So, I woke up this morning, my birthday morning, as an older woman. Older than yesterday when I was 59. And somehow jumped into another decade as I have just turned 60. Ok, now I can tell you that I was being kind of optimistically frivolous when I made up my 60 reasons I am excited about turning 60. It's more like, if you can't beat 'em, join 'em.
I say it – 60 years old – and think to myself, uh, no that's not me. That is not who I am. Age doesn't describe the inner me. I am ageless in my mind – and you ask my two sons and they agree. I'm playful and goofy and pensive and romantic and introspective and soul searching. Has nothing to do with age.
Several years ago, my coworkers started a tradition of "60 presents for the 60th birthday." Little things. So for the past five days I have received 10-12 little presents every day – books, cards, plants, candles, soaps, energy drinks (which seems to draw every single person and they all want to try it). Does an energy drink counter the effects of just plain being old? Inquiring minds want to know. It says it has no caffeine and no sugar. So, if you come to my cubicle and I'm not there, look up – I may be on the ceiling, having sampled some of my energy drink supply, called "Orange Explosion." If that doesn't work, I have several latte gift cards so I can get my double caffeine, triple shot chocolate, Grande latte. Fat, hot, and a hell of a lot.
How do I feel about 60? I didn't notice a big drop in brain cells, so I think the "senior moments" are still in the future. Maybe if I keep working, I'll keep my brain active, and I won't have those moments. I'm playing Sodoku frequently over the last year because I have heard that it improves the mind. However, it hasn't improved my balancing-the-checkbook skills, at all. Instead of a savings account, I have a slush fund in my checking account, to account for my not accounting my account.
Age is relative I suppose. I remember when my grandmother turned 95 years old, still living on her own. Her son-in-law asked, er rather shouted to her good ear, "So, how do you feel today?" to which she replied, louder just for the heck of it, "I'm 95 years old. How the hell do you think I feel!" When you are 95 years old, you can be cantankerous and ornery just for grins and giggles and nobody will fault you. When you're 60 and act like that, well, you're just being a brat and a pill.
So here I am – 60 years old. Am I better? Older? Wiser? I like to think wiser, finally, after many false starts. I'm an all-around better person, through time and through events and experiences. I'm just not older. I'm definitely not elderly – although were I to trip and fall in the street and a reporter happened by (and I'm only a block away from the S-R building), the article in the paper would read "Elderly Woman Breaks Hip on Riverside and Monroe; Traffic tied up for hours trying to get her, screaming and clawing, into ambulance for ride to nursing home."
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4.29.2009
4.26.2009
Identity Redux
I usually enjoy getting my driver’s license renewed. I like to compare pictures and prove that I’m not getting older, I’m getting better.
Something went really bad when I went in to renew my license on Saturday. It’s the most awful picture I have ever seen. It’s a mug shot. It’s a mug shot of a seasoned criminal. I can’t show this in public! What am I going to say to whoever looks at it?
O, yeah, that was one hell of a hangover. (Even though I spent the night before watching old chick movies.)
That? That picture? Oh, it’s evidence for my malpractice suit on Botox injections gone horribly wrong.
What? No, oh no, that’s not me. That’s someone who stole my identity and tried to phony up a picture to look like me. Despicable job.
That really is a mug shot of me trying to steal Dentyne gum from the neighbor store.
I can explain that. Some really old, short, fat lady with no neck invaded my body. And I want it back.
ARRRRGH! I’m stuck with this really awful picture for FIVE years. And the truly horrible irony of all of this is that I had the chance to renew online and keep my really great looking picture for another five years but I kept having trouble with my credit card billing address because I have moved but haven’t really moved and I can’t make up my mind whether to make Mechanic Man’s address MY address or to keep my real address as a place to temporarily go to on lunch hours and weekends. Now I have this truly ugly picture following me around every single solitary second of my life. For five years!
Obviously, the Department of Licensing did not get my memo on 60 reasons to be excited to be 60. They must have received one that said "there is only one reason for this person to look like an old worn boot, because she is ELDERLY, OLD, WRINKLED, and, well, REALLY OLD."
New Year’s Resolutions have nothing on the resolution I am making as a result of having my driver’s license renewed. Oh no. Now I am passionately and resolutely determined to change my identity. I’m going to lose 40 pounds and I’m going to join a gym and I’m going to get massages every other day and I’m going to tape my face up and back and go back in and have the damned picture retaken. Again and again and again until it looks like ME.
.
Something went really bad when I went in to renew my license on Saturday. It’s the most awful picture I have ever seen. It’s a mug shot. It’s a mug shot of a seasoned criminal. I can’t show this in public! What am I going to say to whoever looks at it?
O, yeah, that was one hell of a hangover. (Even though I spent the night before watching old chick movies.)
That? That picture? Oh, it’s evidence for my malpractice suit on Botox injections gone horribly wrong.
What? No, oh no, that’s not me. That’s someone who stole my identity and tried to phony up a picture to look like me. Despicable job.
That really is a mug shot of me trying to steal Dentyne gum from the neighbor store.
I can explain that. Some really old, short, fat lady with no neck invaded my body. And I want it back.
* * * * * *
ARRRRGH! I’m stuck with this really awful picture for FIVE years. And the truly horrible irony of all of this is that I had the chance to renew online and keep my really great looking picture for another five years but I kept having trouble with my credit card billing address because I have moved but haven’t really moved and I can’t make up my mind whether to make Mechanic Man’s address MY address or to keep my real address as a place to temporarily go to on lunch hours and weekends. Now I have this truly ugly picture following me around every single solitary second of my life. For five years!
Obviously, the Department of Licensing did not get my memo on 60 reasons to be excited to be 60. They must have received one that said "there is only one reason for this person to look like an old worn boot, because she is ELDERLY, OLD, WRINKLED, and, well, REALLY OLD."
New Year’s Resolutions have nothing on the resolution I am making as a result of having my driver’s license renewed. Oh no. Now I am passionately and resolutely determined to change my identity. I’m going to lose 40 pounds and I’m going to join a gym and I’m going to get massages every other day and I’m going to tape my face up and back and go back in and have the damned picture retaken. Again and again and again until it looks like ME.
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4.23.2009
The Walk Home
I had a migraine that day. It was set to be one of the bad ones and I decided to leave for home. I had missed the bus and so prepared to walk the two miles. It was cloudy and threatening to rain and so I picked up my yellow polka-dot Mary Englebriet umbrella and set out on my way.
As I got to the Monroe Street Bridge I noticed a man leaning on the cement banister, looking out over the water. I'm always aware of people when I'm walking. I try to assess them and make up a story about them. This one though was different. He was older than me, wearing a plaid shirt and jeans. My first thought was, where's his coat – it's going to rain and it's cold still for early April.
I got closer and just wanted to get past this guy. I was chanting in my head "don't turn around, don't turn around, don't turn around." I was just inches past him when he said "Hey lady." I planned on ignoring him and I planned to keep on going, but there was something about the tone. I stopped and looked back. He looked at me, soft sad brown eyes.
"Yes?" I hesitantly asked.
"Help me. I'm going to jump."
There's dead silence; I can barely hear the river below; I don't notice it has started to rain.
"What?" I ask – surely I didn't hear him right.
"I'm-going-to-jump-you-need-to-help-me."
I pointed my finger at him and I think I only said "STAY", not anything else. In my head I was shouting, "You stay right there and don't you move one muscle!"
I ran up the walk to the first building at the edge of the bridge. Closed! I ran to the next building. Closed! What's with all these closed buildings? I don't have time for this! I went to the next building and couldn't get the door open. I don't know why. My brain stopped working and I was a blithering idiot. I finally noticed a phone booth right next to me and miracle of miracles I even had money on me, in my pocket. I dialed 911 and told them my story. The dispatcher questioned me with "How do you know he's going to jump?" "He just told me!" I yelled back. I hung up in despair and my mind is screaming "O my God O my God O my God"
I ran back down the sidewalk, the man still standing there, O thank God, leaning over the edge. Just then a police car came down the road, the absolutely only car for three blocks! Two officers gently approached the man and lifted his hands off the edge of the cement wall and carefully guided him back to their car. The three of them made one glance at me and then drove away.
And there I stood with my cheery sunny umbrella while it rained in earnest now, pouring tears from Heaven.
Three weeks later, on my birthday in fact, I was reading the paper and I got to the ad section, which I never read, and it just caught my eye, a little ad:
"To the lady with the yellow umbrella. You saved my life. Thank you."
.
As I got to the Monroe Street Bridge I noticed a man leaning on the cement banister, looking out over the water. I'm always aware of people when I'm walking. I try to assess them and make up a story about them. This one though was different. He was older than me, wearing a plaid shirt and jeans. My first thought was, where's his coat – it's going to rain and it's cold still for early April.
I got closer and just wanted to get past this guy. I was chanting in my head "don't turn around, don't turn around, don't turn around." I was just inches past him when he said "Hey lady." I planned on ignoring him and I planned to keep on going, but there was something about the tone. I stopped and looked back. He looked at me, soft sad brown eyes.
"Yes?" I hesitantly asked.
"Help me. I'm going to jump."
There's dead silence; I can barely hear the river below; I don't notice it has started to rain.
"What?" I ask – surely I didn't hear him right.
"I'm-going-to-jump-you-need-to-help-me."
I pointed my finger at him and I think I only said "STAY", not anything else. In my head I was shouting, "You stay right there and don't you move one muscle!"
I ran up the walk to the first building at the edge of the bridge. Closed! I ran to the next building. Closed! What's with all these closed buildings? I don't have time for this! I went to the next building and couldn't get the door open. I don't know why. My brain stopped working and I was a blithering idiot. I finally noticed a phone booth right next to me and miracle of miracles I even had money on me, in my pocket. I dialed 911 and told them my story. The dispatcher questioned me with "How do you know he's going to jump?" "He just told me!" I yelled back. I hung up in despair and my mind is screaming "O my God O my God O my God"
I ran back down the sidewalk, the man still standing there, O thank God, leaning over the edge. Just then a police car came down the road, the absolutely only car for three blocks! Two officers gently approached the man and lifted his hands off the edge of the cement wall and carefully guided him back to their car. The three of them made one glance at me and then drove away.
