "This whole experience has been perfect!"

Then my ex-husband was sneaking about, trying to make me share this large amount of money I had. I wouldn't give him any.  He was made because I gave my daughter the down payment for her house. (Oh, yes, this is a dream.)  I had to hide my two Alcatraz friends, who had since become two rolled up area rugs, in her house.  I kept having to remind myself that this was a movie and a dream and that everything came out alright.

Overall this was a very fun and happy dream, though the second part doesn't sound that way.  The feelings were good.517559

Part Three - Married With Children

I was to get married that day, though I really didn't know the guy very well.  He was very nice, sort of naive and distant.  We were at the church and a group came in and said that it would be illegal for us to marry.  I asked them why and they couldn't say.  I followed one woman to the bathroom and I knew I was going to punch her in the face, so I was trying to remember what my brothers told me about hitting when I was a kid.  Was I supposed to tuck my thumb in or not?  Then she came out of the stall and upon questioning, told me that I had had too many men in my life to marry his nice man and asked if I wanted to see the video of Danny and I (Part One will haunt a person).  I punched her in the face and it hurt my  hand like heck.

So I asked the nice man if he was sure he wanted to marry me.  I was sort of hoping he'd back out of it.  I told him I wasn't very nice and was also concerned that he lived with his mother and his sister.  His sister had three children, one of whom had a physical disability.  He said he was sure, so we got married.  While eating cake, which was really yummy, btw, I mentioned that I had something scheduled in a month, and his mother said, "Oh, then stop by and see us in a month."

He lived on the fifth floor of a building down town.  I don't know what town.  I was combing the girls hair and telling them to read before they want to sleep and one girl had very tangled hair.  The other needed physical therapy.  The boy was a real brat.  I realized that they often didn't go to school and that they didn't have proper shoes, nor could any of them read well.  I got really, really pissed.

I woke up the sister and told her that it wasn't right that she was living on social security and food stamps because of her children and that she had shoes but her children didn't and that I was fixin to take those kids away from her and kick her out.  I told her to get her fat ass out of bed and clean the kitchen.

I took the kids to a reservation school near us where the teachers were appalled at how bad off these kids were.  In the boy's classroom, there were five students and three teachers.  The kids all loved the school, which was even going to provide physical therapy to the girl who needed it.

When it was time to go to bed, my new husband went into a different part of the house and got into a twin bed.  I said, "Oh, hell no,"  and asked him if he didn't want to sleep with me.  He said he wanted to be close, so I squeezed in with him and turned out the lights.  Then I realized the boy had snuck into the bed with us.  I thought, oh, well.   This isn't how I thought it was going to be, but I have this chance to really make a difference in the lives of these three children and I think this will be a good life for me to add to my other lives.

-fin-

While telling my hair dresser about the dream today, I realized many things. I think this dream is about having seen the movie and therefore being able to relax.  I know things are all going to be just fine.  When people die, they aren't gone, they are just different.  Well, different and the same.
I also realized that I dream in greater detail than  most people and I wouldn't give that up, even though I think it's exhausting sometimes.  Oh, and I realized that I project a lot of things onto Danny, who has become an icon in my dreams representing a lot of different people and things and situations.  I can't even begin to explain.

I also remembered a line from a movie or book I've seen or read recently that went something like "And because I have known Love, I will accept all that life brings with the flexibility of the wind." I understood that wind can blow down communities as easily as it can loft a bit of dandelion fluff into a blue sky.

So I reckon if you are looking for a reason to put me away, this might be it.  Just don't take away my dreams.

Iconic Phrases

Although I have never seen the movie nor read the book, there are a couple of lines from Gone With the Wind that I, along with a few other Americans, have adopted.  The phrases have become icons.

Frankly, my dear, . . . .   works when you just don't give a damn and I don't know nuthin' 'bout birthin' no babies! is always good when you don't know nuthin.  Many people share these references, so if you use them in the U.S.A., you have a good chance of being understood.  If you need to point out that someone is feeling sorry for him/herself, you may whine Marsha, Marsha, Mar-sha.  In this country, Baby Boomers will understand what you mean.

Throughout my lives I have collected other iconic phrases that make sense only within a certain circle of friends.  That is, only a select group of people understand the origins of these phrases and how they've come to be icons.  And it would be futile to try to explain the it all to someone who wasn't there when the icon was born.  There's just too much background.  But that doesn't mean that people who don't know the origins can't use the phrase and adapt it to their own lives.

