I had to resort to cutting the waistband on a pair of longjohns to relieve the abdominal pain. Days earlier I received several warning signs. But, no, I didn't listen. Had to have my morning mug of joe. Not one, but two. Not weak, but thick as treacle. Serves me right. And the odd glass of merlot after a hard day in the salt mines.
I had to put those hot peppers into the salad. It was the greasy bacon that was the last straw, greasy bacon piled on top of my fake mashed potato (cauliflower) with runny eggs fried in the bacon grease.

Now, I have myself some ulcers and it's back to eating rice porridge for breakfast, lunch and dinner for the next week. And all because i didn't listen...

If there's a silver lining to all of this, it's that I'll probably lose a lb.

that which we are, we are

my purpose holds
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
Of all the western stars, until I die.
It may be that the gulfs will wash us down;
It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,
And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.
Tho' much is taken, much abides; and tho'
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are,
--One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

(excerpt from Alfred Lord Tennyson, 'Ulysses')

Mother's Bag of All Knowledge

Nothing tugs at a mother's heartstrings like a call from her inconsolate kid who has just come to the realization that she may have bitten off more than she can chew in a particular university class.

The compulsion to talk and offer advice is a no no. I've watched enough of Supernanny to know that my daughter wants me to be her sounding board, that I should shut up and listen. So, I listen and because she is hyperventilating, I did deep into my Mother's Bag of All Knowledge to find the cure. We go through the breathing exercises on the phone together. She takes a sip of water and I listen as she delivers her dilemma in spurts. Sometimes I can't actually make out what she is saying. Because I know it is important to her to get it all out, i don't interupt her to let her know that i didn't quite catch all.

She repeats herself and then I prompt her to come up with a solution. Not a solution for world peace, just a solution on how to get through until Thursday and the midtem in another class. She knows it's not the end of the world, but to realise that you can't do something, and not for the lack of trying, is a humbling eureka moment. Poor thing. There is only one way out of this and that is straight through it. Sure, it will hurt. And then hurt some more.

You try your best with what ever God-given talents you have and then there are no recriminations.

I didn't have anyone to tell me that all those years ago. I'm not sure it would have made any difference to how I managed or didn't manage.

I tell my daughter now. This too shall pass.
It's not like your best boy was run over by a car, I tell her, trying to give her some perspective. When she didn't chew my head off, I knew she would survive.

She goes over what she'll she do - her plan of action. And while there are lots of loose ends, lots of unanswered questions, I know she won't be throwing herself off the Golden Gate Bridge today. Her voice has returned to normal, her gasping for breath has ceased.

Just another day at the office...

And that'll be your #1 grandson, thank you very much!

I'm the one who takes the car in for oil changes, the husband couldn't be bothered. Me? I'm like a religious fanatic when it comes to car maintenance, at least as long as the car is still under warranty.

The kicker is that I hate dealing with mechanics and dealerships and the like. Know ing nothing about cars, I always think I have 'sucker' stamped firmly on my forehead, so that it is true when I say , they see me coming.

Today, I worked up the energy to take 'her' (our cars are always female) to the shop. I thrust my car's paperwork at the lady and asked for the 15,000 mile special.

She punched some numbers in to the computer and, lo and behold, instead of asking for my first born grandson as payment for whatever they were going to find 'wrong' with this perfectly-running vehicle, she said, "All you need is an oil change"

Yeah right, missus! I thought to myself. Go ahead and pull the other one.

She moved the monitor around to show me where certain procedures were performed on the last service, blah de blah blah, and all I'd need was an oil change.
"And, you'll be outta here in 30 minutes," her bubbly little self proclaimed.

And, guess what? I was.

Fitness happens!

I purposely walked the same route today as yesterday so I could find the name of the gym. There it was, plastered on the window: Fitness happens!

I had to keep repeating the name to myself like some kind of TM mantra so I wouldn't forget it by the time I returned to the office. Then I spied an orange tabby down a side street and the gym name was lost again until a few moments ago.