And there I stood with my cheery sunny umbrella while it rained in earnest now, pouring tears from Heaven.
Three weeks later, on my birthday in fact, I was reading the paper and I got to the ad section, which I never read, and it just caught my eye, a little ad:
"To the lady with the yellow umbrella. You saved my life. Thank you."
.
4.22.2009
60 reasons I am excited about being SIXTY:
ONE WEEK AWAY
- I don’t look it – see me next year
- I am healthy (mostly)
- I am content
- I am mature (something I am extremely grateful for – no more hot emotions, no more being jealous or petty; just nice calm maturity)
- However, I can be cranky if I want to. I'm OLD.
- I love the person in the mirror that looks back at me.
- I laugh at myself way too much. And that’s perfectly fine.
- I am hardly ever sad.
- I have the bone density of a 30-year-old, so my doc tells me
- I am mother of two great sons that I don’t have to nag after
- I have dear close friends that hold secrets, tell jokes, and care deeply
- I laugh and laugh and laugh
- I’m alive
- I feel great
- I am comfortable in my skin
- I have become a sensitive, compassionate woman
- I have become an example to follow
- I’m a great mother-in-law and the envy of all my daughter-in-law’s friends who don’t have me as their mother-in-law
- I have a beautiful singing voice, especially in the shower
- I am 1/3 of the way through my list
- I look back at some of the things I write and think, boy, that was really good!
- I am passionate about attitude and living, truly living!
- I am a good listener and confidante.
- Not to worry when you tell me a secret; I can honestly say I have forgotten it by the next day
- I dance when I clean the house, usually to Meatloaf’s “Bat out of Hell.”
- Sunsets
- Beaches
- The ocean
- I can still climb lighthouses
- I am a pretty good photographer
- I might retire in five years; maybe not; maybe work fulfills me still
- I’m good with computers
- Babies – I look forward to being a very young in spirit Grandmother in my 60s
- All-you-can-eat buffet places that give senior discounts to 60 and older. I can eat those 80-year-olds under the table.
- I can skip exercising (well, occasionally) and blame it on "old age."
- I get to take naps!
- I can be weird and eccentric and everyone will love me anyway
- My eyesight is still 20-20
- I actually wasn't born yesterday
- 2/3 through my list
- I am wise and make less mistakes
- When I make mistakes I just write them off as senior moments
- Cats love me (they see an easy mark)
- I'm still active and in more ways than one
- You are only as old as you feel – and sometimes I feel like I'm twelve.
- Some days I feel like I'm 100.
- Life!
- I have God in my heart; God walks with me all day long
- I have a great sense of humor
- Other people laughing is contagious; I surround myself with laughing people
- I am introspective and engage in lots of soul searching and generally find good things in my soul
- A former boss told my current boss to hire me because I was gentle and kind; I really like being thought of as gentle and kind
- I have my teeth; and I floss
- I sleep very well
- I have no regrets
- I have at least 60 friends!
- 20 of my 60 friends are my very best friends forever VBFF!
- Today is the first day of my life, and I get to start all over again with a fresh slate; and it is the last day of my life and I get to fill it up with all kinds of adventures and experiences and memories
- I can still swing to the top of the bar with my feet high and my head back
- Wow! I'm sixty years old! Can you believe it???
4.20.2009
Pieces of Joy
I love finding little things in the day that are joyful.
.
- Like, passing a gradeschool during recess and listening to dozens of children laughing;
- Watching the neighbor teen "race" with his little short-legged terrier running like it meant his life, the little dog's tail wiggling so much that he zigzagged as he ran, stopping now and then to smile at his master and let the teen catch up;
- Sitting at a light and hearing loud cheering from the car next door with its window down and realizing the guy by himself is singing at the top of his lungs to the radio, his head thrown back with glee;
- Babies being strolled by on the first spring day;
- Tulips and crocuses have exploded out of the hard wintered soil;
- Putting my coat back in the closet, finally;
- Spring cleaning! Leaving the windows and doors open, sending the old stale air out and letting the fresh spring air in;
- Bliss.
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4.17.2009
Health Report #1
Just wanted all of you to know that I am "good" for a while. I am having tests done to start the process of going on a transplant list but my overall health is very good and that will keep me riding the fence for a while – and I pray for a long, long while. As I told a good friend, I am really good at sitting on fences. I should be a politician.
I feel the good vibes and the prayers. Thank you so much! I'll just keep on keeping on, as they say. Our minds are so powerful and our attitude is magic.
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4.15.2009
Giving up the bottle
Giving up the bottle. . . . . Not the beer bottle – the baby bottle. When my youngest boy was born a mere 17 months after my oldest, I felt a tremendous amount of guilt that I had a second baby while my first born was STILL a baby. I remember walking up the stairs with the brand new baby and looking at the top step where my not even 18-month-old was standing. My heart stopped with a pang. He's only a baby I thought. I wanted to cry. And sometimes, when both were crying, I cried right along with them. How could I have done such a selfish thing! So, I appeased my guilt by letting my now 18-month-old still use a bottle.
I knew that I should be potty training him but it was so much easier to simply make up two bottles instead of one and then there would be about five minutes of silence, with the two munchkins happily and contentedly (and quietly) enjoying their bottle.
When they were 18 months and a month shy of 3 years old respectively and STILL on the bottle, well, things needed to change. I worried about this moment for weeks. I tried to think of plans. Plan A - and Plan B in case Plan A blew up in my face. So – Plan A was to wait until their Dad went on assignment (in the Air Force) where he worked off site three days and three nights. We'd take Daddy to the base on such-and-such morning and then go back to the house and throw all the bottles in the garbage. Cold Turkey! And then we would burrow in for three days and three nights of crying, wailing, gnashing of teeth, pounding heads against crib bars, going through bottle withdrawal – and after three days and three nights we would be boys and not babies. We would be bottleless and ready for potty training! We would be out of diapers and into training pants. Hoo Rah.
So – we drove Daddy to the base and came home. I asked the boys to gather all their bottles together. They happily did so. Like a game! Then I had them go out to the garbage cans and toss them into the brand spanking new empty garbage cans. And we went back inside and they jumped up and down and clapped their hands and asked what else they could throw away. And acted like nothing happened. They went and played with their stuffed animals and their Weebles and their Fisher-Price cars and acted like nothing happened. They had their lunch with their milk in sippy cups and again – no wailing, no tantrums, no kicking and screaming.
My babies miraculously turned into little boys with a snap of a garbage can lid.
And there was no Plan B.
.
I knew that I should be potty training him but it was so much easier to simply make up two bottles instead of one and then there would be about five minutes of silence, with the two munchkins happily and contentedly (and quietly) enjoying their bottle.
When they were 18 months and a month shy of 3 years old respectively and STILL on the bottle, well, things needed to change. I worried about this moment for weeks. I tried to think of plans. Plan A - and Plan B in case Plan A blew up in my face. So – Plan A was to wait until their Dad went on assignment (in the Air Force) where he worked off site three days and three nights. We'd take Daddy to the base on such-and-such morning and then go back to the house and throw all the bottles in the garbage. Cold Turkey! And then we would burrow in for three days and three nights of crying, wailing, gnashing of teeth, pounding heads against crib bars, going through bottle withdrawal – and after three days and three nights we would be boys and not babies. We would be bottleless and ready for potty training! We would be out of diapers and into training pants. Hoo Rah.
So – we drove Daddy to the base and came home. I asked the boys to gather all their bottles together. They happily did so. Like a game! Then I had them go out to the garbage cans and toss them into the brand spanking new empty garbage cans. And we went back inside and they jumped up and down and clapped their hands and asked what else they could throw away. And acted like nothing happened. They went and played with their stuffed animals and their Weebles and their Fisher-Price cars and acted like nothing happened. They had their lunch with their milk in sippy cups and again – no wailing, no tantrums, no kicking and screaming.
My babies miraculously turned into little boys with a snap of a garbage can lid.
And there was no Plan B.
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4.13.2009
Cars Rule
You would not believe this. I think my cars have personalities. Really. I have a little red Suzuki Swift that I bought brand new in 1989. "She" is tops. Fantastic mileage (40 mpg), doesn't go through oil, likes to travel, never talks back to me, no dings or dents, the upholstery is still perfect. She's a little gem.
And then two years ago, while she was innocently parked across the street along a vacant lot lined with boulders, she was creamed by a drunk driver who sideswiped her totally from back to front and then smashed the other side by squishing her against the boulders. I got up at 3:00 in the morning right after it happened and all I could do was stand there in my jammies and stare. I couldn't believe this had happened to my trusty excellent little car.
So I bought a new car and Mechanic Man parked Little Red in the garden.
The new one just doesn't have my heart. It has a very dull personality. It's boring. It's silver and so are a gazillion other cars. I'll park at the store and when I come out – there are a whole row of silver cars like ticky tacky houses all in a row. It doesn't call out to me. It just sits there, blending in with all the rest.
Maybe that explains why I have had a couple fender benders with it in the last couple months. It's almost like a disease. I'm starting to get paranoid. I'm starting to hyperventilate and second guess myself. Will today be another "bump" in the road?
I don't think my silver car likes me.
So, I went to the store to get stuff for home made tacos. Mechanic Man makes tacos to die for. I got home and discovered the corn shells broke when they were tossed in the bag with everything else, so I went back to the store to replace them.
And I bumped into the car next to where I parked. Don't ask me how. I don't know. It just happened. So I pulled to the spot in front of where I was and checked the damages. Scraped the front bumper on my car. Nice little dent in the door of the victim. I called my insurance company and relayed all the petty information.
Only the owner never came out (turned out she worked there all night). Well, I was so rattled by the whole thing and that it was MY fault AGAIN, I saw that the window was slightly open and I slipped the note through the opening only to just at that moment realize that the car I hit was the next one over and not this one! And this one was a junkie, dented, crapped out piece of junk. I couldn't leave that note in this car saying "I'm sorry I just hit your car here's all my insurance information, my name, my phone number, my first born. . . . ." So I tried sticking my hand through the window and I couldn't get past my elbow. And so I waited. I prayed that the first person to come out would be the wrong person so I could get my note back. Otherwise, if it were the right person then we'd both have to wait for the wrong person. . . . . . Are you with me?