Although phrases such a a fine kettle of fish or dressed to the nines have become common, few people know the origins of those phrases.

The following phrases have been adopted by me and groups of people I know.  If any of them work for you, feel free to adopt them.

So it is written, so it shall be done (thump fist on chest and click heals)  The King and I    This phrase is used to respond to a command or directive.

Wook dem cwouds, Edie is a versatile phrase used to draw attention to something you've noticed and can easily be changed to suit the situation.  Wook dem flowers, Edie,  or Wook dat fwoun, Edie.  

Where the hell are the singing cats?  is used to express confusion.

A cat stampede, it's a cat, it's a cat, it's a cat, it's a cat stampede of course is the perfect response when someone asks, "You know what we need?"

When you need a conversation starter, of course you could say Keith Moon is dead.

Thank you for holding the flag is for when "thank you" just isn't quite enough words.

When you're ready to start a new project or ready to go you might say Here we go, Blueboys, here we go.  

These phrases are like poetry in that they condense a lot of meaning into a few words.  However, the meaning may differ from occasion to occasion, so while they are colorful and tend to pleasantly remind of another time and place, they are probably not best used when precision is needed.  And of course, there's a big chance that if you use phrases like this outside their circle of origin, people will consider you daft.

Well, that's about all the examples I can think of right now, so I'll just say I'm done here.  Steve Buscemi is in this film. 

Civil Disobedience

Thomas Jefferson, who was by most measures a very groovy man, said that if a law is unjust it is our moral duty to disobey it.  I think this not only goes for laws of government, but also laws of society and culture.  Therefore, I challenge all of us to break some laws.

1.  Pee in public restrooms clearly designated for a gender other than your own.

B.  Plant marijuana in your garden.

3.  Stand in a crowded elevator, facing the back wall.

V.  Wear articles of clothing associated with a culture other than your own.

H.  Put a thank you note on a police car.

17.  Use rain barrels

XII.  Ask your physician questions and insist on answers.

D.  Be nice to someone who really doesn't "deserve" it.

42. Attend a religious service that you would not normally attend.

12.  Refuse to "act your age."

II.  Encourage a sing-a-long in the grocery.

I'm sure if you give it some thought, you'll think of many other ways to break a cultural or government law that you find unjust.  Please share your ideas with me.  I've already done all these and I'm looking for some new ones.  

During the course of this rule-breaking, you may feel uncomfortable.  That's an excellent sign.  It means you are stretching your limits.  And let's face it, limits are silly.

Genders and Restrooms

     When I was in China, I went to a public restroom in a park.  I went into the first stall and thought it was out of order.  After all, there was no toidy in there, just a hole in the floor with a porcelain ring around it.  So I went to the next stall.
     Dang!  Also just a hole in the floor with a porcelain ring.  No instructions.  Hmmmmmm. . . . . what to do? Well, my bladder pulled rank on my brain at that point and I figured out that popping a squat is universal.  So you can understand that now, living in S. Carolina, I'm quite confused about the hoopla about what bathroom a transgendered person should use.
     I don't know about you, but I don't check out genitals when I'm in a public restroom.  In fact, it's probably the last thing on my mind.  Especially as I get more mature, I hardly ever think of anything except getting there in time to pee!  I can't remember one time - not a single time in my whole life - worrying about the birth configuration of someone's genitals when I was in a restroom.  And I have been in some restrooms, let me tell you.
     In fact, a childhood friend and I peed all over our hometown  while growing up.  We didn't do it out of some weird desire to be rebellious, we did it because we had to pee.  And if we began laughing, which was bound to happen when she and I got together, we had to pee often!  Now that is a bit off center, I reckon, but no one ever complained.  We tried to be discrete for the most part.
     So I'm wondering, who the heck is it who is policing restrooms to make sure that people's genitals match the sign on the door indicating which restroom they should use?  I'm especially suspicious when there is only one toidy in the restroom.  So there is a locked door, and I'm the only one in there, but I'm supposed to wait until the "ladies" is open?  Not blooming' likely.  As I've said before, when I gotta pee, I've gotta pee!  I applaud the places in SC now that are putting up restrooms that have just one toidy and are marked his/hers.
     Newsflash!  Most men pee at home in a regular toidy, not a urinal.  So most men (although there are some who are incredibly lousy shots) can actually figure out how to pee in a regular toidy.  It's not a huge deal.
     If you are in a place in which people in the restroom want to look at your private bits, you had better just get on outta there.
    Let's all think of something better to bitch about.

