Kokoro, the name of the camp I witnessed unfolding before me this past weekend, means that: Indomitable spirit/heart. Watching the men -- and one female -- push themselves through the "crucible" of 50 hours of essentially non-stop physical activity was enormously inspiring and an incredible thing to witness. It forces you to r unleash a strength and power you may not even be aware you have until you reach for it.
I'm not even sure I can put into words exactly what I saw and felt; it's something like trying to describe a terrible and beautiful storm you watch from the edges.
I've been considering for some time now going through it myself, and my thought was seeing it happen would push me in one direction or the other, and it did. Truthfully? I always knew what direction I would go. I just needed to see it to take it. So next year, likely in August or September, I will be going through it myself.
And I can't wait!
Yes, there's a part of me that's utterly terrified by the idea -- the part of me that is thinking no no too scary can't don't bad stupid what-are-you-thinking-are-you-freaking-insane back out renig no don't don't don't -- but the larger part of me is the one that wrote the sentence for the above one-liner paragraph.
It reminds me of when the date I was to ship out for the Air Force began looming over me. I was so excited, and I knew it fit perfectly and as right as Italian leather shoes made precisely for my feet...but I had the same no no too scary can't don't bad stupid what-are-you-thinking-are-you-freaking-insane back out renig no don't don't don't thoughts -- to the point where I even started trying to come up with ways to cancel my enlistment.
But, really -- those thoughts, as these are now, were half-hearted. They really held no power over me and when I tried to lean in that direction, it rankled me. Yes, when I got there I was homesick and miserable and frustrated most of the time because I felt like the TI was always picking on me harshly (he told me upon graduation that he did so because he saw I had a lot of potential)...but I loved it, even if I didn't know at the time that I did.
I emailed my coach, Brad, last night and told him my decision -- because I knew he'd be excited to hear it, and because I knew I couldn't back out at that point. And today I bought boots to start breaking in. Appropriately, and cool as hell, they're official US Navy SEAL combat boots. What could be cooler than that?
Brad -- and the other coaches -- kept nudging me gently all weekend about going through. No pressure, but from a perspective they thought I could do it. One of them told me I had the personality to make it through. I found that very flattering. Between that, and the incredible inspiration pouring out from the students, there really was no other answer for me.
The other thing was that, as I watched, I realized I wanted to be a coach for it; to do so, you have to have gone through it (of course). I think it would be an enormous boon to the camp to have a female coach, and, too -- that way I can somehow start advocating in a more truthful way for more women to go through. The whole thing spoke to me in an incredibly deep way -- as a life coach and as a big sister. I believed in what Mark Divine was doing from the moment I stumbled across his SEALFIT website and I clicked on the Academies tab and first discovered Kokoro. Which was the first moment I felt a resounding yes! in my gut.
Colin, the fellow I sponsored, did splendidly, and he told me I'd made a dream of his come true; he'd wanted to do Kokoro ever since he saw it, and I helped him realize he did, after all, have a "warrior spirit" in him (I knew he had it in him, which was one reason I offered him the sponsorship), which finalized his decision to enlist in the Navy and become a SEAL.
I've also spoken to Mary, the female who barreled through it with fire and power (earning her the "Fire in the Belly" award) via email a few times, and she's echoing what Colin has been saying -- that they feel like they can take on the world and that there's nothing they can't do. She wants to go into the Navy and work in a support position for the SEALs as a trauma surgeon. Truthfully? I think she could easily be the first female SEAL -- and kick total butt -- if it were possible at this time.
And experience like that is something they may never be able to put into words. Whatever the paths Mary, Colin and the rest of the graduates take, I know they're going to do marvelously.
Congratulations to Kokoro Class 21! I can't wait for April and Class 22, and for graduation of Class 31 or 32!
Mike Ostrolenk (intern coach), Me, Jeff Grant (intern coach), Brad McLeod (the fellow with the evil chuckle, as mentioned in my previous post!). February 24, 2012 (also Brad's birthday!)
Me, Colin, Brad (repost from previous blog entry.)
Note: I was asked to take down the links to the photos for ownership reasons, which makes total sense. That's why the links are no longer in this post.
I will post a longer description of the weekend later (see previous post), but right now I'm still kind of having it all sink in. If I'm having trouble, I know the graduates of the camp are. It was so incredibly awesome I'm going to have to let it digest for a bit so I can put it into words. Met terrific people, watched the studends to amazing things mentally and physically, and came away very, very inspired. Met some terrific people and I can't wait for April!
I came away wanting to be a Kokoro (the camp's name) coach...to do so I'll have to go through it myself. (I'd also like to recruite more women to go through, and to do that I'd also have to have gone through it). There was one female who did at this camp, and she was amazing (only the fourth woman to complete it).
All of students were, as was Colin McLafferty, the fellow I sponsored. (At the conclusion -- immediately after the class was secured! -- to stay in the CrossFit open games he did another WOD -- workout of the day -- to post a score and stay in. Enormously impressive).
Sunday night, after it was all over, I did something I haven't done since college (none of us had, actually); my rental Hundai takes four passengers and me, a total of five. Yet we stuffed six of us in there (five coaches, including Brad -- my coach and who is also a Kokoro coach, and me) and drove to a movie (Act of Valor). Not my personal first choice, but when you're outnumbered by 5 to one you have to go with the majority. It was a decent enough movie and loads of fun all around because of the company.
I gave Brad and Mike (another coach) a ride to the airport yesterday morning. I mentioned that I'm now really leaning towards a yes of going (I kind of always have, ever since I saw the videos of Kokoro), and Brad was quite pleased to hear that.
"But," I said, "the problem now is that it's like having a bunch of friends convince you to join a fraternity and you do...which makes the hazing that much more intense."
Brad then let out the most evil chuckle I think I've ever heard from anyone....Oh dear!