Finally a guy came towards me and to the pile of junk car. I explained my predicament and he laughingly gave me my note back and said "Lady, too bad you didn't hit my car. I would have never noticed."
So – long story short – the gal that owned the car I hit wants to get a new car in a year and she doesn't care about the dent in the door and was very surprised that I even bothered to stick around. And the insurance company said that next time I have an accident I will have to pay two deductibles because I made a claim on this one and even though neither one of us wants our car repaired, you can't save up dings and scrapes and have them applied by one insurance claim if you have already made another claim. It's so confusing.
In the meantime, Mechanic Man found a little white Suzuki Swift and brought it home and parked next to Little Red. He's all excited about getting the car fixed up so we can run around on 40 miles per gallon. We got the little car on Thursday; Friday we were driving his big Town Car, when it suddenly smoked, popped, choked, and died a shuddering, sputtering death, on the freeway. As we waited for the tow truck, he said, "ya know, I think the cars have been talking to each other and this one is jealous."
.
And then two years ago, while she was innocently parked across the street along a vacant lot lined with boulders, she was creamed by a drunk driver who sideswiped her totally from back to front and then smashed the other side by squishing her against the boulders. I got up at 3:00 in the morning right after it happened and all I could do was stand there in my jammies and stare. I couldn't believe this had happened to my trusty excellent little car.
So I bought a new car and Mechanic Man parked Little Red in the garden.
The new one just doesn't have my heart. It has a very dull personality. It's boring. It's silver and so are a gazillion other cars. I'll park at the store and when I come out – there are a whole row of silver cars like ticky tacky houses all in a row. It doesn't call out to me. It just sits there, blending in with all the rest.
Maybe that explains why I have had a couple fender benders with it in the last couple months. It's almost like a disease. I'm starting to get paranoid. I'm starting to hyperventilate and second guess myself. Will today be another "bump" in the road?
I don't think my silver car likes me.
So, I went to the store to get stuff for home made tacos. Mechanic Man makes tacos to die for. I got home and discovered the corn shells broke when they were tossed in the bag with everything else, so I went back to the store to replace them.
And I bumped into the car next to where I parked. Don't ask me how. I don't know. It just happened. So I pulled to the spot in front of where I was and checked the damages. Scraped the front bumper on my car. Nice little dent in the door of the victim. I called my insurance company and relayed all the petty information.
- No – I'm not hurt.
- No – I'm not blocking traffic.
- Hell, no, I'm not fixing it THIS time.
- No – I don't know who owns the other car because they aren't here. It was parked.
- I'm in a parking lot and all the cars are parked.
- The owner isn't here. The owner parked their car and went into the store.
- Fine. I'll leave a note on the other car.
- Thank you so much.
Finally a guy came towards me and to the pile of junk car. I explained my predicament and he laughingly gave me my note back and said "Lady, too bad you didn't hit my car. I would have never noticed."
So – long story short – the gal that owned the car I hit wants to get a new car in a year and she doesn't care about the dent in the door and was very surprised that I even bothered to stick around. And the insurance company said that next time I have an accident I will have to pay two deductibles because I made a claim on this one and even though neither one of us wants our car repaired, you can't save up dings and scrapes and have them applied by one insurance claim if you have already made another claim. It's so confusing.
In the meantime, Mechanic Man found a little white Suzuki Swift and brought it home and parked next to Little Red. He's all excited about getting the car fixed up so we can run around on 40 miles per gallon. We got the little car on Thursday; Friday we were driving his big Town Car, when it suddenly smoked, popped, choked, and died a shuddering, sputtering death, on the freeway. As we waited for the tow truck, he said, "ya know, I think the cars have been talking to each other and this one is jealous."
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4.07.2009
101 Things You Never Wanted to Know
Wow! I mentioned my kidney disease on my blog and people came out of the woodwork to comment and to offer support and prayers. I was shocked at the sincere concern of my friends. These are people that I blog with, commiserate with, drink with, and laugh and cry with. I had no idea that my personal ailment would impact other people.
Here are the boring details: Polycystic kidney disease (PKD) is a genetic disorder characterized by the growth of numerous cysts in the kidneys. For even more boring reading, you can look at http://www.kidney.niddk.nih.gov/kudiseases/pubs/pdf/PKD.pdf. That will put you to sleep in a couple of minutes.
When I was 23, I called my parents to tell them I was pregnant with my first son. I lived in Indiana at the time while my husband was in the Air Force, stationed in Peru, Indiana. Mom informed me that Dad had Polycystic Kidney Disease, otherwise called PKD. I immediately offered one of my kidneys to him. And that's when I found out that PKD is one of the highest hereditary diseases, even above Diabetes, and that I more than likely had it too. I was officially diagnosed when I was 28.
There is no cure. But science has been making great strides over the years since I first found out about myself. Dialysis has gotten better. It used to be so abrasive to your system that you would run out of veins to use, or, like in my Dad's case, the solution can cause peritonitis and aneurisms. It's kind of scary.
Of my three siblings, one brother does not have PKD. My sister had a transplant, where her brother-in-law was the kidney donor. My brother had a transplant with a cadaver kidney. Both are perfect matches and both have been very healthy.
OK, that's the boring stuff. My brother and I have banded together to have a positive attitude on this and not dwell on the negatives. This was difficult to manage with our mother – who, for some reason, went through life with a cloud over her head. Every time we talked to her, it didn't matter about what, she would go into a tirade that I called "101 things you never wanted to know about polycystic kidney disease and wouldn't ask your mother so she's going to tell you anyway."
And I still don't want to know about those 101 things. Al and I decided 30 years ago that we would not dwell in the negative. We have both watched our health; we have both kept a sense of humor about our bodies and life. You just can't bog yourself down with heavy, negative thoughts. I remember calling Mom and in the conversation I wanted to speak to Dad but he was lying down, not feeling well, and Mom started on the kidney doom tale: "Your Dad is on dialysis six hours a day, three days a week, for the REST of his life and . . . ." I had heard this so many times that I got to the point I could instantly shut it off and all I heard was "bla bla bla bla bla bla bla." If I told her I didn't want to talk about it, she'd accuse me of sticking my head in the sand. My point of being positive was never taken. So, I shrugged my shoulders and turned on the bla bla tape and did something creative – like watered my plants – until she was done and then we could talk about something else entirely, like the Oregon beach. All is good!
Mom passed away three years ago this May. Her attitude finally did her in. One day, April 22, she was diagnosed with lung cancer. Two weeks later she was in a coma and one week later, May 11, she was dead. I strongly believe her negativity finally got her.
So – back to me. I'm not discouraged. This is just a little snafu on my way through this life. I have an "attitude of gratitude" and my cup is always half full and getting fuller.
Many people asked me what they could do for me. Now here comes the real kerfunkle. One of the most difficult things for me to do is ask for help. Argghhh. I'd rather pull one of my own teeth. What can I ask for, anyway? I could hardly go around to all my friends asking for one of their kidneys. Eeeek. Hey, I love ya man, give me one of your kidneys. [hangs head in shame]
What I can say unequivocally is that friendship with you, all of you, is my ultimate grace. You are what keeps me going and keeps my humor up and my spirits up. I figure I have about 20 Very Best Friends Forever. Many I have never met in person. I have my dinner group friends, my Red Hat friends, my legal secretary/paralegal friends around the United States, and I have you, my blog friends. I figure I am just about one of the luckiest people on the planet. I have blogging friends who are intelligent, intellectual, and sharp; who are funny, witty, and gifted; who are professionals – attorneys, writers, medical, and who home school their children.
I blurked for quite a while and got to know people on Huckleberries. Then one of the first people to interact with me was Marmitoastie. I think we're twins! I'm fairly certain we are related in some way. And then I met Cindy and I tell you what – I think we're triplets! Way too much in common. Maybe it's because we all have boys. Maybe it's because we all love firemen. I don't know. But it's been a kick in the pants. Cindy and I met face to face early on and "knew" each other without introduction. We have bonded.
How blessed can I get? I have it all! See – attitude is EVERYTHING! Now it's not all so bad, is it?
.
Here are the boring details: Polycystic kidney disease (PKD) is a genetic disorder characterized by the growth of numerous cysts in the kidneys. For even more boring reading, you can look at http://www.kidney.niddk.nih.gov/kudiseases/pubs/pdf/PKD.pdf. That will put you to sleep in a couple of minutes.
When I was 23, I called my parents to tell them I was pregnant with my first son. I lived in Indiana at the time while my husband was in the Air Force, stationed in Peru, Indiana. Mom informed me that Dad had Polycystic Kidney Disease, otherwise called PKD. I immediately offered one of my kidneys to him. And that's when I found out that PKD is one of the highest hereditary diseases, even above Diabetes, and that I more than likely had it too. I was officially diagnosed when I was 28.
There is no cure. But science has been making great strides over the years since I first found out about myself. Dialysis has gotten better. It used to be so abrasive to your system that you would run out of veins to use, or, like in my Dad's case, the solution can cause peritonitis and aneurisms. It's kind of scary.
Of my three siblings, one brother does not have PKD. My sister had a transplant, where her brother-in-law was the kidney donor. My brother had a transplant with a cadaver kidney. Both are perfect matches and both have been very healthy.
OK, that's the boring stuff. My brother and I have banded together to have a positive attitude on this and not dwell on the negatives. This was difficult to manage with our mother – who, for some reason, went through life with a cloud over her head. Every time we talked to her, it didn't matter about what, she would go into a tirade that I called "101 things you never wanted to know about polycystic kidney disease and wouldn't ask your mother so she's going to tell you anyway."
