Is there a vaccine for this?

In this never-ending lull of nothingness, boredom, restlessness, concern for the future all brought on by this Wuhan  Coronavirus, I keep thinking I want to "bleed" from my blog -- quoting Hemingway -- but my brain won't fire.  My heart is hogging the power.

Reading, I can do.  Writing, I stall.

I'm reading Lisa Scottoline right now, "Killer Smile."  I love her writing style.  This book was borrowed from my neighbor (while libraries and book stores remained closed), and it's not one of her best, but I'm hanging in there.  One thing about Scottoline, she never fizzles when it comes to humor.  Her books are brilliantly punctuated with her uniquely comical wisecracks.  That alone is entertaining and keeps me afloat to the end.

I stumble upon Blogger this morning and my mind goes blank.  I say to myself, well, I could start with my reading list.  Maybe I'll get inspired.  I'll release.  But then it occurs to me -- as it did this morning when looking on Pinterest for a recipe -- that I don't want to wade through endless rivers of endorsements or piles of propaganda and rhetoric to get to the core, the good stuff, the reason I'm there:   To read a blog post.  To check a recipe.

To wade and wade and painfully wade, as a page loads and reloads with the pop-up CRAP -- AIN'T NOBODY GOT TIME FOR THAT, she said.

But then I confess.  I'm not a professional blogger.  I am not interested in getting paid for words I put to paper -- or to screen?  I just come here to purge.  To clear my cache.

I'm a novice blogger.

I'm novice at a lot of things.  A neophyte.  Scrittrice amatoriale.

And lately I lack consistency.  Is ANYTHING consistent anymore?  Uh, NO!  I've shamefully morphed into a sloth.

Is there a vaccine for that?

Lesson Learned: Check Washer Fluid On Frigid Days

It's ridiculously cold.  Winter just came crashing in and down around us here in my neck of the woods.  Up until last Sunday night, we'd only received about an inch of snow all winter.   And rather consistently mild temps.

Until now.

Did I brag too much?  Is that it?  I'm getting paybacks.

Paybacks are hell.

My face is cracking.  My hands are dry.  My lips are chapped.  My washer fluid froze up (and I didn't know it until I was on the highway headed to work).  I'm eating out of pure boredom -- and a little stress ...?

And my mother-in-law has been here since last Wednesday.  Stranded.  She was supposed to have gone home on Monday, when the earlier forecast was calling for sunny skies.  And then somebody decided to give a hearty shake to our otherwise peaceful, placid snow globe ..... and voila!  Crappy, crazy-cold, snowy winter weather.  And she's still here.  Parked.  Until Lord knows when.  And talking non-stop.

I need my silence.  I miss it.  I forget what it sounds like.

During Duck Dynasty last night I actually hid in  my bedroom so that I could watch the rest of the episode in peace.  Would you not think that when people are staring straight and intensely at a TV screen that they would probably want to hear what's being said?  Is that not a big enough clue?

Noooooooooooo!

Tonight the temps drop even more.  Is this a good night for whiskey?

Maybe Watch the movie Eight Below?

It would be good to be an Alaskan Malamute about now.

Exhausted

I should have gone more prepared.

Nobody likes waiting rooms.  There are very few pleasant waiting rooms in a real world.  This we learn.  You do what you have to do.

My windshield had mysteriously developed a crack, right at the top, on the driver's side.  Like, overnight.  Where the hell did THAT come from!

That was two weeks ago.  Today I found myself in a small, cramped, dark, ugly, smelly, noisy, depressing waiting room of a local windshield repair establishment. The seats were small, uncomfortable, and arranged in a sad little L-shaped circle, parked in front of a smallish TV, The Weather Channel playing over and over and over ad nauseum.  Try watching The Weather Channel for almost two solid hours straight, nothing but overly dramatic weather forecasters, one after the other, repeating the gloomiest and doomiest weather across our nation...over...and over...and over...Cheerful stuff.

I THOUGHT I'd come prepared.  I'd brought my Kindle.  I'd eaten a small protein snack before leaving the office, not hungry at the time and thinking it would hold me over until I got home after getting my windshield repaired.  But as I sat in this small, dimly-lit depressing little room, the monotonous weather updates lulling me into a coma amid the bickering and yelling of the workers, I realized that trying to read to stay occupied wasn't working.  I felt myself slumping further and further down into my very uncomfortable chair.