I am waiting for fitness to happen to me. I can be all passive about this? Like hell I can. If I don't get my rear end in gear, nothing is going to happen. Whoever thought up that monniker for the gym should be shot.

Tomorrow, Scarlet, I will walk where ever the mood takes me.

- fitness!

The fitness studio is only a few blocks from my office. Do you think I remember the complete name for this studio? Not on your life! This information disappeared through the holes in the colander I have for a brain in a matter of a few minutes or a 100 yards. Take your pick.

It would appear that I have more than my physical fitness to squawk about. The upside is that I worked up something of a sweat and that I actually got off my cherubic behind to take my daily constitutional. One has to strike while one is up to it. One never knows what's around the corner with this body of mine. It's a behemoth task.

On my walk, I saw purple salvia straining their necks for sunlight, a freshly painted house whose front door position had been obviously altered to appease the Feng Shui gods and, a smiling pit bull straining the leash, and consequently the arm of it's teenaged master.

Across the street, a lady on the wrong side of 50 did battle with the sidewalk. Another office drone like myself, her tennies matched her suit. There's a State building a couple of blocks away and their majestic walkers can be identified by the ID tags hanging from their necks. Usually, I encounter them in droves of three or so, and I have to walk on the road to get around them for there is power in numbers; I have yet to see them yield to the single pedestrian. Maybe i should stick out my elbows when I walk, like Oprah...

Leaves of brown

On my walk to the bank, the gutter was filled with leaves. Dry, crumpled, brown things that hadn't seen water in months. When did it rain last? I have no idea. We're promised rain tomorrow. Yeah right! I'll still be hauling out the old sprinlker head at 7:30AM, moving it around at 15 minute intervals before I put on my drone outfit.

I like Autumn best. I remember taking #3 child to the local park to walk in the leaves, to roll around, to bury #2 child, to pile them into a bag to take home for indepth examination. I'm getting maudlin'.

Miss Havisham revisited

I only just caught her out of the side of my eye as I drove past her apartment building. She was watering the grass with a hose. One hand on her hip, the other directing the flow of water on to the parched grass near the street. It was high noon, a redundant time of the day to be watering; at least 85F. A tall elderly lady, she wore a pink floor-length dressing gown, the top half embroidered with colorful flowers. It was the makeup that made me do a double take. A foundation color on her face much darker than the natural color of her neck, cheeks rouged a la Baby Jane, and lips to match. Her hair was swept up in an up-do.
The poor thing, she probably spent hours on her appearance to venture outside. Most likely she lives alone and has little contact with the outside world. I bet she doesn't even have a cat.
Just a flash of garish pink in a bad part of town as I drove by.

A brain divided

It is humbling to realise that one can no longer multi-task as in the days of yore. All I had to do was prepare Sunday brunch for 7 adults. Sure there were more than a couple of dishes and I did have to keep an eye on the BBQ as well as the oven. In the olden days I could have done it, all the while nursing a babby from my titty and doing a load of laundry. Not anymore.
I stepped away from the kitchen for 'just a minute' and, upon my return, I was greeted with the shrill beep of the smoke alarm. My frittata was fried alright. Burned to a cinder under the broiler. To add insult to injury, I burned two fingers trying to remove the cremated offerings from the oven.
The thing is that I found it all kind of amusing. I left the burnt stuff on the serving platter on the counter for all to see. In another time, I would have sat myself down on the bathroom floor and wailed, not so much at the loss of frittata but at the loss of self. It's coming up to my ten year anniversary of the car accident that did my head in. I guess time does heal.

Joy

I had forgotton what it was like. The wild-eyed enthusiasm of a 3-yr old can't be beaten. All the questions. No sooner has one been answered than another one follows. Non-stop it was, last night. Non stop. I'm not complaining. I'm still in awe. Completely guileless, perfectly innocent, not yet ruined by TV, school or adults, the little fellow took me on a walk around my own house, examining the masks. Who is that? Where is it from? Is it heavy? Could I carry it? Can I touch it?
We did the tour three times. On the final tour, another Auntie accompanied us. He shared his newfound information with her. "This one is a King. See his crown."
We ended the evening over cheesecake, or, rather, me watching him put it away like noone's business. All is right with the world.