And I still don't want to know about those 101 things. Al and I decided 30 years ago that we would not dwell in the negative. We have both watched our health; we have both kept a sense of humor about our bodies and life. You just can't bog yourself down with heavy, negative thoughts. I remember calling Mom and in the conversation I wanted to speak to Dad but he was lying down, not feeling well, and Mom started on the kidney doom tale: "Your Dad is on dialysis six hours a day, three days a week, for the REST of his life and . . . ." I had heard this so many times that I got to the point I could instantly shut it off and all I heard was "bla bla bla bla bla bla bla." If I told her I didn't want to talk about it, she'd accuse me of sticking my head in the sand. My point of being positive was never taken. So, I shrugged my shoulders and turned on the bla bla tape and did something creative – like watered my plants – until she was done and then we could talk about something else entirely, like the Oregon beach. All is good!
Mom passed away three years ago this May. Her attitude finally did her in. One day, April 22, she was diagnosed with lung cancer. Two weeks later she was in a coma and one week later, May 11, she was dead. I strongly believe her negativity finally got her.
So – back to me. I'm not discouraged. This is just a little snafu on my way through this life. I have an "attitude of gratitude" and my cup is always half full and getting fuller.
Many people asked me what they could do for me. Now here comes the real kerfunkle. One of the most difficult things for me to do is ask for help. Argghhh. I'd rather pull one of my own teeth. What can I ask for, anyway? I could hardly go around to all my friends asking for one of their kidneys. Eeeek. Hey, I love ya man, give me one of your kidneys. [hangs head in shame]
What I can say unequivocally is that friendship with you, all of you, is my ultimate grace. You are what keeps me going and keeps my humor up and my spirits up. I figure I have about 20 Very Best Friends Forever. Many I have never met in person. I have my dinner group friends, my Red Hat friends, my legal secretary/paralegal friends around the United States, and I have you, my blog friends. I figure I am just about one of the luckiest people on the planet. I have blogging friends who are intelligent, intellectual, and sharp; who are funny, witty, and gifted; who are professionals – attorneys, writers, medical, and who home school their children.
I blurked for quite a while and got to know people on Huckleberries. Then one of the first people to interact with me was Marmitoastie. I think we're twins! I'm fairly certain we are related in some way. And then I met Cindy and I tell you what – I think we're triplets! Way too much in common. Maybe it's because we all have boys. Maybe it's because we all love firemen. I don't know. But it's been a kick in the pants. Cindy and I met face to face early on and "knew" each other without introduction. We have bonded.
How blessed can I get? I have it all! See – attitude is EVERYTHING! Now it's not all so bad, is it?
.
4.06.2009
Shoulder to Shoulder
Sometimes I need shoulders other than my own.
That's why I have my four friends that meet together religiously once a month for the last 25 years. Sometimes one of us needs all four sets of shoulders. It's the closest thing we have to professional counseling and a hell of a lot cheaper. In fact, I think it's better. A counselor doesn't LOVE you. These four friends do. We love each other like sisters and sometimes like mothers. There isn't a problem or predicament that is too difficult or too convoluted that can't be aided and softened by this particular circle of friends.
We don't always get together to whine about our problems, although we know we can without criticism or judgment. A lot of times we get together and confess our antics and adventures, to gales of laughter. There was that time that "one of us" (never ever will I let on who it was, other than to say it unequivocally was NOT me) dyed her hair. All of her hair. Both on her head and down there. She wanted to look like a natural blonde – everywhere, which left nothing to the imagination for the rest of us on why she wanted to have matching hairdos. Instead of blonde down there, she was temporarily screaming her head off from the pain and was afraid her precious hair was being burned off by the chemicals. Never again – she'd shave it off first.
Another friend of the four recently had surgery for Parkinson's where battery packs were implanted in her chest with wires through her neck to her head that would subtly zap her to keep her shaking down to a low roar. She calls her implants her baby boobs, not to be confused with her big boobs.
She used to be a hair dresser. We've watched her hair go from bald to short, sticking straight up hair that was incredibly soft (so we were at restaurants where all four of us were running our fingers through her new soft hair, exclaiming how soft it was), to a chic new do in her natural salt-and-pepper color. (And no, it wasn't her that had the pubic hair adventure.) She's become stunningly beautiful.
Now it's my turn. I will be seeing my kidney specialist in a couple weeks to discuss either going on dialysis or being put on a transplant list. It is a monumental deal. It's not that I'm surprised because I have known this day would come, for many years. I kind of had hoped it would never come and that I would maintain as I have for so long. But coming it is – and fast.
My dinner with my friends is on the 15th – in time for me to use their shoulders and gain strength to face the verdict from my doctor. And they will be with me afterwards to carry me forward. That's what shoulders are for.
.
That's why I have my four friends that meet together religiously once a month for the last 25 years. Sometimes one of us needs all four sets of shoulders. It's the closest thing we have to professional counseling and a hell of a lot cheaper. In fact, I think it's better. A counselor doesn't LOVE you. These four friends do. We love each other like sisters and sometimes like mothers. There isn't a problem or predicament that is too difficult or too convoluted that can't be aided and softened by this particular circle of friends.
We don't always get together to whine about our problems, although we know we can without criticism or judgment. A lot of times we get together and confess our antics and adventures, to gales of laughter. There was that time that "one of us" (never ever will I let on who it was, other than to say it unequivocally was NOT me) dyed her hair. All of her hair. Both on her head and down there. She wanted to look like a natural blonde – everywhere, which left nothing to the imagination for the rest of us on why she wanted to have matching hairdos. Instead of blonde down there, she was temporarily screaming her head off from the pain and was afraid her precious hair was being burned off by the chemicals. Never again – she'd shave it off first.
Another friend of the four recently had surgery for Parkinson's where battery packs were implanted in her chest with wires through her neck to her head that would subtly zap her to keep her shaking down to a low roar. She calls her implants her baby boobs, not to be confused with her big boobs.
She used to be a hair dresser. We've watched her hair go from bald to short, sticking straight up hair that was incredibly soft (so we were at restaurants where all four of us were running our fingers through her new soft hair, exclaiming how soft it was), to a chic new do in her natural salt-and-pepper color. (And no, it wasn't her that had the pubic hair adventure.) She's become stunningly beautiful.
Now it's my turn. I will be seeing my kidney specialist in a couple weeks to discuss either going on dialysis or being put on a transplant list. It is a monumental deal. It's not that I'm surprised because I have known this day would come, for many years. I kind of had hoped it would never come and that I would maintain as I have for so long. But coming it is – and fast.
My dinner with my friends is on the 15th – in time for me to use their shoulders and gain strength to face the verdict from my doctor. And they will be with me afterwards to carry me forward. That's what shoulders are for.
.
3.31.2009
29 and hanging on by my fingernails
Oh, you wish!
I have a reverse calendar at work, ticking off the days to when I'm turning the unbelievable age of SIXTY. Why is this unbelievable??? I look in the mirror and I see maybe 40. I don't feel this new age. So, anyway, yesterday it was 30 days to 60. Today it's 29 days. Twenty-nine. I remember that age – vividly. 29 was hard to leave – I went kind of kicking and screaming. The 20's are such exuberant years. You are finally out from under your overbearing parents. You are on your own. Got that apartment. Then married with children. The house.
The 30's came and GAACK, you were really an adult now. All that responsibility. All the decisions with nobody to back you. Everything was a drama. Bills to pay, parent teacher conferences, doctor visits for the kids, hospital treks for the kids, Disney once for the kids, if you were lucky and could afford it.
When I was 39, I worked for a selfish, egotistical, full-of-himself jerk who sauntered in one day and tossed a Reader's Digest at me and said "Here. Type this up for me. It's my motto. It's why I'm who I am. It's why I have made it today."
I glanced at the article: "Success by the Age of 40: Ten Steps."
I started typing and thinking – hoo boy – by 40. I'll be 40 in ten months. I remember it almost exactly to the date – it was the end of June. Success by the age of 40 – I'll never make it. I got more and more depressed and for the next ten months, I spent the whole time being almost 40. I stopped being 39. I kissed the 30s smack down goodbye. I was almost 40.
The 40s are kind of a blur. Kids are growing up and you're worrying about college or they're going off into the service and you're worrying about war spots around the world. The mortgage has been refinanced, credit card companies know you by name and send you deals every day, every single damn day, and at no interest for six months, hallelujah.
And suddenly you are 50. Half a century. And you realize that, gee, I don't think I'm even middle aged. I think I passed middle age five years ago, maybe longer. Holy cow – I'm over the hill and THAT means it's down hill from here, at an ever increasing faster, and faster, and faster rate.
Now I'm turning 60, feel like 30, look like 40 (ok, maybe 45). And I'm thinking – you know – this ain't bad if this is what 60 feels like. I'm still roaring like a lion, getting myself into trouble by pressing buttons I'm told not to, and I'm still creating new friendships, starting new projects as if I'm going to live forever.
I have thought that it might be a good idea to stop reading the obituaries. I find myself looking at the ages in the obituaries and thinking, boy is he old looking or something similarly derisive. And then I'll look in the mirror and think – eek – I'm his age. It gives you pause at any rate.
So – in 29 days from this moment, I will turn 60. Wow.
I have a reverse calendar at work, ticking off the days to when I'm turning the unbelievable age of SIXTY. Why is this unbelievable??? I look in the mirror and I see maybe 40. I don't feel this new age. So, anyway, yesterday it was 30 days to 60. Today it's 29 days. Twenty-nine. I remember that age – vividly. 29 was hard to leave – I went kind of kicking and screaming. The 20's are such exuberant years. You are finally out from under your overbearing parents. You are on your own. Got that apartment. Then married with children. The house.
The 30's came and GAACK, you were really an adult now. All that responsibility. All the decisions with nobody to back you. Everything was a drama. Bills to pay, parent teacher conferences, doctor visits for the kids, hospital treks for the kids, Disney once for the kids, if you were lucky and could afford it.
When I was 39, I worked for a selfish, egotistical, full-of-himself jerk who sauntered in one day and tossed a Reader's Digest at me and said "Here. Type this up for me. It's my motto. It's why I'm who I am. It's why I have made it today."
I glanced at the article: "Success by the Age of 40: Ten Steps."
I started typing and thinking – hoo boy – by 40. I'll be 40 in ten months. I remember it almost exactly to the date – it was the end of June. Success by the age of 40 – I'll never make it. I got more and more depressed and for the next ten months, I spent the whole time being almost 40. I stopped being 39. I kissed the 30s smack down goodbye. I was almost 40.