And then the hungries hit.  Oh.my.goodness.  I was suddenly starving.  Of course there were no vending machines.  Zero.  Nadda.  A sad little bowl of peppermints.  Slim pickings.

To make my stay even more pleasant, there were two restrooms within a few feet of where the pitiful little row of chairs were arranged, like, we're talking maybe six feet away.  A little too close for comfort?  Oh, yeah.  I lost count of the number of times these greasy, tatoo-covered workers in the garage bays paraded in and out of the bathroom.  They sure did.  I was shocked and amazed.  What?  Are you having intestinal distress?  Kidney issues?  Should someone call a doctor?  Of those who were in and out, you could safely assume bladder relief.  (But I thought only women had to make trips that often.)  Others?  Well, let's just say they camped.  (Please, God, not again.)  This went on and on and on, the endless parade to the restrooms.  Don't dwell on it.  You'd think that would have taken care of my appetite.  It worked, but only temporarily.

I began to hallucinate, seeing mirages of pizza. It dawned on me that I probably wasn't really hungry, but that it was exhaustion masquerading as hunger.  And there I was, stuck in this dreadful waiting room, way too close to the restrooms, not in the best of company, no one to talk to to distract me, and no idea when I'd be set free.

I tried thumbing through outdated magazines, none of which interested me.  I checked emails on my cell phone.  No matter what I tried, I kept getting sleepier...and hungrier...and sleepier...and on and on and on, enduring this torturous wait, trying to recall a time when I was more bored, more hungry, more annoyed, more exhausted.

Finally, one of the little short, greasy, ear-pierced, tatoo-covered workers came to announce that my car was ready.  I could go.  I promptly thanked the little man, paid my bill, and hauled ass out of there.

Just get me home.  Just drive.  Drive!  Home.Sweet.Home.

Thank God tomorrow is Friday.

My Twin is OCD; I'm Not

I'm a Gemini.  Not that I place a lot of conviction in "signs," but rather that I find them somewhat fascinating.  Curious.

What I find that DOES hold a bit of integrity is that I really am a split personality, as Geminis are known to have.  The Twins.  I'm kind and sweet one minute, but cross the line and I'll tear into you like a junkyard dog.  See, it's that line ya gotta watch out for.  That very fine line.

Likewise, depending on which twin is running the show for the day, I can either be pretty laid back and go with the flow, or I can morph into a relentless control freak.  It's a bit shameful, actually.  I don't want to admit to this!

That's where I am right now.  A little OCD going on here, people.

I've been Googling the worldwide web for tips and suggestions, guidance, on what the HELL I'm doing wrong on my latest chalk paint endeavor.  I began last weekend the project of repainting my kitchen table and chairs using chalk paint. My first two projects had been SO successful, I thought I had this down.  (Scratching head here, frozen frown.)  But the final step, applying the clear wax over the chalk painted finish, has been anything but smooth -- play on words -- and I'm ready to say, "Oh, firetruck it," and resort to a typical furniture wax like Johnson's Paste Wax, rather than the wildly popular, gotta-have-it, nothing-else-will-do clear Annie Sloan wax that everyone raves about.

Incidentally, my first two projects were completed WITHOUT using the infamous clear AS wax.  I used a different brand of dark wax and a far less expensive clear wax bought at our local Home Depot.  This should be a big clue.

Forty-eight hours later and still going in my Googling process, I've begun a Word document with all the little tips and advice from others, both novice and expert, who seem to have either mastered the art of waxing over chalk paint, or who have tried and failed (as I have) and have discovered the solution to their dilemma.

I found this blog post in my research and I LAUGHED OUT LOUD as I read along, relating with her pain.  Very funny!

I'm now on page four of my compiled list of tips and suggestions.  (So do I read this and commit it to memory?  Will there be a test, Teacher?)

Overwhelmed?  Yes.  Determined?  Hell yes.

There will be no white flag.  I am going to figure this out if it kills me.

An invincible

determination

can accomplish almost anything.