Technologically Challenged

As long as I can remember, I've talked to myself.  I sing to myself, too.  I joke with myself and I must admit that sometimes I just crack me up. I say thank you aloud when I find my keys or when I see a butterfly or when seeds sprout.  I can't really see anything wrong in any of this.  It may not be normal but I don't think it's abnormal in a bad way.

Lately, I've noticed that I have to talk myself through tasks that used to be more automatic.  Translating these blogs into a manuscript takes several steps that require thought, and for me, speech. In the shower I say, "Okay, wash your hair first, then your face."  But I think it's only slowed me down a tiny bit.  For the most part, I'm doing okay.

If the iPhone (dang its hide, anyway) would stop updating and if the Mac would stop improving, I'd have a much better time using them.  I really don't think it's the fault of my brain cooties that I have trouble with them.

I'm having a fond memory of the first time I was allowed to make a phone call by myself.  I picked up the big black receiver and an operator spoke to me.  I told her I wanted to talk to Lee Wright, my neighbor.  She said okay and connected me.  That was that.

Now, I have to first find the little cell phone.  It could be anywhere, and indeed has been.  Then I have to turn it on, hope that I've plugged it in sometime recently so that it has enough power, select phone then contacts, then I have to decide if I want to phone them in technicolor or black and white.  It's too dang many steps.  The tiny little critter can do all sorts of things for me, answer bizarre  questions about the universe, tell me where I am, map a course to get home, take photos and send them around the globe, play music for me. . . . . but one has to know how to use it to make it do these things and there are always soooooo many steps.  I have many videos of my feet with me saying, "No, no, not a video, I just want to call my sister!"  And it's constantly making noises at me, not just ringing, but dinging and chiming and whistling.  Every sound means something, but heck if I know what they mean, let alone how to respond.

When I was younger and behind a woman of a certain age at a check out, I'd get a bit impatient at her talking her way through everything in her purse to find the correct change.  Well, guess what?

"Now, let me see, where are my keys?"

"Ma'am, they are in your hand."  

But you see, those ladies were old and I'm not old, I'm just older than I used to be.  I refuse to be responsible for not keeping up with technology.  Those young whippersnappers who create these things intend for them to be impossible for people of a certain age.  I think it's all part of a plan to thin the herd.

"Unfortunately the woman who called 911 was only heard to say 'No, no, not a video, I just want to call my sister.'"

Couch Miracles

A miracle happened yesterday and today.  Well, okay, I'm sure that a gazillion or so have happened, but this is one I'm going to tell you about.

I've been selling stuff online.  I want to whittle down the amount of things I own.  I've had my love seat and couch on several sites for quite a long while and finally heard from someone that she loved them.  I told her that they wanted to go home with her.

Through some private messages, usually reserved for negotiating great deals, this young woman explained that she had no way to pick them up because she has no truck, and that she can't lift because she's currently going through chemotherapy for breast cancer.  I don't have a truck either.  I don't even know anyone with a truck, I don't think.  But I said, if you want it, I'll get it to you.  As I typed it, I wondered what in the heck I was thinking.

Then, as sometimes happens, we began chatting and I found out that this breast cancer is just sort of one more thing in a long line of not so nice things in her life, even though she is an exceptionally positive person.  Her "man" left her when she lost a breast.  Her son, who would soon be 18, died in a car accident with her husband when her son was nearly 4.  I won't go on, because you'd think that this woman was a Debbie Downer.

She's anything but.

She did tell me, however, that she finds getting comfortable enough to sleep during chemo is a real challenge and her bed is no help.  I said, "Wellllll, as a matter of fact, I happen to have an extra bed - memory foam, even."  She said she thought Cancer Society could help her buy it from me, since she isn't exactly rolling in dough right now.  I told her that I could wait because I'm independently wealthy.   But then I decided that lying is no way to start a friendship, so I fessed up.