You can either click on the first picture/video and go through one-by-one, or just pick random ones. In the upper right corner of the field with all the pictures, you'll see a small slider bar; if you slide the dot all the way to the right, that will enlarge the thumbnails if they're too small for you.
Me, Colin McLafferty (the fellow I sponsored) and Brad McLeod, my coach.
Many of you on my blog list know that my beloved grandmother died this past July on the 7th, 4 days after my 40th birthday. I was left some money, and I knew I wanted to do something with part of it that would go outwards, rather than all inwards. I considered a charity such as The Wounded Warrior Foundation which puts its funds towards helping soldiers wounded in the line of duty, or the Lone Survivor Foundation -- a similar foundation that was founded by Marcus Luttrell, the only SEAL to survive what was, until this past August's shoot down of the Chinook in Afghanistan, the largest loss of SEALs in a single operation (Operation Red Wings).
Both are excellent foundations, but it didn't feel like the donation would go far enough. And then I knew what I wanted to do.
A few years ago, I was poking around online doing research (I was starting to look for alternative fitness ideas that went beyond the normal gym routines), and I came across a website for something called SEALFIT (this was prior to my getting into CrossFit). It's run by a man named Mark Divine, a former Navy SEAL, for his SEALFIT gym and academies in Encinitas, CA. The SEALFIT gym is much like CrossFit (he also runs US CrossFit from the same facility), just geared more towards training special forces candidates and people looking for workouts a notch harder than CrossFit ones (yes...there is something harder!)
What really intrigued me were his academies which are structured to provide military-oriented training to anyone...not to become a soldier, necessarily (many graduates do, but it's also for the "everyman", too.)
The one academy he has that utterly fascinated me is called Kokoro.
It's a 50-hour camp that goes for, well, 50 hours straight. It's based
off the SEAL Hell Week training where the candidates stay awake for
about 5 days straight and get pretty much no sleep...or at least nothing
of real consequence. I thought the concept of having a workshop, for
lack of a better word, was enormously cool.
Looking at it from the point of view of having been in the military and having worked as a life coach for many years -- as well as from the aspect of doing really hard personal work -- I knew exactly what it was that Mark Divine wanted to do with the camp -- to provide an experience that would help you dig way down into yourself, crack open all preconceived ideas of what you think you can or can't do, and discover that you're infinitely more capable than you thought you were. Which is exactly what I try to do with my clients every day at work. In a cliche -- it's about trusting your belief in yourself.
As I watched the videos, I kept thinking how cool it would be to get to watch the camp unfold in person -- not necessarily by taking part in it (though there's a part of me that keeps considering it). But how on Earth would I ever get to just watch from the stands? And, yet, I kept thinking, Wow...it would sure be cool to watch it happen -- !
And so when I began considering what I wanted to do with some of the money I knew I wanted to sponsor someone through the camp. The way I saw it, I would firstly get to see where my money was going (which felt important), and, secondly, it would spread out beyond a PayPal payment. It wouldn't just be something for the person I sponsored, it would also help Mark Divine's business and everyone involved with it. It felt like I would get five or ten times more for each dollar.
Brad McCleod, the former SEAL from whom I've been getting training since last July (via email; he sends workouts, I do them and report my scores back) is a coach at Kokoro. But what's funny is that I knew about SEALFIT and Kokoro before I even knew Brad existed.
Well, that's kind of not true.
I did read all the bios of all the coaches when I first came across the camp, and it wasn't until after I began working with Brad when I reread them that I remembered reading his; what had stuck out was that he'd gone through BUD/S (SEAL boot camp) twice. Including Hell Week...twice. My thought was that anyone who could do that would be one cool dude to know. (I also remember thinking that Mark Divine would be a neat guy to meet and know, too).
Rolling back to my original research that led me to the SEALFIT site, I'd begun thinking that it would be really neat to get fitness training from a Navy SEAL, given how fitness-oriented they are -- and I knew it would be a push. But how? That I didn't know. Rolling forward to last May when I joined my CrossFit gym my thought was, "Well, maybe I'll meet one through CrossFit, given how military-oriented it is...."
I then began scouring Facebook for any CrossFit-oriented group or page that sounded interesting. One I came to was called "SEAL Grinder PT", which then led me to Brad McLeod's website (yes, the same Brad McLeod whose bio made me think, "Gee, he'd be a cool guy to know!"). Great stuff. Good articles and workouts that left my eyeballs reeling (I'm proud to say that they now sound doable, as do the workouts on the SEALFIT site...though I'd still have to scale them). I noticed he had an ebook about learning how to do pull-ups, and, given the equally-eyeball reeling number of pull-ups you do in CrossFit...and the fact I could do nary a one...I bought it.
I did notice on his site and in his book that he offered personal coaching. Too bad, I thought, since he's out of Atlanta and I'm in Portland. But what wasn't clicking, even though I read the damn offer several times, was that it was done by email. And still I kept thinking, "Gee, I'd sure like to get training from a Navy SEAL...." And then, all of a sudden, the dim bulb in my head got suddenly brighter as it hit me that, ta daaaaaa! here was exactly what I wanted. Just wasn't local.
(When I thought that, I remember hearing the answer back in my head, "Heather, you never specified local...you just said you wanted training from a Navy SEAL. "..............Uh, well...true.)
I've had a marvelous time working with him, and, I immediately started hoping there would be a way I could meet him in person. But how, I had no idea given our relative distance from each other.
I still hadn't made the connection, though, about how I'd read his bio quite some time prior, even he left for Encinitas to coach at a Kokoro camp a few weeks after I signed up with him. It wasn't until around that time -- maybe a little later -- when I reread the bios for the coaches that it clicked.