Visitors

My mother always referred to them as 'visitors'. You know, anyone outside the family who came to visit. Well, on Thursday I'm having Visitors. What makes this lot particularly un-appealing is their rotten 3-year old boy. The family is lovely, even the little lad -quite lovely. His 11-month old sister - lovely. It's just that there haven't been any small kids in our house in years, and this child has crazy ADDH, and we have a pool. Add to that the fact that he, by his father's admission, is the pickiest eater in the universe and that dinner, for him, can take up to 2 hours with his parents pleading with him to take just one bite. I cringe in anticipation.
Yet, being my mother's daughter, I will try to prepare an assortment of food for the wee lad and cater to his tastes, all the while, fixing fabulous grilled lamb cutlets and filet mignon for the adults in the party. And, of course, I should keep the eyes in the back of my head fixed on the pool.

Oh, and before they ever set foot on my doorstep, there's the cleaning to be done. Got to go. Bye!

Fall

It's beginning to feel a lot like Fall. I wear a jacket all day and my little ankles are cold. I'll soon be hauling out the panty hose. I hate how my feet smell after wearing those. But what's a girl to do? I also need a haircut and, ahem, a color enhancement. Ever so slight, of course.
Being the cheap skate that I am, it's L'Oreal or the other one. All for less than 10 smackers.
Seeing as I have come down from my ivory tower and abandoned my stylist of 15 years, Peter, for the generic who-so-ever-is-available at the local Vietnamese salon, I will waltz in after work one of these evenings. There's one guy barber who actually gives a crap. I find myself asking,"Are you done yet." I don't ask out loud. He seems to be meticulous with the scissors, and he doesn't engage in conversation with the stylist next to him as some of the ladies usually do, which I find intensely annoying. It's not the fact that these conversations are all in Cantonese, it is that I don't feel as if my hair has their full attention. If I say anything, will their razor suddenly slip? Still, what do I expect for $12?

The foot

The foot isin't broken. While It wasn't able to bear weight for a few days, it allowed my middle-aged body to gain weight. Curses! Of course, I wear it none-too-proudly, like a girdle. Now that I can almost fasten my walking shoe - the real pain is in the still-raw abrasion on top of the foot - I am determined to go back to walking the streets surrounding my office building.
Apparently, in an effort to make me more productive at work (okay, just plain productive) I am supposed to be on the lookout for 'something positive' that I have never seen. Iam supposed to appreciate my surroundings. I've been walking the same streets, the only things that are not constant are the new batch of fellow humans with whom I share the sidewalk. I tend to avoid my fellow humans. I fear eye contact. I fear being approached, being asked for anything. Don't ask me for directions, that is, unless you want to end up in Timbukto.
Soon the leaves will be falling, I guess that will be something new...

Just call me Igor

Yesterday, a part of my desk that is not 'securely fastened' fell on my bare foot. I was on the phone at the time so I had to stifle my scream. There was a bloody abrasion on the top of my foot. I'm sure that area has a particular name, I just don't know what it is.
I walked around the office like Igor in Young Frankenstein for the rest of the day.
Today is another matter. I can't put the bloody thing on the floor. It won't bear my weight. I have resorted to hopping on my left and then balancing by putting my right heel on the ground. It's a bit tricky and were it not for the current purplish color of the darn thing I wouldn't have made a doctor's appointment for this evening. All expeditions away from my desk have been cut to the minimum. I've had my lunch delivered to my desk, my green tea heated up. I am a lazy git! My tummy is swelling up from inactivity. I'll probably gain a few pounds from lack of exercise.