We chatted for a long while and made each other laugh.  Amazing how much we have in common.  She told me her next chemo was today and so I asked if I could come and sit with her.  She agreed and I took her all the caps I'd collected when I had no hair a year or so ago.

Luckily, there weren't a lot of people in the big room getting chemo at the same time, so few if any were disturbed by our rather raucous laughter between her grimaces and twinges of pain.

I contacted a college age friend, knowing that he's strong and I figured between the two of us we could move the furniture if I rented a truck.  He said he thought he and his dad could help.  Then I asked if they had a truck.  He said no, but they had a 16 foot trailer.

It appears the move date will be Friday.

I am so very blessed to have met this woman.  I'm grateful.

Fun With Dementia

My blog has been depressing lately, though I didn't really mean it to be.  But my brother, Wade, just called to slap me upside the head and tell me to get my head outta the dirt and write something upbeat.

Some of you may not know my brother Wade, but when he slaps ya upside the head (always in a loving way, of course) you know your head's been slapped and you'd better straighten up and flight right.  (What the heck does that statement actually mean anyway?  I'm' not flying right now.  And truth be told, if anyone did ever actually physically slap me upside the head, he'd probably be the first one to knock that person right on down.)

So anyhoo, I decided to write about some of the good things that one with dementia experiences.  "Good things?" you ask.  There is a flip side to every ding dang coin and there are some entertaining things about losing ones memory.

I am so very grateful for the GPS in my car.  Of course, I've always been one to get lost, but just knowing the GPS will guide me home is a comfort.  Don't get me wrong, I can and do still get lost with GPS, but it allows me to see things I never would have seen otherwise.  Just yesterday, I saw an absolutely beautiful house on some odd street on the way home from where ever I was.  I can't remember.

Have a an argument with someone?  Not to worry.  Chances are, you won't remember it tomorrow.  All that is forgotten is forgiven.

Anything I've read in the past few years - in fact, even things I've written - are totally new to me.  I enjoy them just as much as I did the first time I read them.

Same with people.  I just loving making new friends, even friends I've known for a few years.  If I've known you for 55 to 10 years, chances are, I'll remember lots about you.  Possibly things you wish I'd forgotten.  But if you kicked me in the stomach 3 years ago, no worries.  As far as I know, unless it left a scar, it didn't happen.

More and more I say whatever the flip in on my mind at any given second.  Now, this can be a good thing or a bad thing, depending on what time of day it is, and what crosses the fog in my brain.  SOMETIMES, I'm just very honest.  That of course can be either good or not so good.  But SOMETIMES utter bullshit comes right out of my mouth.  That's not good.   Ooops, sorry, supposed to be focusing on good stuff.

I relish scrumptious dinners that James has made for me a zillion times as if it were the first time I've tasted them.

People don't need to send new Christmas cards or birthday cards.  I can just bring out the ones from last year, thus preserving paper.

You can tell me the same joke  over and over.  I probably won't get it, but I'll laugh anyway.

It's a GREAT excuse for talking to trees and other plants and rocks and soil. . .  . . . things I've always done, but without an excuse.

Except for a few special circumstances, I'm fearless.  For example, I really think if I were in a store and some nut walked in with a gun and wanted to rob the place, I'd do something like laugh loudly, attempt a cartwheel, or try to kiss him.  Surely that would give the clerk enough time to push the button or whatever.  And if the crazy person shot me. . . . . ha. . . .. jokes on him.

And most of all, this fading has given me  a humongous appreciation of my brain.  Dang, it's been a good one.  I was so darn smart.  I'm sure I'm still smarter than the average bear, although IQ tests are seldom used now, especially with bears, but you get my drift.  And for that I am the most grateful a person can be.

So there you go, Brother Wade.  An upbeat blog about dementia.  Carry on,

Who's to Say?