The 40s are kind of a blur. Kids are growing up and you're worrying about college or they're going off into the service and you're worrying about war spots around the world. The mortgage has been refinanced, credit card companies know you by name and send you deals every day, every single damn day, and at no interest for six months, hallelujah.
And suddenly you are 50. Half a century. And you realize that, gee, I don't think I'm even middle aged. I think I passed middle age five years ago, maybe longer. Holy cow – I'm over the hill and THAT means it's down hill from here, at an ever increasing faster, and faster, and faster rate.
Now I'm turning 60, feel like 30, look like 40 (ok, maybe 45). And I'm thinking – you know – this ain't bad if this is what 60 feels like. I'm still roaring like a lion, getting myself into trouble by pressing buttons I'm told not to, and I'm still creating new friendships, starting new projects as if I'm going to live forever.
I have thought that it might be a good idea to stop reading the obituaries. I find myself looking at the ages in the obituaries and thinking, boy is he old looking or something similarly derisive. And then I'll look in the mirror and think – eek – I'm his age. It gives you pause at any rate.
So – in 29 days from this moment, I will turn 60. Wow.
3.26.2009
Help! Help! I'm Falling!
Well, not really – it really isn't that far. Maybe two feet. I won't die but I'll probably get black and blue when I tumble helplessly off the chair while changing a light bulb.
Yep – I have acrophobia which is an unreasonable fear of heights. I know it's unreasonable. I know it's only two feet. Babies are almost two feet long when they're born. So, it really isn't that high. Below my knees, I think. But still – standing on a chair is like standing on a tight wire hung from the Empire State Building . . . connected to. . . where?? And with no net.
My fear of heights is embarrassingly unreasonable. I have a ceiling fan with four decorative lights that has cobwebs and bugs and things and burnt out lights, all four of them. I can't even reach it if I stand on a chair. I have to stand on the kitchen table, which means I have to drag it under the ceiling fan about five feet away; then I have to climb on the table from the chair. Then I stand veeeeerrrrryyyy slowly and try to balance myself on the table. I have to do this when I am alone because my sons just laugh and holler (and the noise adds to the non-equilibrium). Then I have to take a long handled dust mop and swipe at the blades, which start to turn, which makes me dizzy, and even more unbalanced. {shudder} O my.
So I have a ceiling fan that hasn't been touched by mop, dust rag, or anything else from my hand in about five years. Please don't look up when you come to dinner.
I discover new things that add to my fear of heights – besides changing light bulbs and cleaning ceiling fans. Fire escape stairs. I cannot go down fire escape stairs. I can go up just fine.
I went to see a friend in an apartment building that had fire escape stairs that went to the second floor. I didn't give it a second thought as I skipped up the stairs to her apartment. Once there I realized that 301 was not on the second floor, it was on the third floor. So I turned to go up the next flight when I froze. I could SEE through the stairs to the ground far, FAR below me. I couldn't move. A couple came out of an apartment and I just stood there.
* Can we help you?
* O no, I'm fine, just waiting for a friend (and I don't want you to know I can't move my legs to go down the stairs)
Off they go and I wait for them to leave the parking lot and I inch towards the precipice of the top stair (having decided I am NOT going up to the third floor, no way, no how). I can't move. I try and try – foot out over the sheer drop to outer space – foot back – try again – foot back. Finally I sat down and scooched my butt down each step. Shredded my nylons. And felt like a total idiot.
To add insult to injury, there was some guy sitting in his car at the bottom of the stairs who had been watching me the whole time. I just noticed him as I lept from the bottom step to the safety of my car. Stared at me the whole time!!!
I visited another friend who lived on the second floor and her stairs were solid – no see through stuff – so again, I thought nothing of going UP the stairs. Coming down was just as bad as the fire escape stairs. So here is my friend, nine months pregnant looking like she's going to pop any second helping me down the stairs.
Hmmm, wonder if that is why I don't get Christmas cards from her anymore.
So, I've figured out that I can go up stairs perfectly normal, whether they are see-through or not. I just can't go down.
Want to know why I'm divorced? I mean really divorced? Because my soon to be husband (now ex) thought it was hilarious that the ferris wheel at the fairgrounds was STUCK with us at the very top and I'm sobbing and wailing. He took his camera out and snapped a picture of me. That's why I'm divorced.
.
Yep – I have acrophobia which is an unreasonable fear of heights. I know it's unreasonable. I know it's only two feet. Babies are almost two feet long when they're born. So, it really isn't that high. Below my knees, I think. But still – standing on a chair is like standing on a tight wire hung from the Empire State Building . . . connected to. . . where?? And with no net.
My fear of heights is embarrassingly unreasonable. I have a ceiling fan with four decorative lights that has cobwebs and bugs and things and burnt out lights, all four of them. I can't even reach it if I stand on a chair. I have to stand on the kitchen table, which means I have to drag it under the ceiling fan about five feet away; then I have to climb on the table from the chair. Then I stand veeeeerrrrryyyy slowly and try to balance myself on the table. I have to do this when I am alone because my sons just laugh and holler (and the noise adds to the non-equilibrium). Then I have to take a long handled dust mop and swipe at the blades, which start to turn, which makes me dizzy, and even more unbalanced. {shudder} O my.
So I have a ceiling fan that hasn't been touched by mop, dust rag, or anything else from my hand in about five years. Please don't look up when you come to dinner.
I discover new things that add to my fear of heights – besides changing light bulbs and cleaning ceiling fans. Fire escape stairs. I cannot go down fire escape stairs. I can go up just fine.
I went to see a friend in an apartment building that had fire escape stairs that went to the second floor. I didn't give it a second thought as I skipped up the stairs to her apartment. Once there I realized that 301 was not on the second floor, it was on the third floor. So I turned to go up the next flight when I froze. I could SEE through the stairs to the ground far, FAR below me. I couldn't move. A couple came out of an apartment and I just stood there.
* Can we help you?
* O no, I'm fine, just waiting for a friend (and I don't want you to know I can't move my legs to go down the stairs)
Off they go and I wait for them to leave the parking lot and I inch towards the precipice of the top stair (having decided I am NOT going up to the third floor, no way, no how). I can't move. I try and try – foot out over the sheer drop to outer space – foot back – try again – foot back. Finally I sat down and scooched my butt down each step. Shredded my nylons. And felt like a total idiot.
To add insult to injury, there was some guy sitting in his car at the bottom of the stairs who had been watching me the whole time. I just noticed him as I lept from the bottom step to the safety of my car. Stared at me the whole time!!!
I visited another friend who lived on the second floor and her stairs were solid – no see through stuff – so again, I thought nothing of going UP the stairs. Coming down was just as bad as the fire escape stairs. So here is my friend, nine months pregnant looking like she's going to pop any second helping me down the stairs.
Hmmm, wonder if that is why I don't get Christmas cards from her anymore.
So, I've figured out that I can go up stairs perfectly normal, whether they are see-through or not. I just can't go down.
Want to know why I'm divorced? I mean really divorced? Because my soon to be husband (now ex) thought it was hilarious that the ferris wheel at the fairgrounds was STUCK with us at the very top and I'm sobbing and wailing. He took his camera out and snapped a picture of me. That's why I'm divorced.
.
3.23.2009
The Critters' Corner
I am a pet orphan as I write this. I really don't know how that has happened, since I have had a cat or dog or both since I was a small child.
I have had cats that live to be ancient wise cats that seem to calmly sit, on a pillow-like throne, ruling the world with just their thoughts. I have had dogs that lived long lives, too, but they always seemed to not age well – they were never wise, as the cats became. They were just less yippy and jumpy.
At one time I had two wise old cats: Smokey who was about 14, very old acting, very wise acting, and very sedate. He would sit and rule the world with his mesmerizing mind thoughts. Squeak, the other cat, was 12, also very wise and intelligent, cleverly out-ruling Smokey with silent shrewd looks at her subjects – me being her main subject.
Along with Smokey and Squeaky was our Pit Bull, Rebel – who the cats knew as Dumb Dopey Dog. Dumb Dopey Dog thought he was a cat and a very unskilled cat. He'd try to purr and nothing would happen. He'd curl up in your lap like he was Squeak – but he still couldn't purr. He was sad about this – he'd roll his eyes up at you with a despondent, sorrowful stare and sigh a heavy sigh and lay his head back down, forever chagrined that he couldn't purr.
As smart as my wise cats were, they never discovered the art of mousing. I'd have to set traps in the cupboards and then carry out dead little bodies to the garbage can in the alley. But one spring day, Squeak discovered her latent ability to catch a mouse. We had a mouse that was daringly walking back and forth in the kitchen, from kitty dish to dog dish, helping herself to a cat morsel and then trying out the dog biscuits, ten times her size, and then washing it down with either dog or cat water. (I had to have separate water dishes on opposite sides of the kitchen and steadfastly point at the dog water dish until Dumb Dopey Dog figured it out that he was NOT going to get to lap up the cats' water while I was standing guard.)
And the mouse-cat-dog parade went on for days, all creatures just missing each other's presence by a hair. Until one day. Squeak discovered this little creature trying out her food dish. That was the moment her instincts took over and she discovered mousing. To Squeak, mousing involved toying with the mouse – not eating it. Blech.
She was like a cartoon cat with a cartoon mouse. She'd grab the mouse's little tail and hold it down. The mouse would run in place until Squeak let it go and then the chase would begin and she'd hunt down the mouse and hold its tail and patiently watch the running in place until she let the mouse go.
This was all good and dandy except for Dumb Dopey Dog. DDD went nutso. He'd jump on chairs and tables and couches and the piano and another chair and another table. Hopping to and fro in a frantic effort to get away from the ferocious, terrifying, horrifying, vicious, dog-eating, cruel, unstoppable mouse. It was David and Goliath! It was chaos! It was pandemonium! If that mouse could get away from Squeak's grasp, Dumb Dopey Dog was as good as Dead Dog!
I came home right in the middle of this fracas. Where's Smoke??? He's hiding under the table, hunched up, hair on end, watching the free-falling Dopey Dog and the stalwart, death-grip Squeak with total paralyzing awe.