When I received the money, I emailed Brad and told him I knew he trained a lot of men who wanted to either become a SEAL or go into some form of special forces -- as well as men who just wanted to push themselves further (Brad does have a few other women on "Team SGPT" as he calls us, but we're definitely the minority). I said I also knew that many of them wanted to go through Kokoro, but didn't because of finances. Because I knew what it was like to really want to do something but have more dust and moths fluttering out of my wallet than cash, I told him I wanted to sponsor someone. Did he know of anyone?
He wrote back utterly amazed by my offer and said he didn't know of someone offhand, and really couldn't say anyway because he was a coach at Kokoro (which made sense)...but he would think of something. The idea he came up with was that the people who wanted to be considered needed to post a video explaining why they should be considered. (One fellow wrote an essay instead).
I watched each video and took notes about what they said, and then, anonymously, through a special GMail account I created, I interviewed each candidate. My questions were not easy, and were geared towards having them dig really deep and were exactly the kind I'd ask clients at work. I wanted to know if they "got" the experience and if they would be committed to it. Thankfully only six people applied; had there been more I think I would have crumbled. (One fellow later told me that, because of the kinds of questions I asked, he thought I was either an active duty or former SEAL!)
They were all excellent, and after thinking long and hard, I decided to make it so each person got a prize; I ended up offering two partial scholarships, three full (I was going to go to Hawaii for a couple of weeks this winter, but I decided to use that money towards another full scholarship), one nearly-full one; that fellow had already started making payments so I paid off his balance.
When I announced the winners, Brad asked me, via email, if I would be going to "all" of the camps -- he certainly would be! I replied that was wholly up to Mark Divine, given it was his show...just because I was paying for the candidate and just because the guys wanted me to be there for them it didn't mean I had the "right" to be there, and that while I would dearly love to be there, I would likely be in the way and I would have to be content with his picture feed.
"Oh no," Brad wrote back, "I can make sure you get a behind the scenes look!"
I thanked him, but I really didn't expect the answer to be yes. To my great surprise, Christine, the manager of SEALFIT and the one with whom I arranged the payments, told me I would absolutely get to come down and watch. I was floored. And not only that -- I could stay on site with the coaches! But since each guy -- the woman hasn't yet signed up for a camp -- chose a different camp, I wasn't sure how fair it would be to go to one but not the others; to me, it felt like I was picking a favorite.
Not a problem, Christine said, I could absolutely come down for the others and, at the very least, touch base throughout the weekend to check in on the camp. That actually made me speechless. And for anyone who knows me, that's a rare occurrence.
The first camp will be this coming weekend, so I'll fly down on Thursday, February 23 and come back on Monday, February 27. (I'll also take Tuesday off so I can decompress). I'll be giving Brad a ride from the airport, so I'll have some time to talk to him before he hits SEALFIT soil and goes into uber-coach mode.
I've been in email contact with Christine, and one of the things I did recently was tell her to please put me to work when I'm there; that way I won't feel like I'm underfoot. If I'm going to mill about, I may as well mill about with a purpose. She said that was awfully kind of me...and I may regret asking; she definitely would need help with the BBQ at the conclusion of the camp. Upon telling him of my offer, Brad answered that I would certainly be able to help with the food throughout the weekend.
As Andrew, my brother said (in jest), I can't imagine why they'd need help with food throughout the weekend....Ha!
I am unbelievably excited. I can't wait to meet Colin, the fellow who's going through the February camp, Brad, Christine and Mark Divine. And it's going to be so much fun staying in the "condo" with the coaches. I did email Brad and ask him if that would definitely be okay -- meaning, would, as I put it a "cog o' estrogen" get in the way of the "wheels of testosterone" -- ?
No, he replied; if I'd been given permission to stay at the condo it would be great if I did. (I was going to stay at a motel up the street).
As I said to a friend at work, "It's going to be the most bizarre "slumber party" I've ever had in my life!"
I'll most likely have to stay at the motel for the other camps (April, late June -- which butts up against my birthday -- July and August), but that's okay.
So this Thursday I leave gloomy, soggy, gray skies behind for sunny SoCal weather and beaches where the nighttime lows are Portland's daytime highs.
Funny how it all works out. Talk about serindipity! But, I guess,
too, it's also about putting out there what you want and then following
the little breadcrumbs that get left out for you, even if you don't
realize that's what you're doing.
1) Getting training from a Navy SEAL ✔
2) Meeting said trainer who is also happens cool dude who went through BUD/S twice that you thought would be neat to know ✔
3) Getting to see Kokoro unfold without having to participate ✔
4) Getting to meet Mark Divine, founder of SEALFIT and Kokoro ✔
All exactly as I wanted!
Here's a great video about the whole Kokoro experience:
We had the most beautiful, charming, perfect climbing tree in the side yard of my childhood home.
This tree was a very tall evergreen, that grew next to our house – it was huge, the tree. You got to the lower branches by climbing up a wooden compost box. In the spring, the box and tree was surrounded by a sea of daffodils I always loved to cut, marveling that the stems always made little squeaky noises when I snipped them. We mostly had oak trees in our yard and neighborhood, which you could climb – but not as well as you could this tree, which rose up well beyond any other tree in the surrounding neighborhood.
Tall and full, and a perfect shady spot within the branches on hot summer days. It was a favorite spot with the neighborhood kids, too. I spent many an hour in that tree reading and/or munching on peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, listening to the wind hissing through the needles and watching all the different bugs climb up it, going about their little lives. I also loved popping the sap bubbles in the skin of the bark – the bigger, the better. The stickier you were when you came down from the tree, the better.
For some reason, I always thought of the tree as "Edward" in my head, despite the fact he was actually a "Douglas", our state tree, actually.
I could never quite get myself to climb up past a certain point, as it was where the wind would grab the tree and make it rock back and forth; even my more daring friends in the neighborhood – like the boys – didn't like going up much higher, either, for the same reason...Edward was a very tall tree, and he was very peaceful -- but it didn't quell the fear that snaked into me at that invisible line.