   I know things.  I used to know a lot more things.  My brain has holes in it and things fall out.  Perhaps someone will find these facts and ideas on the ground and pick them up and do something with them.
   I know that with dementia (gourd, I hate that word!) comes mood swings.  I don't know if one could say what I'm experiencing is swinging actually, since I've fought depression all my life, but lately I've had anger like I've never experienced before.
   Anger is a tough thing for a pacifist.  It tends to come out in my dreams, where lately I've been screaming at people and even punching them.  Even though, when I was young, my brothers tried to teach me how to hit like a boy, I never really practiced, and even in my dreams it's evident.  The only person I ever actually slugged was Dr. Korte, when I was in labor.  She said she'd been hit harder.
   Anyway, my point is that I get really, really angry lately.  It seems reasonable actually, in light of what is happening to Earth, to our country specifically, but it isn't very helpful.  It is also reasonable, I think, because though I often have hope that this is all a mistake, it's becoming more and more obvious that something bad is going on in my very favorite organ.
   Just now I had to read back to see if I could find reference to my story about hitting Dr. Korte.  I didn't immediately find one, but if I've written it before, get over it.  It's a good story.  And sometimes I search a thesaurus or call a trusted friend to find a word  or a phrase that used to be right there.
   When I read my old posts - old as in ones I wrote last week or two days ago - I'm usually amazed at how well written they are, how clever.  But I don't remember writing them.  And I'm often ashamed at how many mistakes in spelling and punctuation there are.   I don't make those mistakes.  Well, at least I didn't used to make them.  I'm so grateful that I can still write.  Of course, I'm assuming here, that I still write well.  It could actually be gobblydee gook.
    I'd hoped to write a daily blog about my life with the BBD, but there are lots of days I just can't.  Ideas float about in clouds and are often obscured.  And sometimes the clouds are stormy ones and then anything I write is full of all three of my curse words.
   It's not pleasant to write about me becoming stupid, but I think it's important.  And as my ego is shrinking lately, I am less embarrassed.  I used to write about depression a lot, trying to educate people that it isn't a failure of character or weakness, but a disease just as diabetes or heart disease.  Well, guess what?  So is dementia.
   Sometimes it's sort of cool to enjoy things I've enjoyed before as if for the first time.  And I can remember Mary Ann's rainbow cancans she wore when we were in Kindergarten.  I can remember Julie getting her new norange bike, and the smell of the cherry trees I climbed as a child as if I experienced them all yesterday.  Who's to say those things aren't much, much better than the things I actually experienced yesterday.
   And as my friend Zab would say, there is no yesterday, no tomorrow, only Now.  Another friend, Ray, just now told me to ". . . try harder.  Focus on being happy."  Maybe this is what he meant.  What is time anyway?
    I'm grateful.

Sarcasm and Sensibilities.

  Ladies, please listen.  There was a time of glory.  It has not been so long ago that we can not return to it,  In fact, I believe we are on our way.  In that glorious time everyone knew his or her place and if they weren't satisfied, at least they were for the most part complacent.  Or at least unheard from.
   Why should the poor be educated?  Not every mind is made for such. Will we not always need workers who will work tirelessly, without regard to time and pay, feeling fortunate just to have some pennies with which to perhaps buy some bread?  Haven't we fields to be plowed and walls to be built? And let's face it, we needn't worry at all about birth control, since their conditions, being so poor, will quite naturally weed out the weaker of them - the more useless ones. This is the natural law.
   And if we happen to be born to a higher class of people, so be it.  We have a noblesse oblige to employ those better suited to caring for us in the mundane - cooking, cleaning, helping us dress, growing our food, etc.  We, have an obligation to maintain the social order.  Ladies should become skilled in the finer things.  We must read only the appropriate literature, lest our minds become conflicted. We should learn the finer arts, such as needlework, music, painting, flower arranging, dance, and entertainment.  These are the skills that lubricate the social order so that our men may be free to manage the legacies to which they were born.
  Oh, it's well and fine to say that all people are created equal, but the truth is quite different.  Some people are made for field work, their darker skin showing less the dirt.  Others' hands are made to raise animals,  and a few hands - so pale and dainty - must be protected in order to maintain the beauty that is so important in our social order.
   Health care really must be rationed.  There are so many of the lower classes this it makes no sense to squander precious time and medicines on them.  They would hardy appreciate it.  In fact, you can't imagine that a poor household welcomes a 6th, 7th, or 9th mouth to feed! The upper classes, however, are prone to some delicate natures that modern medicine can and must attend.
   We are right to maintain the social order as God intended, lest the whole of society be turned upside down and we are overrun like the jungles from whence the inferiors originated.  It is, indeed, our holy duty.
   So ladies, I implore you not to meet in groups to gossip and exchange ideas contrary to your fathers and husbands.  Do not be too lenient on your inferiors lest they become haughty.  Be always weary of strangers and foreigners, for they seek to dilute our righteous ways.  Remember that God made the whole of the earth for us to consume and we should do so with joy.
  A woman's mind must not be consumed with manly quests.  She must remain free from vulgarity and maintain peace and order in her home by managing her servants well.  By this, the Righteous Christian Womanhood, will continue to do our part in maintaining what is just and right in our world