I saw immediately that I needed to stop someone from freaking out – and the quandary was, do I put Squeak out and will she take the mouse with her? Or do I put Rebel out and can I chain him to the fence fast enough. I opened the door to get ready and Squeak immediately snatched up her little friend and out the door they went, with Dumb Dog right behind them and now he was leaping over bushes and fences and coming back to look – like looking at an accident – and then he'd jump the fence again and peer through the cracks. In the meantime, Squeak had discovered the freedom of the outdoors and she would take the little mouse tail by her teeth and fling the mouse as high and as far as she could and then chase the mouse and bat him another ten feet and continue throughout the yard. You have to realize that she is my sweet little tortoiseshell kitty that weighs only three pounds ringing wet and is the cuddliest purringest cat you have ever seen in your life. And she has become this brutal, teasing, raging bully!
The mouse finally died of exhaustion and at that point, Squeak went back inside and acted like NOTHING had happened. I rescued the Dumb Dog from the neighbor's back porch and brought him inside, where he made wide berths around Squeak and avoided her for days.
For several weeks after this incident, I put Squeak outside a lot. I couldn’t stand another mouse episode. It wasn't the mouse, exactly, it was the pandemonium that ensued. After that, I would open the front door and find remnants of mice. All headless. Which is another story, I guess. Why????
.
I have had cats that live to be ancient wise cats that seem to calmly sit, on a pillow-like throne, ruling the world with just their thoughts. I have had dogs that lived long lives, too, but they always seemed to not age well – they were never wise, as the cats became. They were just less yippy and jumpy.
At one time I had two wise old cats: Smokey who was about 14, very old acting, very wise acting, and very sedate. He would sit and rule the world with his mesmerizing mind thoughts. Squeak, the other cat, was 12, also very wise and intelligent, cleverly out-ruling Smokey with silent shrewd looks at her subjects – me being her main subject.
Along with Smokey and Squeaky was our Pit Bull, Rebel – who the cats knew as Dumb Dopey Dog. Dumb Dopey Dog thought he was a cat and a very unskilled cat. He'd try to purr and nothing would happen. He'd curl up in your lap like he was Squeak – but he still couldn't purr. He was sad about this – he'd roll his eyes up at you with a despondent, sorrowful stare and sigh a heavy sigh and lay his head back down, forever chagrined that he couldn't purr.
As smart as my wise cats were, they never discovered the art of mousing. I'd have to set traps in the cupboards and then carry out dead little bodies to the garbage can in the alley. But one spring day, Squeak discovered her latent ability to catch a mouse. We had a mouse that was daringly walking back and forth in the kitchen, from kitty dish to dog dish, helping herself to a cat morsel and then trying out the dog biscuits, ten times her size, and then washing it down with either dog or cat water. (I had to have separate water dishes on opposite sides of the kitchen and steadfastly point at the dog water dish until Dumb Dopey Dog figured it out that he was NOT going to get to lap up the cats' water while I was standing guard.)
And the mouse-cat-dog parade went on for days, all creatures just missing each other's presence by a hair. Until one day. Squeak discovered this little creature trying out her food dish. That was the moment her instincts took over and she discovered mousing. To Squeak, mousing involved toying with the mouse – not eating it. Blech.
She was like a cartoon cat with a cartoon mouse. She'd grab the mouse's little tail and hold it down. The mouse would run in place until Squeak let it go and then the chase would begin and she'd hunt down the mouse and hold its tail and patiently watch the running in place until she let the mouse go.
This was all good and dandy except for Dumb Dopey Dog. DDD went nutso. He'd jump on chairs and tables and couches and the piano and another chair and another table. Hopping to and fro in a frantic effort to get away from the ferocious, terrifying, horrifying, vicious, dog-eating, cruel, unstoppable mouse. It was David and Goliath! It was chaos! It was pandemonium! If that mouse could get away from Squeak's grasp, Dumb Dopey Dog was as good as Dead Dog!
I came home right in the middle of this fracas. Where's Smoke??? He's hiding under the table, hunched up, hair on end, watching the free-falling Dopey Dog and the stalwart, death-grip Squeak with total paralyzing awe.
I saw immediately that I needed to stop someone from freaking out – and the quandary was, do I put Squeak out and will she take the mouse with her? Or do I put Rebel out and can I chain him to the fence fast enough. I opened the door to get ready and Squeak immediately snatched up her little friend and out the door they went, with Dumb Dog right behind them and now he was leaping over bushes and fences and coming back to look – like looking at an accident – and then he'd jump the fence again and peer through the cracks. In the meantime, Squeak had discovered the freedom of the outdoors and she would take the little mouse tail by her teeth and fling the mouse as high and as far as she could and then chase the mouse and bat him another ten feet and continue throughout the yard. You have to realize that she is my sweet little tortoiseshell kitty that weighs only three pounds ringing wet and is the cuddliest purringest cat you have ever seen in your life. And she has become this brutal, teasing, raging bully!
The mouse finally died of exhaustion and at that point, Squeak went back inside and acted like NOTHING had happened. I rescued the Dumb Dog from the neighbor's back porch and brought him inside, where he made wide berths around Squeak and avoided her for days.
For several weeks after this incident, I put Squeak outside a lot. I couldn’t stand another mouse episode. It wasn't the mouse, exactly, it was the pandemonium that ensued. After that, I would open the front door and find remnants of mice. All headless. Which is another story, I guess. Why????
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3.16.2009
Jury Duty – Week 2
Well, I was all geared up to be a service to my community and fulfill my obligations and responsibilities as a juror. But that was not to be. The norm of jury duty is that if you are not called to serve on a jury the first week, you won't be called at all the second week. So, I anxiously called in every night after work to see if I was needed the next day, and it was all for naught.
I was disappointed and even depressed about it. (We were warned to not take it personally, but my heart is on my sleeve, and I was just sure it had to do with my legal secretary experience, and the fact I have many police officers who are personal friends.)
During my second week of jury duty, there was a case going on across the hallway from my case. It was the Jay Olsen trial to find if Officer Olsen was guilty of first-degree assault and reckless endangerment for shooting Shonto Pete in the head and firing four other bullets in Peaceful Valley on Feb. 26, 2007.
Amazingly enough, Olsen was found not guilty. This was a unanimous decision of the jury. Now, I sat back and wondered about how this verdict came about. I find it confusing that a police officer was cleared of reckless endangerment – where it was proven that he fired shots in a residential neighborhood while being intoxicated beyond the state legal limit. That alone, I believe, is reckless endangerment.
However, what we DON'T know are two things: 1) What was the law that the judge gave to the jury? 2) Were some jury members swayed by the fact that it was close to 5:00 on a Friday when they made their decision?
1) What was the law that the judge gave to the jury? In my case, the judge said that once the jury was seated, she would give them "her" law that the jury was supposed to base their judgment on. She said it was not what they perceived as the law, but that it was HER law, and they would go by that. So in the Olsen case – what was the law that the judge gave to the jury? We don't know.
2) Were some jury members swayed by the fact that it was close to 5:00 on a Friday when they made their decision? This was a question asked by the judge in MY case. She asked us to take this seriously and consider if we would give in and go along with the group if the jury was in deliberation on a Friday afternoon. Would they cave and give in even though they felt just the opposite of the rest of the jury members?
I wondered about that because I experienced something similar a couple years ago. I was in mediation over my mother's estate and what I considered was owed to the estate by a sibling. We were in separate rooms and were negotiating what was due to the estate. It took hours and hours. We started at 9:00 in the morning and by 8:00 in the evening, I was exhausted and totally warn out. I caved at $35,000 instead of holding out for the $150,000 that I had receipts for.
So, I wonder now if the jury had a couple that caved.
Jury duty is a critical and necessary responsibility. It involves clear thinking, being very objective, discerning fact from fiction, discerning the credibility of each witness, and holding to your convictions once you have made your decision.
I was disappointed and even depressed about it. (We were warned to not take it personally, but my heart is on my sleeve, and I was just sure it had to do with my legal secretary experience, and the fact I have many police officers who are personal friends.)
During my second week of jury duty, there was a case going on across the hallway from my case. It was the Jay Olsen trial to find if Officer Olsen was guilty of first-degree assault and reckless endangerment for shooting Shonto Pete in the head and firing four other bullets in Peaceful Valley on Feb. 26, 2007.
Amazingly enough, Olsen was found not guilty. This was a unanimous decision of the jury. Now, I sat back and wondered about how this verdict came about. I find it confusing that a police officer was cleared of reckless endangerment – where it was proven that he fired shots in a residential neighborhood while being intoxicated beyond the state legal limit. That alone, I believe, is reckless endangerment.
However, what we DON'T know are two things: 1) What was the law that the judge gave to the jury? 2) Were some jury members swayed by the fact that it was close to 5:00 on a Friday when they made their decision?
1) What was the law that the judge gave to the jury? In my case, the judge said that once the jury was seated, she would give them "her" law that the jury was supposed to base their judgment on. She said it was not what they perceived as the law, but that it was HER law, and they would go by that. So in the Olsen case – what was the law that the judge gave to the jury? We don't know.
2) Were some jury members swayed by the fact that it was close to 5:00 on a Friday when they made their decision? This was a question asked by the judge in MY case. She asked us to take this seriously and consider if we would give in and go along with the group if the jury was in deliberation on a Friday afternoon. Would they cave and give in even though they felt just the opposite of the rest of the jury members?
I wondered about that because I experienced something similar a couple years ago. I was in mediation over my mother's estate and what I considered was owed to the estate by a sibling. We were in separate rooms and were negotiating what was due to the estate. It took hours and hours. We started at 9:00 in the morning and by 8:00 in the evening, I was exhausted and totally warn out. I caved at $35,000 instead of holding out for the $150,000 that I had receipts for.
So, I wonder now if the jury had a couple that caved.
Jury duty is a critical and necessary responsibility. It involves clear thinking, being very objective, discerning fact from fiction, discerning the credibility of each witness, and holding to your convictions once you have made your decision.
3.13.2009
The Cabin Fever Kit
Waiting for Spring
O, yeah, I'm definitely waiting for spring. Spring cannot come soon enough for me. I think I am permanently and terminally cold. I'm cold down to my marrow. I don't have enough layers of clothing. I think the cold somehow found its way inside to my core.