~ Thomas Fuller

Fix Me, I'm Bleeding

There are times when there's just way too much STUFF in my head, on my heart, weighing me down.  I’m not special.  We all have it.  People have issues.  It’s the stuff of life.  But I think women have it worse -- no, I KNOW we have it worse.  From the day we took our first breath until the day we take our last.   We pay dues.

 

One of the reasons I blog is that it offers a vessel into which I can empty myself when my drains get clogged and the overflow proves detrimental to my very sanity.  It helps.  Getting it all out of my brain, out of my heart, and onto “paper” -- cyber paper, that is, it assuages the pain.  Though far more transparent than keeping a diary, blogging can still be almost as cathartic.  That is, if the words will form.  And when they don’t -- for whatever reason -- I feel involuntarily stifled.  The weight of the STUFF that needs to be purged bogs me down both mentally and physically.  Try as I might, the words simply won’t form.  My voice gone.  It's empty.  I'm silenced.

Enough.  I can't hold my breath forever.  I need to exhale.  I decided it was time to just sit down and … as Ernest Hemingway puts it -- Bleed.

I think about all the times when I was younger hearing "the old people" say things like "getting old sucks,” or “getting old is not for sissies.”  I'd think to myself:  Uh-huh.  Yeah, I guess.  Hmmm.  Bummer.  But I always wondered to myself what those words really meant.  

It's not that I think of myself as invincible.   Time doesn't stand still for any of us.  We all grow old eventually.  But the goal, hopefully, is to try slowing the pace and easing into it.  Well, as they say:  I didn't see it coming!  I didn’t realize that [it] would send a jolt my way like a bucket of ice water in my face -- or maybe I should say, a cup of steaming coffee?  The horrors of menopause from the past 4 to 6 weeks, arriving like a bat out of hell, have literally robbed me of my identity.  I don't even know who I am anymore.  I look in the mirror and see a stranger.  An unfriendly one.  This is not who I want to be!  Menopause has affected my sleep, my energy levels, my sex drive, my mood, my tolerance levels, and most of all my joie de vivre.  My typical method of unloading a bad hand, the "shit" of  life, has been getting myself to the gym for a good sweat.  But in these past several weeks, that hasn't worked as effectively.  And now I think I know why.  

With no energy and not enough rest, people can expect to morph into a most unpleasant version of themselves. Increasingly fatigued, I couldn't find the energy to work out and was far grumpier than usual.  It dawned on me this morning that I have not had a good night’s rest in over a month.  I'm usually up two, three, four times a night for several minutes at a time, sometimes for over an hour.  Hot flashes, sleeplessness, whatever.  Just can’t sleep.  Can’t rest.  Toss, turn, get up, lie back down.  Go downstairs.  Try again.  Repeat.  And I wonder why I have no energy?  Angry, annoyed and confused, I hurdle insults at myself:

Why I can’t get myself to the gym?  

Why am I overeating more than usual?  

Why am I craving carbs more than usual?  

Why is (he) getting on my nerves?  

Why do I feel so sad?

Why am I so tired?  

Why does winter seem darker than usual?

Why does food not taste good anymore?

Why do I not want to be around people?  

Why do I feel like I'm suffocating?

It’s been a domino effect.  When we don’t sleep well, our cortisol levels go out the roof. which triggers increased hunger and a slower metabolic rate.  As a result, extra fat is stored, making us even MORE sluggish.  Low on energy and unsatiated, we then eat more, both out of boredom and ensuing hunger, and the cycle continues. 

I was trying to do pushups the other evening in the family room floor.  Really???  I was shocked and mad as hell at myself that I couldn’t do my normal set of 20-25.  I got to 15, and not without a struggle -- and gave up.  You're a pitiful mess, I said to myself. What the hell is wrong with you!!!!!!!!!!!!

Yesterday afternoon, after losing my temper with my son over an incident, the last straw that made me snap following a series of other repeated feuds with him  (I used the F word with him twice!!! I never use the F word in front of my kids!!!),  I realized that I needed to get him home then get a grip and get the hell out of the house, go somewhere and diffuse.  Immediately.  I drove to the park and sat in my car in silence for several minutes.  The sun was beginning to set over the hill, and I was fixated on its beauty and calming effect on me.  I sat there in my car for over an hour.  It was too cold to get out of my car, and I wasn't dressed to go tromping through the snow and ice to a nearby picnic table or bench.  I eventually switched on my Pandora app and just sat there staring blankly into the sky, listening to soft music.  What now?  The sycamore and birch trees stood tall and majestic, their gleaming white bark upstaging the surrounding rows of dark green pine and other bare-branched deciduous species.  My medicine.   Temperatures dropping, I watched as clouds formed and drifted in front of the setting sun.  Frustrated with myself for having lost my temper with my son, I felt powerless.