But I always felt angry with myself for being scared. My fear was that I'd fall – except I knew I wouldn't because the branches were so dense. It was also very wavy – even on days when there was almost no wind on the ground. But I'd always get to the one spot and feel like I absolutely could not go any higher.
Then, one day, one pretty, summer day with a turquoise sky puffed here and there with cotton ball clouds, I sat at that same place trying to will myself to go higher. I felt like a baby, a wuss. Like I was a total and complete chicken. It didn't matter that nobody else had. We always taunted each other about that, but nobody seemed willing to go much higher.
I'd spent much of the afternoon woven into the branches, reading. Probably a Nancy Drew mystery or, at least some book I'd gotten from the library (I was perhaps 11 or, at the most 12). I felt the top of the tree beckoning me as it always did, and I sat, staring up through the branches, looking at the sunshine sparkling down through the needles.
I always had the sense that Edward was making a promise he wouldn't drop me...but I still stayed afraid of the height and the possibility I might fall, somehow missing all the branches and plummeting straight to the ground. Of course that wouldn't happen...but there was a first time for everything.
But that afternoon as I stared upwards, I started thinking that maybe – just maybe – I could do it. So I stood and climbed up a few more feet. The wind picked up and Edward rocked back and forth, creaking and whispering. My breath caught, but I climbed up a few more branches.
I got up maybe another five feet and looked down; the compost box looked very far away and small in my distorted perspective mind; to me, in that moment, it was no bigger than a child's toy boxcar for an electric train. The wind pushed at the tree again, and again Edward creaked and whispered. I climbed a little higher, noticing the branches were getting smaller. Would they support my weight? Of course they would. But...but what if they didn't? What if I actually misjudged them – ?
I looked up; swaying back and forth it almost looked like Edward was waving at the clear sun above, which danced over the iridescence of the bark and caught the crystallized, dried sap. Ants and bugs crawled along, like people hurrying down a busy city street, minds focused on their individual tasks. It was like that, I thought – a little city. The tree was full of compartments and tiny burrows which acted like little apartments and homes, in the branches and trunk – all the way from the top to well down into the earth and roots.
I'd seen bird's nests, too, which were often above the "safety line". We always left them alone, but there were a few springs when they were low enough where we could, from a safe side of the tree, peer into a nest and watch the little eggs and babies, much like we got to do when a robin built a nest in the bush outside of my brother's window.
A larger gust of wind, louder creaking and shushing. It was as if Edward was testing me, coaxing me. Fear twinged in me, making my stomach go cold and my heart leap into my throat, rapping at it as if on fast-forward.
Maybe, I thought, this was high enough. I was already higher than I'd gone before...so maybe I could go in steps – ?
Big puff of breeze, big creaking, big hissing of the wind through the branches and needles. I don't know if Edward was encouraging or chastising – or both.
No, I thought, I'm not a baby anymore. I can do this.
I climbed a little higher, my path a bit harder to navigate as the branches were narrower and thicker. My hands and the bottoms of my bare feet were dotted and smeared with sap, as were my legs and clothes. I had taken my time climbing, and the sun had arced further to the right, warm on my face, scented with pine and freshness.
The bending and swaying was far more pronounced by now, and I was well past the "safety line". I looked over to my left at the sound of voices, and saw friends playing in the street (we lived on a triad of cul-de-sacs). They were far below, and I willed them to look up and see me, but they didn't. Even if they had looked up, I would have been hidden by the branches.
I looked up again, and I was still a good ways from the top. By now I could see well into our backyard and even over the house behind us and to the street beyond. More wind, more creaking, more whispering, another jump and leap of heart and stomach, more tightening of my grip around Edward's branches.
It was quite warm by then. Although there was a thicker number of branches, they were sparser in needles and miniature offshoot branches, and therefore not as much shade from the sun. But there was still quite a bit. It was also bending towards the warmer part of the afternoon, anyway, when things got sleepy and the cicadas started singing. I watched a dragonfly hum past and on its errand; birds sang in the trees, but they, too, were getting quieter as the warmth of the late summer afternoon worked itself into the nooks and crannies of the trees and flowers. It was still comfortable in the shade, but it was warmer and the type where it would be easy to slip into a doze out in the back yard, book tented on my chest.
And then I was there – as high as I really could go. I had gotten there without even really paying attention to the fact I had! I'd climbed all the way to the top, higher than anyone else in the neighborhood!
The tree swayed quite a bit, giving the impression it was almost like being on a trebuchet (well...not quite, of course). I saw my mother in our back yard, weeding, my little brother playing with his toys near by. Scattered over the lawn were plastic bowls and an inflatable pool, now only half-heartedly filled with air and water – remnants from a water fight the day before. A plane buzzed overhead and the cicadas sang.
I realized it wasn't so bad – plus the view was magnificent. I could see over the houses and down across the town of Corvallis, a hamlet-like town that houses Oregon State University. There was a haze in the distance and around the rim of horizon from controlled field burning. Much of the land that surrounds Corvallis is farmland – both commercial and local farmers that cater to the organic-saturated culture of older and newer hippies that lived in the surrounding areas, as well as the general, run-of-the-mill everyday families. Oregon State uses much of the land, too, as it began as an agricultural school in its early years, growing into forestry and engineering; Linus Pauling graduated from there.
But it wasn't those things I pondered as I sat, comfortably belted into a sturdy seated position by Edward's upper branches, looking out over my queendom. I could see for miles, it felt; the rolling hills of the Willamette valley rolled out before and around me; Corvallis sits nestled into the foothills of the Coast Range.