I think I have Cabin Fever. The time change was a glimmer of hope that spring was in the air. And then abruptly, overnight, temps went right straight down to zero! ZERO. I had to pull out my down comforter that I had stored away only two weeks earlier. I had to drag out my down coat that I moved to the back of the closet because I thought my fleece jacket would be sufficient, where it is only good to about 40 degrees.
Anyway, Cabin Fever. It brought up a memory from way back when I was first married and my husband and I were stationed in Val d'Or, Quebec, way far north in the "bush" country, where upon leaving your house, you looked both ways for either rampaging moose or runaway snowmobiles. My mother sent us a package that contained two kits, one for me to make a beaded purse and one for my husband to make a string art ship. It had to go through customs and when it got there, well, it started an international crisis in a minor way. Mom had labeled the return address as "Ye Olde Rice Cabin Fever Kit" (Rice is my maiden name).
This is the short version. It went round and round for about fifteen minutes with Mr. Customs Guy growing increasingly short with me and me growing increasingly frustrated with him and my mother.
We finally got our cabin fever package and enjoyed several days of assembling our different projects.
And even today there is a listing on the register in Quebec for Ye Olde Rice Cabin Fever Kit Company.
.
O, yeah, I'm definitely waiting for spring. Spring cannot come soon enough for me. I think I am permanently and terminally cold. I'm cold down to my marrow. I don't have enough layers of clothing. I think the cold somehow found its way inside to my core.
I think I have Cabin Fever. The time change was a glimmer of hope that spring was in the air. And then abruptly, overnight, temps went right straight down to zero! ZERO. I had to pull out my down comforter that I had stored away only two weeks earlier. I had to drag out my down coat that I moved to the back of the closet because I thought my fleece jacket would be sufficient, where it is only good to about 40 degrees.
Anyway, Cabin Fever. It brought up a memory from way back when I was first married and my husband and I were stationed in Val d'Or, Quebec, way far north in the "bush" country, where upon leaving your house, you looked both ways for either rampaging moose or runaway snowmobiles. My mother sent us a package that contained two kits, one for me to make a beaded purse and one for my husband to make a string art ship. It had to go through customs and when it got there, well, it started an international crisis in a minor way. Mom had labeled the return address as "Ye Olde Rice Cabin Fever Kit" (Rice is my maiden name).
Mr. Customs Guy (who speaks with a very heavy French accent): Yes, we have a package here from Ye Olde Rice Cabin Fever Kit, but I can't find it listed on our company list.
Me: uh, it's from my Mom.
Mr. Customs Guy: Is this a company in Spokane, Washington?
Me: uh, it's from my Mom.
Mr. Customs Guy: Has Ye Olde Rice Cabin Fever Kit been registered with the Canadian Customs Corporation Department?
Me: It's from my mother.
Mr. Customs Guy: (sighs) Ok, I will register Ye Olde Rice Cabin Fever Kit as a foreign corporation.
This is the short version. It went round and round for about fifteen minutes with Mr. Customs Guy growing increasingly short with me and me growing increasingly frustrated with him and my mother.
We finally got our cabin fever package and enjoyed several days of assembling our different projects.
And even today there is a listing on the register in Quebec for Ye Olde Rice Cabin Fever Kit Company.
.
3.10.2009
Quandary
So I voted today using my mail in ballot. It said don't sign the ballot because if you do, it won't be counted because you have identified yourself. Then you stick it in a yellow security envelope with the admonition to not identify yourself on the security envelope. I placed my yellow security envelope inside the white Official Ballot envelope. Licked it shut and then noticed a little flap that can be pulled open with this printed on it: "Do not remove this piece. It is here to protect your privacy." That is on the left. On the right is my preprinted full name and address.
.
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3.09.2009
The Mechanic and His Cars
My Significant Other is a mechanic. He is an excellent mechanic and can fix any problem in any car and especially loves the older, pre-computer cars. He's detailed, intricate, dedicated, and painstakingly thorough. If you have a problem with your car, take it to MechanicMan and it is a done deal.
Now, if the car belongs to MechanicMan there is a whole other set of rules that are followed. Mechanics do not fix their cars the same way they fix yours. They do whatever is the least possible method of patching the car. MechanicMan's cars were always very old (he calls them classic), rusty (character), and noisy (proof they are Mopar). Once my sons compared his car to John Candy's "Uncle Buck" car and it caused me to look out the window and see the twin sitting in my driveway, right down to the smoking, popping, and growling engine that just would not shut off.
It turns out that this same rule applies to family members of MechanicMan including his girlfriend, who happened to be me. I had a 13-year-old Datsun B210 that I faithfully took in to be serviced every six months. MechanicMan would take none of that and he started "servicing" my car. I'm not saying anything negative about MechanicMan – he is my partner of 22 years so there are many endearing qualities – however, his idea of tuning up my car was to take the one iffy sparkplug out, sand it a bit, and put it back. Good as new!
This went on for several years and eventually the poor car was just getting old and things were kind of falling apart, but MechanicMan would keep it going by sanding here, oiling there, and every now and then replacing the starter. In fact he replaced the starter about once a year until he finally went and bought a top-of-the-line expensive starter that lasted for several years.
In the last year of owning the Datsun, though, things started to happen. There was something wrong in the ignition system and MM could never trace exactly where the source was. I would coast to a stop at a light and the car would die. I would slow down to exit the freeway and the car would die (usually followed very closely by a semi right on my ass). The kids and I would chant as we approached lights with "stay green stay green stay green stay green" until we safely made it through. Those times we stalled, the boys would get out while I put the car in second gear, and they would push me until the car started and they'd run and jump in and away we'd go.
Eventually, MM gave me a screwdriver and opened the hood and showed me where the starter was and said to touch that with the screwdriver and sparks would fly and the starter would kick the engine over. So, I had my trusty little screwdriver with me all the time. And then one day when I was opening the hood, the hood release inside the car broke off in my hand. MM gave me a pair of pliers to pull the hood release to open the hood so I could run around and spark the starter. Eventually even my emergency break quit working. So, now the car would die, I'd use the pliers to open the hood, jump out and use my screwdriver and wincingly tap the starter, which would spark, and start the car, and I'd jump back in. I looked like a one-woman keystone cop show.
One evening I was leaving work with everyone else and just about to reach the main road while on an incline when my car dies. DIES. I'm sitting there quietly going insane because my emergency breaks don't work, I'm on an incline, I can't get out of the car, I'm absolutely wigging, when the driver behind me (who had heard my tales of woe for endless days) tapped on my window. "Hand me the screwdriver." He started my car, handed me back my trusty screwdriver, and off I went.
I went straight to Dishman Dodge where I knew the manager and told him I could afford $150 a month for a used car – that works. He said for that amount I could afford a brand new car. So I bought a brand new car and added an additional ten-year warranty to it and told MM he could keep his screwdriver and his pliers and he could not touch my car. Ever.
.
Now, if the car belongs to MechanicMan there is a whole other set of rules that are followed. Mechanics do not fix their cars the same way they fix yours. They do whatever is the least possible method of patching the car. MechanicMan's cars were always very old (he calls them classic), rusty (character), and noisy (proof they are Mopar). Once my sons compared his car to John Candy's "Uncle Buck" car and it caused me to look out the window and see the twin sitting in my driveway, right down to the smoking, popping, and growling engine that just would not shut off.
It turns out that this same rule applies to family members of MechanicMan including his girlfriend, who happened to be me. I had a 13-year-old Datsun B210 that I faithfully took in to be serviced every six months. MechanicMan would take none of that and he started "servicing" my car. I'm not saying anything negative about MechanicMan – he is my partner of 22 years so there are many endearing qualities – however, his idea of tuning up my car was to take the one iffy sparkplug out, sand it a bit, and put it back. Good as new!
This went on for several years and eventually the poor car was just getting old and things were kind of falling apart, but MechanicMan would keep it going by sanding here, oiling there, and every now and then replacing the starter. In fact he replaced the starter about once a year until he finally went and bought a top-of-the-line expensive starter that lasted for several years.
In the last year of owning the Datsun, though, things started to happen. There was something wrong in the ignition system and MM could never trace exactly where the source was. I would coast to a stop at a light and the car would die. I would slow down to exit the freeway and the car would die (usually followed very closely by a semi right on my ass). The kids and I would chant as we approached lights with "stay green stay green stay green stay green" until we safely made it through. Those times we stalled, the boys would get out while I put the car in second gear, and they would push me until the car started and they'd run and jump in and away we'd go.
Eventually, MM gave me a screwdriver and opened the hood and showed me where the starter was and said to touch that with the screwdriver and sparks would fly and the starter would kick the engine over. So, I had my trusty little screwdriver with me all the time. And then one day when I was opening the hood, the hood release inside the car broke off in my hand. MM gave me a pair of pliers to pull the hood release to open the hood so I could run around and spark the starter. Eventually even my emergency break quit working. So, now the car would die, I'd use the pliers to open the hood, jump out and use my screwdriver and wincingly tap the starter, which would spark, and start the car, and I'd jump back in. I looked like a one-woman keystone cop show.
One evening I was leaving work with everyone else and just about to reach the main road while on an incline when my car dies. DIES. I'm sitting there quietly going insane because my emergency breaks don't work, I'm on an incline, I can't get out of the car, I'm absolutely wigging, when the driver behind me (who had heard my tales of woe for endless days) tapped on my window. "Hand me the screwdriver." He started my car, handed me back my trusty screwdriver, and off I went.
I went straight to Dishman Dodge where I knew the manager and told him I could afford $150 a month for a used car – that works. He said for that amount I could afford a brand new car. So I bought a brand new car and added an additional ten-year warranty to it and told MM he could keep his screwdriver and his pliers and he could not touch my car. Ever.
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3.08.2009
Spring Has Sprung a Leak!
Woohoo! It’s Daylight Savings Time. And about time, too. I think they should do away with Standard Time. Why change the time so it’s dark earlier? It just makes me grumpy. And tired. When it’s dark, I keep glancing at my bed like it’s calling my name. When it’s dark, I lose my metabolism.