I'm broken.  I want fixed.  

I didn’t want to go home.  I didn’t want to cook dinner.  I didn't want to hear the TV.  I didn't want to face the dimly lit evening winter hours ahead.  I didn’t want to do chores, or laundry, or engage in conversation with anyone.  I didn’t want to be asked how my day was when my husband arrived home.  I didn’t want to talk about everything that was bothering me, at how angry I was at myself for allowing a simple thing like menopause issues to have such a stronghold on me.  Silenced.  I either couldn’t or wouldn’t give voice to my frustrations.  I didn’t feel like justifying my behavior or attempting to explain [again] my apparent apathy and aloofness.  

No voice.  Silenced.  I couldn’t even put the sentence together in my head. 

The only words that felt right forming on my lips …

What’s FUCKING wrong with me?

Leave me the hell alone.

After the sun had set and darkness began filling my world, I knew I couldn’t put it off any longer.  I had to go home.  Hunger hit out of nowhere.  I'm not cooking, I said to myself.  I stopped and grabbed a few hot n spicy wings.  They hit the spot.  I needed KICK.  Actually, what I needed was a KICK START.  But what, where, and how?

I pulled into the driveway.  I walked in the house.  I tersely answered the impending rhetorical questions.  I gave my side of the story regarding the argument I’d had with my son, defiantly defending myself -- the words were beginning to spill, it seemed.  Yikes.  

I announced that I was going upstairs to read.  Translated:  Leave me alone.  After changing clothes and getting ready for bed -- at 7:30! -- I crawled into bed and began to read.   I read for about an hour, and then fell asleep.  I woke up an hour later feeling entirely exhausted and desperate for more rest.  My doctor had given me a prescription to help with night sweats a few weeks ago, and after the third night and no results, I’d given up on it.  I decided last night to take two instead of one, hoping that it would offer me a bit of relief.  

When I woke up this morning, just before my alarm went off, it hit me.  I was ecstatic.  I’ve slept through the night!  For the first time in HOW LONG? 

I actually felt rested.  Having been so depleted of rest and energy, it had been over a week since I’d been to the gym in the mornings.  Today was different, thankfully.  I decided to give it a go.  I made coffee, changed clothes, and off I went, managing to get in 25 mins of leg/glute work and 18 mins of cardio on the elliptical.  High volume, low weight, to really get my heart rate up but still challenge the muscle.  EAU YEAH.  Feeling good so far!  Simple pleasures.  Thankful to feel somewhat alive again, I grabbed my gym bag and headed home.  

The sun was shining, the temperatures had risen to a balmy 34 already, and it was Friday.  Physically, I felt halfway decent for the first time in weeks.  One hurdle down, a few more to go.  But I’ll take this.  I’ll most definitely take it and celebrate.   After all, it is winter.  It’s been damn cold, dark, ugly, and life is beyond dull right now.  Add to all of that the onset of relentless hot flashes and sleepless nights, and I guess I can expect to lose my temper, my sense of joy.  I’ve gotta work through this somehow.  Women go through this all the time.  I’m not special.  I’ve got to find my way.  I have so much to be thankful for.  This is no way to live.

My son had already left for school when I pulled in the driveway on my way back from the gym.  I had already decided to apologize to him for losing my temper.  I grabbed my phone and texted my apology to him with an extra dose of sincerity, ending the text with “I love you.”  No response.  I proceeded to get ready for my day.

Just before heading out the door to drive to work, my phone alerted a text.  It was him.  He said he was sorry for being so disrespectful lately, ending his text with those three most precious words:   

“I love you.”

It made my day.  It fixed me.  For now at least. 

I feel rested.  Finally.  I can smile again.  It feels good to exhale, to purge, to bleed from the heart.

Until the next time…

Is It Hot in Here?