The afternoon droned on, cicadas lulling sleepiness in on their hypnotic, rhythmic chirping. It had grown in intensity as the warmth of the afternoon grew. I could hear my little brother, who was, at that time, about 3 or 4, calling for me. "Hair! Hair – ! Hair - ? ...Hedder – !" (He still calls me "Hair")
He disappeared out of my line of sight, and I heard him calling me, his voice floating out of my open bedroom and bathroom windows; faintly, I could hear him calling as he ran up the stairs, then as he looked around upstairs. Eventually I saw him reappear in the backyard, shouting to our mother that he couldn't find me. She put a comforting arm around him, likely saying I was off in the neighborhood somewhere. It was not a town where there were many such worries. Technically I was supposed to let her know where I'd gone, but I rarely did if I was within that neighborhood as it was a given.
I thought about calling down to him, but up there, with the grand view and the quiet – I wanted to keep it to myself. Besides, I knew he'd want to climb up to me, which meant I'd have to get down and I didn't want to do that just yet. I was so relaxed (though some twinges of fear still came with the bigger gusts), I wanted to just stay up there.
Sunshine warm on my face, Edward creak-rock-whispering, I closed my eyes – and fell asleep.
I don't know how long I slept, but when I awoke I was thirsty, so I climbed back down, becoming even more sap-laden than before. I went back inside to get a bottle of Coca-Cola – back then they were still glass – hoping for the ever-elusive letter "E" to win the gigando prize in the game they had presented us all summer long where we had to spell a phrase with their name in it; we had dozens of letters, but nobody in our entire neighborhood could get that "E". We began to suspect it possibly didn't even exist. I cracked the top off and found another repeated letter. I tossed it into the can where we had all of the others and went to seek out my next form of entertainment.
Later, when I went over to my friend's house across the street, I told her I'd climbed to the top of the tree. She didn't believe me – so I said, "I can prove it!"
A year older than I was, she considered herself more worldly. She followed me out, still not believing me...and so, without hesitation, I climbed to the top again and called down, "Come up!"
She hesitated, calling up, "I don't want to...." I was more than a little smugly satisfied and climbed back down. It was always fun to show off at that age. I continued to climb to the top after that, only sticking to the lower tiers when I was with friends, or if my little brother were nearby.
Sadly, about three or four years later, we found out that Edward had become infested with beetles to the point where they could not be exterminated; if left that way, they would spread to all the other pine trees in the area, and he would die a slow death. We had to make the choice to cut him down; the entire neighborhood mourned the loss, as he'd been our friend for so many years – as he had been to a generation of children before us when the neighborhood was established in the 1960s and 70s.
I still miss that tree, and it makes me sad thinking about it now. I've never found another climbing tree that matched Edward, and I think of that afternoon often, because it seems like such a pinnacle moment of summer, childhood and triumph.
It's also one I think of when I feel/hear myself thinking I can't about something, and I realize that if a child who wasn't terribly fond of heights (i.e. terrified) could climb to the top of the world (or so it felt) one summer afternoon despite that – right past a self-imposed, imaginary "safety-line", I can as an adult, too.
In my mind's eye, I can see Edward shining upwards, sunshine falling down over his needles as he climbed into the sky, wind whispering through his branches, picking up the scent of sap and summer, as if he still lives in his spot of home, watching over his neighborhood like an old guardian providing shelter and safety and shade for picnics and reading. Maybe he does.
In a way, I suppose, he was the best kind of teacher of all – what Tom Brown Jr, a naturalist, refers to as a "coyote teacher" – one who provides just enough answers to create more curiosity and an environment for the student to learn on their own, while still providing support. Looking up through Edward's branches I saw exactly that – answers to my questions of how on earth could I ever reach the top?! – but he left it up to me to find the path and my own determination. Which I did.
And I know that if I had fallen – he most definitely would have caught me, helped me up and shooed me back on my way up.
Steak was broiled last night; seasoned with red wine, sea salt, pepper. Cooked at 4:30 each side.
Potatoes: Obvy. Boil, mash, mix with butter, garlic, salt, pepper to taste.
'Shroomies: Leftover Baby Bellas and buttons I didn't make the other night. Seasoned with sesame lime salad dressing, sea salt, pepper, lime juice, olive brine, nutmeg, paprika. Also: kalamata olives, sliced in half, one small red onion, quartered. Cooked in a square baking dish for 20 minutes.
After finishing, sprinkled with bleu cheese.
Basically -- throw together whatever the hell sounds good, or might sound good, cook it, try it. Could be a colossal failure or success.
Served with Lagunitas The Hairy Eyeball Ale.
Oh --
Please Note: Best not to drop your phone in the mashed potatoes as you take the picture. Makes for a starchy cleanup likely not covered by any warranty, extended or otherwise.
I have what's called an FSA -- flexible spending account -- that I can put towards medical things that are usually out of pocket. I've generally never had a problem spending it over the year, as I used to go to acupuncture more often. But now that I've had my gall bladder out, I've been much healthier, and I haven't gone as much.
The fiscal year for the FSA ends on March 31 and resets on April 1, and I realized I had a lot of money left on it. And if I don't spend it -- the company gets to keep it. There was no way I was going to allow them to get all that dough, especially since it's my money to begin with.
What to do?
The solution was to go to Kaiser to get a new prescription for my glasses and choose several new ones. And that I did -- I got four new pairs of glasses, and it was so fun to get to choose more than one. I usually wear contacts, but I do wear my glasses every night, and I do get kind of tired of them. I also got some prescription sunglasses (which I've always thought I should have, but have never gotten) as well as some really nice non-prescription ones.
The FSA site says that non-prescription sunglasses are "potentially eligible" if they get a letter from my eye doctor stating that I need them. So I wrote to him and asked if he might do just that for me, as my thought was that anything I got at Kaiser would be far better than anything I could get at your everyday, garden-variety drug store -- and these are my eyes, after all. Have to keep them safe! Right away on Monday morning I received a reply from him saying that my medical record stated I was "light sensitive", and that he would therefore "prescribe" over-the-counter sunglasses as a necessity.
w00t! as they say in the gaming world.