Bad Feng Shui

A woman came in this morning with a voice that could peel paint. I'm used to the shrill tones of Cantonese, one of the ugliest languages on the ear. But, here arrived this 5 foot-nothing-in- stillettos, speaking Mandarin at a mile a minute, gesticulating wildly, hair all askew. Ugly, I tell you. Just plain ugly. I know how to count to ten and say all of three words in mandarin. One didn't have to be able to speak the language to know that this woman was just a little 'off'.
After she made her second exit (Oh, yes, she came back.) I hoped that would be the last of her.
I am still wondering if I should be waving sage fronds around the office to get rid of her negative energy...

Another day at the grindstone

There's nothing worse than finding a grown man lying prostrate at your feet in gratitude. He was trying to thank us for helping him with his case. It involved a young fiancee and a none-too-helpful consular officer in the nether regions of the globe. Anyway, I would have thought that finding someone thanking us at that level would have been gratifying. On the contrary, it was horrifying.
"Please stop, please get up..." We ended up begging him. It was uncomfortable watching him cry and behave in this manner.

Things that happened today

He: "Can I speak to the person who handles your phone account?"
Me: "No"
He: "Are you the person who hanldes the account?"
Me: "No"
Then I hung up because I had to pick up another phone line. This is a working office after all.

Stay tuned for how I answer tomorrow. Because there's going to be a tomorrow. Someone from some phone company calls every day. I've tried being polite . It doesn't work. I even tried Jerry Seinfeld to no avail. Because it's an office phone, I couldn't do Chris Rock: "He dead."
I'll try the monosyllabic route.

You are currently using 0 MB (0%) of your 7024 MB.

Or so it says on my gmail account. That's because the spammers haven't found it yet and filled it with their shitty offerings. Just once I'd like to reply to one of those idiots in such a way as to fill up their mail box. Too bad that I'm pathetically ignorant about doing such a thing.

Still, all is right with world. No complaints here. I'll be back tomorrow, and try writing a few more lines...

A Good Night's Sleep

Last night I slept a full eight hours. One cannot underestimate the benefits of a full night's sleep. It was my bladder that finally woke me up. A quick trip to the bathroom at quarter to seven and I never looked back. It's not that I feel particularly rested today, because I don't. It's just that I have been waking up at half four or half something once or twice a night since God-know's-when. This goes into my sleep bank and should help me toward this weekend's activities in San Francisco.
Just now I've returned from a walk to the bank - all 1.2 miles in what felt like 97F . A quick check on KCRA.com weather site shows it was actually 87F. It doesn't matter, my dogs are still on fire and my lips parched!
I'm supposed to be doing this 3 mile trek around Land's End in SF. Probably not. And I can't blame DH either. Oh well, it will probably be freezing cold and blustery there anyway.
In case you haven't noticed, I'm actively avoiding the subject of my father's death.
And so it goes...

Colon Blow

“Colon Blow,” a prerequisite for a colonoscopy, a necessary evil when one reaches or passes the half-century mark. I was prepared to suck up the day of starvation and drink a gallon of the foul-tasting stuff, and endure the ensuing violation at the doctor’s office. After all I did lose 4 lbs. And I don’t care what age you are, 4 lbs is 4 lbs.
What I wasn’t prepared for was the fierce abdominal aches after the mini-operation. I thought that the doc had somehow blasted through my colon, but no, I had developed an ulcer.
And so it goes, hardly a decent healthy day for me since January 1, 2008. I’m now being treated for an H Pylori-induced ulcer. Fortunately, the doc handed over the meds, satisfied that this Dr. Mom was not a hypochondriac, I didn’t have to do a blood test for old HP. Apparently, there was a notation in my file from years back that the little bugger was a regular inhabitant of my own stomach or maybe duodenum.
The meds consist of two antibiotics, one acid reducer and Zantac. What a delightful cocktail. I’m now on week three of four and my mouth tastes only of metal. Doc tells me that I that I have to go on Prilosec for one full month after the cocktail is done. Oh, and did I mention, that yes, I got a yeast infection.? Oh joy! Thank God for flagicil or whatever it’s called. The inventor of this one-pill-therapy deserves a gold medal. I well remember the 7 days of sticking a gooey white mess up my vajayjay. Yeugh!
And so it goes. Today is Good Friday. Life could be a hell of a lot worse!