That is the controlling theme for my life, it seems.  It started about mid December, this avalanche of hot flashes, and I've been trying to minimize them ever since.  I've Googled, researched, asked questions, tried supplements -- all with very little improvement.

I’m melting here, people!

I'm hot natured anyway.  Raise my temperature on top of my natural thermostat, and we have a critical situation here.  Several times a day I'm running outdoors to the back porch just to diffuse.  And it's WINTER.  What if it were summer?  Would they have to admit me to the hospital?  Keep me in one of those tents on life support?

That's not funny.

Never mind.

My research tells me that wine and coffee exacerbate hot flashes.  Great.  Just take ALL of my pleasure away why doncha.

I can't wear many of my favorites of my winter wardrobe -- ribbed turtlenecks, some of my heavier blazers, sweaters.  I'm wearing thin, light layers most every day so that I can shed when necessary.  No fun at all!  I guess it at least keeps me motivated to keep my arms as toned as possible.  No pressure.  RIGHT!

So I dreamed last night that I was on assignment (assignment?) interviewing women about their hot flash experiences.  What, when, how long, how extensive, what they did to alleviate them, whether they were successful in treating them.  I was on the news, reporting live with my interviews.  It was a funny dream.  But not really.  I mean it's funny thinking back to it, but the dream itself was tormenting.  Maybe I should change that to "nightmare."

So I managed to get to the gym today around 11:00.  It's my day off -- MLK Day -- and I had other errands to run earlier.  I wanted to warm up (warm up?) with cardio.  I suffered through on the cardio loft for ten minutes and then thankfully headed down to the [cooler] weight room for lifting.  It was shoulder and abs day, with a four sets of decline skull crushers thrown in for triceps.  I pushed hard for an hour and loved-hated every minute of it.

Three sets of each of the following, unless otherwise noted:

lateral raises

lying leg raises/crunches with gym ball

wood chop squats with medicine ball 

Arnold presses

inclined rear delt raises

inclined front DB raises

weighed planks (10 lbs 90 secs)

declined weighted crunches (25 lbs x 12)

leg extensions

bicep BB curls 21’s  (30 lbs x 2 sets)

declined tricep extensions (skull crushers) (30 lbs x 12)

Finishing with one continuous ab cycle: 

20 bicycle crunches

20 V-crunches

15 lying leg lifts 

I'm driving home with the windows down, the cool winter air and warm sunshine in my face.  Sunny and 50 degrees.  This isn't supposed to last long.  We're expecting snow tomorrow.

I have a list of things to get done today on my day off.  I plan to make a chicken casserole for dinner -- my mother-in-law is coming to stay with us for a couple of days before flying to CA to visit her brother for a couple of weeks to beat winter blues.  I'd like to go along too.  But reality tells me I gotta stay put.  We have a trial starting tomorrow.  No goofing off for me.

So in the meantime I'll keep yummy candles lit, play music that soothes and uplifts me, keep popping Vitamin D and fish oil, make visits now and then to the tanning bed (thank you, Deborah), and stay committed to my morning cardio and my gym routine.  It's my survival technique for the nextt couple of months to get me through winter.  You do what you have to do.  Look for happy...

And try to stay as cool as possible!

Ramblings and Rumblings

I was greeted at the door by Chessie as I juggled the groceries I had grabbed on the way home from work.  The temps had dropped to 6 degrees by the time I had arrived home, and I welcomed the warm rush of air as I entered.  Simple pleasures and ushered thanksgiving.  

After putting the groceries away, I made a pot of coffee.  My coffee cup in hand, I eagerly made my way to the sofa, snuggled into my favorite blanket, a velvety red-and-black plaid microfleece , and blissfully sipped my coffee while channel surfing.  The perfect night to snuggle.  Watching TV felt strange.  I rarely watch TV, but tonight I was eager to hear the weather report on the local news.  They call this a Polar Vortex.  Crazy cold!  How cold will it get…?  Thankful that I had nowhere to go, nothing to do.  Winter had arrived. 

I’d gotten an email earlier in the day while in court from Zach announcing that his Christmas package had finally arrived.  I giggled when I paused between hearings to read his email from my cell phone: 

“Package arrived finally.  Yes, you read that right.  It's here."

I quickly emailed back:  “SWEEEEET!  Talk to you tonight on Skype.”