When it’s light out, I’m energetic and running around finding things to do. Go outside and putter in the garden. Sit in a lounge chair outside and read. Go for walks and look at all the life around me. Daylight Savings means Spring is coming! It is just around the corner!
When it’s dark, nothing appeals to me except snuggling on the couch, reading a book, taking naps, and generally wishing for just one sign of spring.
Now the time has changed and it’s instantaneous and miraculous. I’m ignoring the snow piles still remaining after our record breaking winter. However, I have two container planters where the chives in one look smashed beyond repair. Will life come back in my chives? All the perennials are flattened by the weight of the snow and the weeks and weeks under that snow. I only recently, in the last week, saw sign of my container planters. Birds and squirrels are scampering across the yard, zigzagging snow berms. Quail have come out of their hiding places and are scurrying through the field across the road.
I am claiming Spring is here! Never mind that it snowed last night. Never mind the bitter wind that whipped me yesterday. Never mind that it is Snowing. Right. Now! I mean, look out the window - there is literally a blizzard going on - I can't see The Davenport next door. No, I'm not going to look. It is NOT snowing on my Spring watch. I am damned tired of winter and I'm not taking it any more. I do not care if it snows ten feet. Spring is here! Dag nabbit.
.
When it’s light out, I’m energetic and running around finding things to do. Go outside and putter in the garden. Sit in a lounge chair outside and read. Go for walks and look at all the life around me. Daylight Savings means Spring is coming! It is just around the corner!
When it’s dark, nothing appeals to me except snuggling on the couch, reading a book, taking naps, and generally wishing for just one sign of spring.
Now the time has changed and it’s instantaneous and miraculous. I’m ignoring the snow piles still remaining after our record breaking winter. However, I have two container planters where the chives in one look smashed beyond repair. Will life come back in my chives? All the perennials are flattened by the weight of the snow and the weeks and weeks under that snow. I only recently, in the last week, saw sign of my container planters. Birds and squirrels are scampering across the yard, zigzagging snow berms. Quail have come out of their hiding places and are scurrying through the field across the road.
I am claiming Spring is here! Never mind that it snowed last night. Never mind the bitter wind that whipped me yesterday. Never mind that it is Snowing. Right. Now! I mean, look out the window - there is literally a blizzard going on - I can't see The Davenport next door. No, I'm not going to look. It is NOT snowing on my Spring watch. I am damned tired of winter and I'm not taking it any more. I do not care if it snows ten feet. Spring is here! Dag nabbit.
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3.06.2009
Jury Duty: Week 1
Thomas Jefferson, in a letter to Thomas Paine, 1789: "I consider trial by jury as the only anchor ever yet imagined by man, by which a government can be held to the principles of its constitution."
Thus begins my first jury duty experience. I'm in the middle of a two-week stretch. I tell you, I find it the most fascinating thing I have done in a while. We first gathered together in one large room, called the "Jury Lounge" not to be confused with the "Jury Room" which is the room off from the court room that the jurors meet in. There were approximately 200 of us in the Jury Lounge the first morning. It was buzzing with quiet chatter as we waited to begin. We were shown an orientation film that clued us in on what would be happening and it started with the quote above from Thomas Jefferson.
A judicial assistant (JA) came in and said she was going to call 30 people. As she calls them up, they are assigned a juror number and line up according to the numbers. And off they go. Than a JA came in and called out 10 names and they were assigned numbers and off they went. 30 more were called and the room was still fairly full. Finally a JA came in and said she was going to call 90 people. That was astounding to me. 90 people is a lot of people to narrow down to a 12-person jury. I was #52. I have since learned that the lower the number, the higher the chance you have of being picked for that jury.
It was an amazing process that took nearly three whole days. Finally a jury was picked from the first 24 or so people and the rest of us were released to go back to the Jury Lounge and get new assignments. We were also given today off.
I really wanted to be on this jury. I think that I am very good at impartial thinking and that I could be fair and objective. But one question gave me pause: If you have heard of this case, have you formed an opinion? Well, I had heard of the case – I won't talk of it now until it is over. And I said no, no opinion. Later in bed, I thought about it some more and thought, gee, who wouldn't have formed some kind of opinion? And unfortunately, our opinions are based on the media output. Another question was asked: How can you tell the credibility of a person's statement? And there is no good answer. I knew this had to do with testimony. How can you tell if a witness is credible in what he is saying? All you have are his or her words. And I am thinking that it is very subjective. Would it be his tone of voice? His posture? His body language?
We were constantly cautioned to not read the paper, not watch the news, and not go on the internet. This was so we would be pristine in our thoughts and so we would not have a pre-conceived mindset of what this case involved. The judge asked each of us to define our interpretation of what we heard as "news" on the case. And it brought to mind a question: How often has the news media inadvertently interfered with justice and a fair and impartial jury? We are no longer getting the facts. We are getting conjecture and assumption.
The juror has a monumental responsibility of first wiping his mind clean of anything he has learned through the media prior to the case. I wonder how much that is like being told NOT to think of a pink elephant in chartreuse tennis shoes.
Anyway – a fascinating experience. I am enjoying every minute of it.
Could you be impartial and objective and just gather the facts and evidence presented to you in court and to clear from your mind any tidbits of gossip or tales heard outside the court?
.
Thus begins my first jury duty experience. I'm in the middle of a two-week stretch. I tell you, I find it the most fascinating thing I have done in a while. We first gathered together in one large room, called the "Jury Lounge" not to be confused with the "Jury Room" which is the room off from the court room that the jurors meet in. There were approximately 200 of us in the Jury Lounge the first morning. It was buzzing with quiet chatter as we waited to begin. We were shown an orientation film that clued us in on what would be happening and it started with the quote above from Thomas Jefferson.
A judicial assistant (JA) came in and said she was going to call 30 people. As she calls them up, they are assigned a juror number and line up according to the numbers. And off they go. Than a JA came in and called out 10 names and they were assigned numbers and off they went. 30 more were called and the room was still fairly full. Finally a JA came in and said she was going to call 90 people. That was astounding to me. 90 people is a lot of people to narrow down to a 12-person jury. I was #52. I have since learned that the lower the number, the higher the chance you have of being picked for that jury.
It was an amazing process that took nearly three whole days. Finally a jury was picked from the first 24 or so people and the rest of us were released to go back to the Jury Lounge and get new assignments. We were also given today off.
I really wanted to be on this jury. I think that I am very good at impartial thinking and that I could be fair and objective. But one question gave me pause: If you have heard of this case, have you formed an opinion? Well, I had heard of the case – I won't talk of it now until it is over. And I said no, no opinion. Later in bed, I thought about it some more and thought, gee, who wouldn't have formed some kind of opinion? And unfortunately, our opinions are based on the media output. Another question was asked: How can you tell the credibility of a person's statement? And there is no good answer. I knew this had to do with testimony. How can you tell if a witness is credible in what he is saying? All you have are his or her words. And I am thinking that it is very subjective. Would it be his tone of voice? His posture? His body language?
We were constantly cautioned to not read the paper, not watch the news, and not go on the internet. This was so we would be pristine in our thoughts and so we would not have a pre-conceived mindset of what this case involved. The judge asked each of us to define our interpretation of what we heard as "news" on the case. And it brought to mind a question: How often has the news media inadvertently interfered with justice and a fair and impartial jury? We are no longer getting the facts. We are getting conjecture and assumption.
The juror has a monumental responsibility of first wiping his mind clean of anything he has learned through the media prior to the case. I wonder how much that is like being told NOT to think of a pink elephant in chartreuse tennis shoes.
Anyway – a fascinating experience. I am enjoying every minute of it.
Could you be impartial and objective and just gather the facts and evidence presented to you in court and to clear from your mind any tidbits of gossip or tales heard outside the court?
.
3.01.2009
When is Ignorance Not Bliss?
Recently things have happened to remind me that I am still naïve and gullible. How gullible?? Oh, you just wouldn't believe it. People who know me, know to never be sarcastic with me because I take them literally. I think everyone is honest and straightforward and no matter how often they fabricate something and I believe them wholeheartedly, I keep on thinking good thoughts about them – that they are still honest and straightforward. I had a boyfriend once, after I had divorced my husband, who took this "ailment" I have as far as he thought he could.
I had been going out with "Jim" for only a month or so when I made a picnic dinner which included potato salad; my famous potato salad that everyone I know asks me to bring to pot lucks. After dinner, he called me the next day to say he thought he had food poisoning.
"What kind of potatoes did you use?" he asked.
"Well, regular Idaho potatoes," I said.
"Were they male or female potatoes?" he queried.
Uh, I don't know a male potato from a female potato. I mean, do female potatoes have dents and male potatoes have bumps?
"I'm so sorry," I apologized, "Maybe male potatoes. . . ??"
And then we went back and forth that my boys didn't get sick and neither did I, and him saying that it only affects adult males.
"That's it! " he exclaimed, "I'm allergic to male potatoes."
***************
Then there was the time that I was cleaning his house and he called me to remind me to feed the fish.
"What fish?"
"The ones in my water bed."
"You have fish in your water bed???"
"Yeah. They eat the algae and keep the water clean so I don't have to change it."
***************
.
I had been going out with "Jim" for only a month or so when I made a picnic dinner which included potato salad; my famous potato salad that everyone I know asks me to bring to pot lucks. After dinner, he called me the next day to say he thought he had food poisoning.
"What kind of potatoes did you use?" he asked.
"Well, regular Idaho potatoes," I said.
"Were they male or female potatoes?" he queried.
Uh, I don't know a male potato from a female potato. I mean, do female potatoes have dents and male potatoes have bumps?
"I'm so sorry," I apologized, "Maybe male potatoes. . . ??"
And then we went back and forth that my boys didn't get sick and neither did I, and him saying that it only affects adult males.
"That's it! " he exclaimed, "I'm allergic to male potatoes."
***************
Then there was the time that I was cleaning his house and he called me to remind me to feed the fish.
"What fish?"
"The ones in my water bed."
"You have fish in your water bed???"
"Yeah. They eat the algae and keep the water clean so I don't have to change it."
***************
.
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