Dr. Mom

One child calls from the Pacific to tell me about a Dr. Sade who tried to pry hardened ear wax from her ear without first administering an anesthetic. I was imagining him, in his turn-of-the-century (20th) office holding her down on a bench with his right knee. Fortunately, she had the wherewithal to brush his hand away before he either punctured her ear drum or caused her excruciating pain. Needless to say, the ear incident isn’t quite over yet. And now she's gone off to Vietnam where we'll have no contact with her for two weeks. Two whole weeks! The other late night phone call came from the Atlantic side. Child claims she is dying from the flu, in a hotel room with ne'er a Nurse Nightingale in sight. It's past midnight there and she has to bribe the doorman to go to the nearest Walgreens in search of various cold remedies. her voice is weak and sickly enough to make my stomach turn. I know she will survive if she keeps the fever down and if she takes fluids. She doesn't always take my advice nor does she bother to call me back when she is feeling better. Ah, the price one pays for this not so medical degree!

Calgon, take me away...

No, really, take me away. I'm sitting here looking at someone's negative tax returns, realising that I'll need to do more work for this client, when a root canal would be easier. Easier for both of us. She lives on the other side of the country and doesn't actually keep my emails so that I'll have to explain all this, all over again in months to come. Annoying, to say the least.

Then, I'll answer the phone and tell them that HRH cannot take their call right now, but will return their call if they give a name and a phone number. Apparently, that is not something they want to share. I am going to contact the phone company, find out where they live and pay them a visit. Not!

Nor am I psychic. Sometimes It's hard to contain the sarcasm. It's hard to keep from telling the callers that no, the crysatl ball is kinda cloudy on Tuesdays, so, no, I will not be able to tell them to the minute when HRH will be available. Now, if they just give aname and a number...

Like Hell

So, my bones ache down into their very core. Two days ago I spent less than three hours helping a friend pack her books and some othe stuff. I don't remember lifting a lot of boxes, but my muscles feel as if they had a work out. I bet if that doctor on Oprah got a hold of me, he'd say I had the body of a 70-year old. Actually, it would probably be closer to 80 seeing as my friend's sister was the one who actually lifted all the boxes I packed to store them in the garage. I remember advising her that one was particularly heavy - it was full of hard backs - and she said it weighed nothing compared to what she herself had packed earlier. She whizzed past me carrying box after box from bedroom to garage. This woman is 68 years old, and a smoker.
Today, I walked to the mailbox, the far one, near the post office, in an affort to resume my daily walking habit. I feel like hell.

You know you're slipping when...

You know you're slipping when it takes 12 hours to process an event. Something didn't sit right me with me after I returned from the neighbor's. There was this anxious feeling that a glass of merlot wouldn't wash away. It wasn't until 6 o'clock in the morning I realized that the reason I had this horrible feeling in the pit of my stomach was because my neighbor had pulled a fast one on me and I had (unknowingly) gone along with it.
When I thrashed out these events with HRH, he agreed that something hadf gone down that wasn't exactly kosher. The thing is that the milk has spilled and there is nothing that can be done now. I just have to remind myself that I need to be on guard around this neighbor and expect the unexpected. People aren't always as they seem.

It's hard

Do something hard everyday. By that, they mean that you should challenge yourself and push through the pain. I tried that this past week and I am happy to report that the ground didn't open up and swallow me whole. Yes, I survived and now all I have to do is repeat it this week. Wash, rinse, repeat.Just like doing your hair.

Today, I have challenged myself to cook dinner and bring it to a grieving widow's house. The challenge is not in the cooking but in the bringing. Ringing that doorbell will be hard. Standing on the doorstep waiting for the door to open - hard. Uttering meaningful words, dropping the food and exiting quickly - hard.

Words

Sometimes it's hard to write. It's hard to collect ones thoughts and spit them out in some sort of meaningful language. Words don't seem to come as easily anymore. They don't line up meekly at the gate, like sheep, waiting to be let out to pasture. They lay hidden in the fodder bins, under piles and piles of moldy hay.