Around 8:30 p.m. I set up my laptop by the Christmas tree that I’d intentionally left decorated for Zach so that it would feel more festive opening his gifts.  We Skyped with him for about 45 mins, watching him open his gifts from us as he chomped on the Christmas candies and goodies I’d attempted to vacuum pack (thankfully) to preserve their freshness in transit.  I’m sure if they tasted bad or stale, he would never have mentioned it.  He seemed eager to devour treats – the good stuff-- from home.  

Pour guy.   Japan’s idea of “candy” is rather obnoxious and unappetizing.  He’d sent our family a tray of gourmet candy from one of the local shops there.  Nasty stuff.  Maybe it has to grow on you?  Not sure.  There were two pieces that looked like dried oysters.  And a couple others that were green-tea flavored??? Nah.  I think I’ll stick to America’s version of “sugar plums.” Butterfinger Santas.... Russell Stover chocolate-covered marshmallow Santas... chocolate truffles.   Zach has lost weight (of course he has!) since he first arrived in Japan in August, and he’d asked for new dress khaki’s and a new belt, two sizes smaller.  He seemed appreciative of his new clothes and planned on wearing them that morning to work.

  

After signing off with him, I announced to my husband that it was time to do our push-ups and planks.  I had informed him yesterday morning that we were going to start doing this P&P routine three times a week, with a progressive approach.  It was the very least he could do if he wasn’t going to make an effort to go to the gym with Colton or me.  Of course, he wiggled loose, coming up with a lame excuse to get out of joining me in the family room floor.  Rather than waste my breath in protest, I completed a few sets of pushups and weighted planks on my own and then headed to bed – frustrated. 

Will he ever give a shit?  

As I was leaving for work this morning, he came downstairs to get my approval on a new shirt I’d gotten him for Christmas.  I wasn’t going to lie to him just to make him feel good.  It looked nice, but it was too snug.  He agreed, announcing that rather than buy bigger shirts, he was going to “lose this weight.”  I told him – for the umpteenth time – that it would be far easier to lose the weight if he’d start lifting weights and spend 30 mins a day 3 or 4 times a week doing some form of exercise.  He flinched and whined and didn’t want to hear it, but at the same time he agreed that he was going to “try.”

My mind toggled to an article from last Sunday’s Parade, “Going the Distance,” about a 94-year-old retired school teacher, who, at 77, entered her first “masters” track and field competition.  The article was so incredibly inspiring, I read it at least twice through and have archived it.  Quoting from the article.

“We think longevity is probably about 70 to 75 percent lifestyle,” says Angela Brooks-Wilson, Ph.D., a geneticist in the Genome Sciences Centre at the B.C. Cancer Agency in Vancouver.  That means just a quarter of healthy aging is about the protection you inherited, and up to three-quarters is determined by how you play the hand you were dealt.

In the last six years+, health and fitness has become an inseparable part of what defines who I am as a human being.  It is quite possibly my single biggest passion.  At the risk of coming across as a relentless bitch, I cannot back down.  Maybe I’ll never get through to him, but I won’t stop trying.  I won’t quit.  Quitting isn’t part of my vocabulary.  We have to take responsibility for our health and well being.  We aren't getting any younger, and this is no longer rehearsal.  It is about quality of life.  It's time to take things seriously.

We owe it to ourselves.  And to each other.  

Colorless

Was it really less than a week ago that I was at the office, planning my last day at work until after Thanksgiving, checking the weather, hoping/praying that Gavin would make it home safely if it snowed as they had predicted.

It seems like forever ago.

The snow was so beautiful.  Remnants of fall peek out of the freshly fallen snow on Wednesday morning.  The snow calmed me.  It seemed to know I needed it.

Since he left to go back home on Friday morning, I’ve been in a funk.  What is wrong with me?  Seriously.  I’ve got to get a grip.  This is not the way it’s supposed to be.  My shame mixes with guilt over feeling this way and it just exaggerates the emptiness. 

It’s as if

all the color has been washed away…

and all I see,

both literally and figuratively,

is black and white.

 I’m somewhat very frustrated with Gavin for having bought a dog (a soon to be VERY BIG dog), knowing he wasn’t allowed to have pets.  He now will likely be evicted.  While he searches for a new apartment, his puppy, Phelan, is staying at our house.  A puppy – un-housebroken puppy – is the LAST thing I want and need right now.  Let’s just crank up the stress several notches, shall we? 