So I got some really nice Oakleys, which I've always wanted, and some classic Ray Ban Wayfarers. As I still had a load of money left, I then went back and bought a second pair of the same Oakleys, reasoning that if something happened to my first ones, I'd have a backup pair already in place. I'd likely never have that much money left over to spend again, and so since I did this time -- I may as well use it up as much as I could. I also got a pair of cute white ones by Guess. All polarized and very nice.
I had a pair of black Wayfarers (these are a dark almost tortoiseshell brown) that I bought when I was in the Air Force when they were on sale. But, a few months later, they were stolen. I hope whoever took them got a lot more use out of them than I did.
When I was about 12 or so, I had a pair of electric blue, cheap, Wayfarer-style sunglasses. I LOVED them, and thought they were really cool (well, I was 12. It was the 80s....)
That summer, my family and I took a trip to Hawaii. One of the things we did was go to Sea World, and one of the shows we watched was with dolphins. It was in a below-ground room built so that you could see below the water as well as above it for the tricks they performed.
While we were waiting for the show to begin, I went down to the tank to watch the dolphins swim around. I was so excited. Dolphins! Close up! One of them stopped and looked at me, and I swear it had an amused expression on its face. Then it began making its squeaking-cluck noises and its head kept bobbing up and down.
I got the distinct feeling I was amusing it somehow. That it was -- laughing at me. Why? I wondered. My -- glasses, perhaps? My totally cool, electric blue Wayfarers? Surely not.
I took them off, and the dolphin stopped laughing, but still continued to watch me -- still with the deeply-amused expression (I remember also thinking how shiny and black its eye was, and how intelligent it seemed). I put the glasses back on. It started laughing again. Took them off -- laughter stopped. Put them back on -- laughter. Finally I took them off and slipped them into my pocket. After a moment of watching me a bit more, the dolphin swam away.
I trudged back up to where my parents were and said, glumly, "I want a new pair of sunglasses. The dolphin just laughed at mine."
I got a new pair at the gift shop.
The electric blue ones got tossed into a drawer when I got home, and eventually they just kind of disappeared. I felt no loss. I still think of those glasses sometimes and laugh as I'm perusing them at Rite Aid.
The Undersea World of Jacques Cousteau meets What Not to Wear.
So at least these are all real and would likely get, I think, approval from that dolphin, my friendly, marine personal shopper. We know they're highly intelligent, but who knew they also have fashion sense?
Organic baked salmon from New Seasons, which I then braised with sesame-lime salad dressing after warming up gently.
Topping:
Mushrooms (crimini, baby bella, button, shiitake) seasoned with minced ginger, capers, blueberries, tarragon-infused vodka, olive brine, paprika, nutmeg, lemon juice, sea salt and freshly-ground pepper.
Asparagus:
Roasted; seasoned with sea salt, freshly-ground pepper.
Don't ask me quantities, I just go with what I know is good and sounds tasty. Minced ginger came to about 3 Tbs sprinkled; capers, maybe 2. Enough seasonings to enhance but not make you go ptooie and frown because it's too strong.
Served with a side of beer and rosemary crispbread crackers by 34 Degrees.
Bake mushrooms and blueberries at 475 for five minutes, then put in asparagus. Bake for another ten. Take out mushrooms and blueberries to "rest" (make sure they have a blankie and teddy bear); broil asparagus for 2 minutes.
Serve.
Then, as the esteemed Cooking Asshole (www.cookingasshole.com) and Weird Al Yankovic would say: Eat it.
Many years ago, my indoctrination to beer was on Coors, Heineken -- decent enough -- and Mickey's...that's what we had in the house, and I was allowed a sip or two. Later it was Henry Weindards, and, whilst in the Air Force, it was Whatever Else Someone Was Buying and/or Was Cheap. Translation = Miller Lite.
I have, of course, since widened my taste and selection. I am from Portland, after all. They say you know you're in Seattle because it's bookstore, coffee shop, bookstore, coffee shop; you know you're in Portland because it's bookstore, coffee shop, micro-/craft brewery...bookstore, coffee shop, micro-/craft brewery....
(Side story here -- I have two friends from Minnesota who moved out here to Oregon and say those above -- Bud, Miller, Coors -- is all you can really get in wide distribution; but, now, after having lived in Portland for so many years and drinking "real" beer, they now say they "can't drink that other stuff" anymore!)
But I digress.
So, roll back maybe 15 years ago. My family -- my mother, my brother and me (my parents were divorced by then) -- it's possible my best friend was there, too -- were in a McMenamins restaurant.
(Now, remember, I was a neophyte to this whole beer-type thing, and I was most definitely over 21 by then, though by only two or three years). I had the menu, and, on the back, they had their beers/beer types printed. Given acronyms often have pronunciations (NASA, UNICEF, SYSCO...), I piped up to the server, "What's an 'eepah'? I've always wanted to know."
He blinked at me, note pad and pen paused in his hands. "A what?"
"An eepah," I replied. "You have stout, red and eepah. I understand what a stout is -- but what's an eepah?"
He burst into laughter. "It's 'eye pee aye'," he said, when he finally managed to collect his wits back about himself. "It stands for 'India Pale Ale'."
I felt everything grow still in me as my body threw its entire effort of existence into making every nodule of my skin turn dark red; I could even feel my scalp get tight. "Oh," I said, grinning -- but somewhere between rather embarrassed and mortified. "Ha ha." (I'd noticed the periods between the letters, but it still didn't click). "I'd like to try that, please."
He took our order and walked away, still laughing, muttering, "Eepah -- !" as he walked away. As he went back to the kitchen area, I heard him say to his friends, "Oh -- you gotta hear this." (Somewhere, he's probably still telling that story.)