Decisions and Drawing the Line

     Since my neurosurgeon's office called and said that his health care system no longer accepted my insurance, there will be no follow up to my aneurisms from his office.  The end.
     I assume that my regular neurologist will still accept me and perhaps he will scan my brain for signs of any growth in the balloons and then perhaps find a surgeon for me, but I'm hesitant to do even that.  I'll keep going to the neurologist because he is treating this memory loss/brain fade of mine with some drugs.  Sometimes I think they are working.  Sometimes I think the diagnosis was wrong all along and that I'm totally normal for a lady of a certain age, and then I forget where I am and how to get out of my bedroom, and that's a wee bit disconcerting.  I maintain that there could be other reasons for such things to happen and that they are much less scary than progressive dementia.
     So I've decided to take matters a bit into my own hands.   I've been reading up on some natural treatments - alternative treatments - and what the heck.  I doubt they'll kill me.  Yes, I'm experimenting with myself.  Better I experiment than some stranger who really doesn't appreciate just how totally cool my brain actually is.
     I don't care to qualify nastiness of various illnesses, but if I had cancer, I'd have an automatic support group around me.  I hate cancer, too.  It sucks.  But when you tell people that you have some sort of dementia, they get scared or confused or just grossed out.  My credibility goes from 92 to 3 in the course of a few words.  And every little stumble is suspect.  This is the reality of it.
     So I'm packing things in. I still need to do some traveling, but for the most part, I've contacted all the people in my life with whom I felt the need to make amends.  Most have not responded at all.  A few have responded negatively, accusing me of all sorts of ill behavior.  And while I used to say things such as "I don't care about that, I've done my best, "  Now I actually mean it.
    I've little time or energy for people who do not keep their promises.  Friends who disappear, and the emotional vampires who seem to suck the libido (oh, look it up, it's not just about sex) right out of me.  Am I pissy?  Probably, but I'm honestly pissy.
    I'm determined that kindness be my default, but I'm also becoming determined to no longer bruise my head against brick walls.  If you haven't spoken to me in a while, there is a thing called telephone and it works both ways.  There's also the marvelous inter web, etc.
     I find it so very sad that so many who've said they'll always "be there for me" have begun training for Olympic track events by running in the opposite direction, and while I continue to wish them well, I'm not likely to stand in the rain cheering for them.  Maybe that's unkind of me, or maybe it's self preservation.
    My heart aches, AND I know I'll be okay.  I am so very enough.  There are still people in this world who respect me and actually care for  me, though I'm realizing that no one is going to "always be there for me" when I need little things.  Perhaps that it a silly statement.  No one can always be there for anyone else.  I suppose the closest would be the sort of marriage I've seen a handful of times.
     My sister and her husband, for example.  Faerie tale.  Not that their lives have been without pain or obstacles.  They've had at least their share, but they are the kind of couple, that when you see them, you only see the good, the joy, the bliss.  It's exceedingly rare.  I have a grand imagination and I can't imagine how that must feel.  I'm not an easy person with whom to live in the least and I have so very many (do you mind if we call them quirks or eccentricities rather than neuroses?) that I often can nearly not live with myself.
     But I've got a mess of good traits, too.  I've been loyal to my friends.  I try to be kind to people, other animals, and all of Earth.  I actually do care about such things.  I think, I'm well worth loving.  You may differ if you wish, we all have the right to differ.
    Our health care un-system and mega insurance companies can line up to kiss my fine, round, pale behind.  One would think that they are made up of actual human beings, but one might be wrong in that assumption.
    In spite of the nastiness, terrifying fog that has befallen not only me, but all of Earth, I reserve the right to be optimistic, take chances, have adventures and love myself.  I love you, too - if you are a real person or an animal or some identifiable part of Nature - if you are a big corporate machine. . . . well, the best I can say is "fuck off."
   I remain grateful.