This puppy needs watched constantly when she’s not on a leash, chained up to a loaded 50-lb barbell in our garage.  She’s chew crazy, playfully aggressive, and she poops and pees when she’s not taken out regularly.  To avoid the poop and pee and mess, we take her out at regular intervals.  She cries, lonely when left in the garage by herself (except at night, thankfully), and begs/cries to come in.  I have to gate and barricade everything (while decorating for Christmas????) as she chases and terrorizes Chessie, my Peke-a-poo.  She jumps and romps and she’s STRONG as an ox.  There are no off-guard moments.  You have to constantly be watching her or attending to her needs.

Am I resentful?  Yes.  Is that all that’s wrong with me? 

That’s what has me stumped.  I need and want to purge.  I must.  I’m drowning here.

Get a grip. 

Everything will work out with Phelan and he’ll find another apartment very soon.

Think positive.

But will that cure me?  I desperately want to make this right.

And Change is Never Easy

 

My trusty Lenovo Ideapad laptop, which has served me well for the past 2+ years, has recently suffered a fracture of sorts.  The left hinge had gotten damaged from wear and tear and is not repairable – this I know from having been to the computer repair dudes.  Otherwise, the laptop works like a charm.  Since I have to travel quite a bit with my laptop, opening and shutting the lid is critical.  For starters, I’m back and forth from the courtroom every day, twice a day, to set up my realtime translation, and then returning to my office to have internet access, getting work out, etc.  Yes, the lid gets a good workout, and it’s just too bad it wan’t able to withstand the wear and tear.

So I’ve had to purchase another laptop.  I’m short on funds for a myriad of reasons, too depressing to address for now, so I felt compelled to go with another Lenovo (my favorite brand), though with a few less bells and whistles.  I did a bit of research, googled price comparisons, and ended up purchasing a Lenovo G580 from Staples at what seemed like a good deal.  “Caveat Emptor.” I plan to submit a review at some point.  Overall, I give it a 6 out of 10 stars.  For now.  It’s still new, so that review may change.
My biggest gripe is not having two designated 3.5 mm audio jacks, one for microphone, one for headphones.  I report bench conferences, i.e., side bars, while listening to the parties through my headphones.  The judge pushes a button to turn on the white noise that goes out to all courtroom speakers, except my input cable, i.e., via headphones “for my ears only,” and as the Court and counsel speak into the bench microphone, only I can hear it.  I never even have to get up out of my chair.  When sidebar is over, white noise is turned off, and I take off my headphones and continue reporting open court proceedings.  Thus, I need TWO audio ports. 

Instead of two audio ports, this laptop is equipped with a “combo port” – whatever the hell that’s supposed to mean – that I find rather useless.  I cannot run audiosync  (a backup audio recording that is synched word for word with my steno strokes) through this port, number one, because it is not recognized; and two, because I can’t both listen AND record at the same time – essential for bench conferences.  So I googled and researched and ended up buying a USB Stereo Audio Adapter with two 3.5 mm audio ports that so far works rather well.  My computer, as promised by the manufacturer of this little baby, recognized it instantly as an audio port.  I’m still having to troubleshoot simultaneous playbacks while recording, having tinkered with it most of yesterday afternoon.  This may require more research, more googling, comparing guru gadgets, reviews and feedback – until I get it right. 

Another gripe I have:  There is no CAPS indicator on the keyboard.  I find that pretty essential.  There is a caps indicator light that flashes on the screen for a brief moment, but then it goes away.  I want this indicator to STAY lit.  Is that too much to ask?  I find myself wasting time toggling back and forth from caps to lower case, never sure which mode I’m in.  Time.  Time is of the essence in a reporter’s life.  In most everyone’s life …?

Another gripe – this is a big one, and it involves CHANGE – my keyboard is not set up the way my other -- most all laptop keyboards are set up.  I’m used to having the HOME and DELETE keys in the far right corner.  They are used constantly.  On this keyboard, they are five keys from the right on the top row.  This means I have to stop and search for them every time instead of just reaching up there blindly, an instinctive tap without missing a beat.  The PAGE UP and PAGE DOWN keys, are in a completely different spot too, another critical “change” to get used to.  And the whole keyboard is not centered, but rather sits slightly left of center—why?  Because there is a numeric keypad to the right of the alphabet keys  (I couldn’t care less about this – when do I ever do math?) taking up space where the keys would normally be in true “home” position. 