Fast forward several years, to another McMenamis here in Portland. Picture it -- a beautiful sunny summer day, a lovely vine-sheltered patio, good friends, good ambiance, good humor, good spirits, good food, good beer. "I really like dark beers," I said to my friend. "The darker the better." (Not so much now; I'm more of an 'eepah' kind of gal, though reds and dark ales are swell, too). A server walked by with a tray of drinks. "Like that one," I said, pointing to a pint glass filled with a dark brown substance and topped with a creamy frothy head. "What is that?" I asked.
The server (another guy, actually), having heard my comment, blinked, and said, "It's our root beer."
Reinfusing with the same blush as described above I said, "Oh, haha. I knew that. I was just testing you...."
"Right," he said, laughing.
(My brother and father and best friend, as the good enemies that they are, have never let me live either of those things down, given I made the mistake of telling them about the root beer, and having them present with the 'eepah' fiasco).
I'm proud to say I'm far better-schooled now (thankfully).
At least I didn't ask what the "ab-vee" content was.
The day looks overcast, warm and muggy. The grass is stiff-looking, patched with green and sandy brown, the colors of thirst from a hot summer, or perhaps a warm and dry spring. A camellia tree, leaves polished emerald, bears two pink flowers, as if wanting to hang on to the last grasping idea of cooler spring, long over as the calendar has spilled into warmer days.
There is no shade where she lies, stretched out on her belly on a dull, gray blanket, a half-empty bottle of water propped against her purse next to her, along with a denim jacket that looks far too large for her; it isn't hers. It's a token she wears of a life gone past -- what was wanted, what could have been, what was planned, and what was taken. Worn for memory and a cooler morning. Two people at the edge of the lawn -- one standing, the other, seated in a wheelchair, legs askew in the angle of loss -- look out across the expanse of white stones and grass. It's unknown if they are connected to her, but they share a similar, unspoken reason for visiting.
Her feet are bare and crossed, the soles dusty-colored and speaking of a preference for sandals and flip-flops -- or perhaps nothing at all. Her skin is pale and clear, and the strapless, black and white polka-dot sundress she wears looks wrinkled and comfortably thin; her thick and pretty brown-gold hair is caught up in a bun to keep it off her neck and from acting like an insulating scarf in the humid heat.
Before her, fresh with new flowers, is a white marble sentry. More wash out next to her and on and on and on into the distance -- white blurs standing at attention, posture erect and perfect and permanent. One has fluttering mylar balloons -- blue stars and circles touched with gold and yellow -- and a thick sheaf of flowers that match the flag next to it on the ground. Others also have flowers. Some have none, bringing a deeper, further sense of loneliness and quiet.
She is still.
Her shoulders are curved so greatly the bones are points; her head is heavy and bowed to the ground as she whispers her day and week, talks of little things, of something she saw on television she thought he would like -- a funny moment, bittersweet and unshared. She whispers to him, in the same way done at night by couples planning out lives of shared bills and frustrations, joys and explorations.
Except now there is no answer, no innocent excitement. The future became the past, lost like a lone balloon torn loose from a storefront -- rising and rising into the void of the sky, lost in the sun, rising into emptiness.
She whispers nothing, for nothing can be said. He cannot hear her -- though a part of her, perhaps great, perhaps small -- believes he does. Perhaps she tries to believe he's in a better place...but in such moments, in moments when the darkness of the early morning hours yawn out into a loneliness so great it suffocates, those platitudes -- ones spoken by people who bear no knowledge of how truly insipid and cruel they are -- foster nothing but jealousy, hatred and anger for the ground which now holds, like a cold and worm-ridden mistress, what she has lost. Time does not heal such wounds; it is only trickery from a protective heart and mind that creates the hope that bandages will come.
There are no accolades for her, for anyone like her. The wives and husbands left behind to scrabble-scratch through the day, ignoring the worry and anxiety that leaves them breathless in those same dark and chasmic hours...or even in unsuspecting moments as groceries are bought, as laughing children are sent off to school. There are no medals or holidays for them, for the fiancees and girlfriends and boyfriends, the mothers and fathers, sisters, brothers, sons, daughters, cousins, friends who hold things up while the source of their worry is away in lands hot with Biblical-aged dust, ones of razor cold and caves. Lands cast with moisture-dripping jungles, or skies thick and black with the terrible, deafening bellow of B-17s and P-51 Mustangs. Neither side provides decorations for those who remain behind. It's simply expected. And it is also that weight she bears.
It is a moment felt by someone attached to each of the headstones, somewhere at some time. A moment that broke open, raw and savage and stunning, no less so than a mortar releasing its metal-sharded violence. There was a moment when those moments at night, when the exchanges of hopeful lovers flew upwards with the shining, searing glory of fireworks on a clear, early July night, becoming impermanent and translucent. Nothing more than a ring on a finger and a collection of photographs, emails, letters and text or voicemail messages lingering on a phone.
She lies on her stomach, whispering to him.
The wind, hissing and shushing through the bushes and trees around her, becomes the reply. It carries the voices of all those around her, who became silent and erased. The voices of those who felt fear and homesickness, loss as thick as what is felt by those they left in an alien world of civilian clothes and traffic jams, home repairs and Friday night football, things those voices thirsted for as they crouched in armored camouflage, heavy with government-issue rations and weapons. Voices that had laughter and sorrow, flus, paper cuts and stubbed toes wrapped in curses shot towards the source of the pain. Voices that left shaving bits in the sink, refrigerator doors open, or shoes shucked at the top of the stairs. Annoyances worth gold and gems she now craves.
But there is no voice that can speak the meaning of her moment. There are no words anywhere, just the faraway silence of the stars.
I got into a habit of web searching and browsing on my iPhone, simply because of convenience (Getting gas and want to know the name of the actor you can't place upon seeing him in thatt show last night? Pull out the iPhone and look it up! Curious as to how to use endives as you shop in the veggie section? Pull out the iPhone and look it up!) and it just felt better than my old laptop.
But now with my new schnazzley-dazzley laptop, it's cool to use the more usual way. So now I find myself looking for reasons to use it...like writing another blog entry.