I type for a living, oscillating from qwerty to steno machine, back and forth, countless times a day and for countless tasks and reasons.  A keyboard layout is about as fundamentally relevant as it comes.  Thankfully, when at the office I use an external keyboard, all nice and predictable, all keys in familiar/traditional spots.  I can fly on that baby.  But when having to use the laptop keyboard, either at home, on the road, the courtroom, etc., there I am, painfully struggling along, trying – TRYING – to adjust to a new keyboard layout and making way too many annoying typos. 

 

When will it get easier?  DOES it get easier?  Will I adjust to this change?  I’ve never much cared for the word “can’t.”  I refuse to give it stage time.  This much I know:  I’ve learned my lesson (again).  You get what you pay for.  Had I spent a little extra money, another $100-150, I may have avoided these bumps in the road.

I’m paying for this.  And I’m embracing change.  Maybe it’s intended to be more of a lesson about change, learning curves and tolerance, and not so much about economics and marketing.  Time will tell. 

Preparing for the Exodus

My mind and heart have been full with emotions for the past couple of weeks as I wrestle with my oldest son preparing to leave for Japan.  Tomorrow.  For a year.  I've been annoyed with him lately because of his nonchalant approach for this event.  Details.  You don't just up and leave the country for a year without paying attention to the details. 

And if he didn't still live under this roof (sigh), I wouldn't be preoccupied and likely not as annoyed with him.  Because I wouldn't know, would I?  I mean, he's a man.  He's not a child.  This is HIS trip, his adventure, his life.  Let him work through this and suffer the consequences through the trial and error of life lessons.

For instance -- and then I'm leaving it alone -- he BEGINS looking for his passport on Tuesday night.  He leaves FRIDAY.  He's known that he will be going to Japan since, when?  May?  And a couple days before he leaves the country, it dawns on him that he might need his passport.  And does he know where it is?  Hell no.  Does he appear concerned?  Only slightly.  After 30 mins of searching, he says to me, "Oh, well.  It will show up.  See you later.  I'm going out with some friends."

That is all I'm going to say about this.  Oh.  But okay.  He found it Wednesday afternoon.  In the scanner where he'd left it to scan to his PC ... who knows when. 

I've taken the day off so that I can go shopping with him to help him buy a couple of suits, dress shirts, ties, a fresh supply of underwear and toiletries.  He tells me he has to wear a suit every day at his new job teaching.  A suit.  Really?  (DETAILS)  And you tell me this the week before you leave.  He doesn't even OWN a suit.

So I sit here having coffee, tossing these thoughts around in my head.  I slept in a little later and will be going to the gym in a few minutes.  Dire therapy.  Maybe this is God's way of helping me to work through the sadness of him leaving, continents away for a whole year.  If I'm annoyed with him, it's not as easy to be sad, right? 

Does he even have a clue how much I love him?  How much I'll miss him?  How much I'll always and forever worry about THE DETAILS of his life every day of his life. 

He's my son after all.

Time to head out in search of endorphins.

 

At his going-away party.

Immigration Reform Touchy Subject?

REALLY?

Who can truthfully say -- in good conscience -- that it is not in need of complete and total overhaul?

MOTHER OF BOMBING SUSPECTS:  "I wanted to scream to the whole world, 'What did you do?' What have you done with my son? He was alive. Why did you need to kill him? Why didn't you send him to Guantanamo or whatever? Why? Why? Why did they have to kill him? They got him alive, he was in their hands," she shouted, her voice cracking.

"It is some kind of show, spectacle," she said in accented English.

"There is a lot that is unexplained," she said, adding that she was considering giving up her U.S. citizenship.



"if they want the body, set sail on a raft and wait for it on the coast of russia.....DO NOT let them into our counrty. She is a lawbreaker and he is an idiot. Have them pay back the US all the $$ thrown at them for being in policital asylum.....welfare , school tuition, health care.....stuff that as [hard working] citizens we do not get..." 

~ "N"