Speaking of writing, my copy of iWork came today, and I loaded it up. It's pretty slick -- hands over fist better than MS Office, especially with the features for writing documents in Pages. And my guess is the dictionary is way better than the one in Open Office, the word processing program I used on my old laptop(s). I constantly had to add things, often first causing me to pause with a "Huh?" and the need to double-check through www.dictionary.com, only to find that yes, I was correct -- "afterwards" is, indeed, a real word.
I think this weekend I will spend some time writing. Oddly, now that I have the ability to really do some work, my story children have calmed down in my head, apparently appeased by the fact they have an exit strategy, and I'm not feeling as much of a push. Perhaps I will mosey down to McMenamins, or even to something across the river in Andrew's neck of the woods. Or just stay home.
Wherever it is, it'll be indoors, given it's been crappy and chilly at best recently -- and right now it's thickly-spitting rain splattering around, driven by some really blustery wind. But that can make for a really cozy atmosphere. While at Oregon State, I loved studying in my room on stormy, rainy, soggy days as tea, Earl Grey -- HOT! (as ordered by Jean-Luc Picard on Star Trek: Next Generation) from the replicator) brewed in my coffee pot and classical music wound its way out from my speakers.
I guess right now, I'm just looking for an excuse to use my new laptop. I have a martini next to me that's asking for some dinner to go with it -- I think it's going to be smoked salmon, black beans, salsa and Spanish-style rice wrapped in a flour tortilla. I'm not all that hungry at the moment, but I have a "playdate" with my best friend around six, when we will log on through our respective PlayStations and "wham" creatures together in a game we both have and has the ability to play in a team mode online.
Then, at eight, Andrew will join us.
I have to say, that's pretty damn cool. And we can communicate via bluetooth devices. Quite the technological advancement from the Atari 2500 we used to use (and which my dad still has). Graphics back then were large squares clumped together to give the general idea of a circle, or a tank or a little man leaping over crocodiles either on foot or by swinging on a vine. Now the graphics are so, well, slick, to reuse my earlier word, they seem real.
From this:
Good Ol' Combat
And this:
And Pitfall. I can still hear the sound as he swings over the crocodiles. That old, very 80s, very computerized version of the Tarzan yell.
Oh -- and can't forget the next phase -- Mario Bros.!
To (in this same order) -- Borderlands (the game Andrew, Jane and I are playing), Gods of War II (I don't own this, but the graphics are amazing), and a game called Diablo III, the sequel to a game Andrew and I loved. They're taking their own damnably sweet time in releasing it.
(Scary-lookin' dude, but the shading and light are awesome).
And here's another from Diablo III that shows the different character classes. Quite a jump from Pitfall Harry and Mario above.
But anyhoo. I'm now hungry and ready to eat. Can't wham on an empty stomach!
I got a brand spakin', high-falootin', schnazzy laptop yesterday.
I haven't had a really good system in years...when I moved to my new place a year and a half ago, the desktop system I had was at least two or three years old (out-of-date by techno-standards), and since then I've had hand-me-downs. The first one was an old Dell my brother was able to rescue, spiff up with as much buff and shine as you can to something that's a few years old and difficult to spruce up and I used that. Then his girlfriend, now fiancee, kindly donated the Gateway she'd used all through law school. It was definitely an upgrade to the Dell, but it has been dying a slow death (two of its four USB ports blew out last summer, and the power cord, despite my reinforcing it with athletic tape and rubber bands, developed loose wires that would make it shudder between battery and AC power) for the last several months.
I've been wanting to get a new laptop of some sort for the last two years, but my car ate that money. And this year it didn't.
So off went my tax return to Apple for a brand new -- well, refurbished, but with the same guarantee as one that just squeaked out from the factory -- MacBook pro. The rest of the return sat around to make sure I could take care of my bills and food while being out of work from surgery.
No, I did not cross to the dark side and become one of "those" people that now turn their nose up at a PC because they are now using the "hipper" and "trendier" Macs. I'm not going to be driving a biodiesel hybrid car made from densely-knit, resin-coated grass grown by monks living in the High Sierra Mountains, or vegetarian (I didn't claw my way to the top of the food chain to go back down to the bottom, as a friend of mine once said). While I am tired of the continual upkeep PCs require -- they've become far too high-maintenance/drama-oriented for my taste -- I have no complaints in using one.
What drew me to the MacBook was none of the culture surrounding the general populace that you often see using it -- it was the battery life.
I love to write. But I get tired of writing at home all the time, and have long wanted to be able to slip into a booth in one of our many microbreweries here, enjoy a pint or two -- or perhaps a coffeehouse -- and tap away, but it's hard when your laptop has a maybe-possibly-could be-if-I-squeeze-the-gerbil-a-bit-harder battery life of 20 minutes and you're chained to an AC cord. The Dell was okay as it was a longer cord, but the Gateway had one that was at least eighteen inches shorter, thus requiring me to also carry an extension cord. After watching a poor food server with a tray full of beer nearly trip on the cord -- even though I'd tucked it away as best I could -- I gave up.
This MacBook has a battery life of approximately seven hours -- and that's with using it actively. Writing, surfing (hang ten, brah), etc.Even new PCs can barely boast two or three hours. And that's usually if it's just sitting there. God forbid you should try to browse.
Seven hours! Granted, it would likely be less than that, but that's still way beyond any PC can offer. That means no AC cord for some food server to tip-toe over. No AC cord for sitting outside -- anywhere -- to write. I could go to a park, an outdoor table at one of the 52 gazillion McMenamins brewpubs/restaurants around here. My own terrace.
It also wasn't because it was the (insert angel choir singing AHHHHHHHHH!) iPhone that I got an iPhone. When my last generi-cell phone started dying, the thought of another two-year contract with another gener-phone killed me. So I spent time researching and comparing all the other smartphones out there, and I came to the conclusion the iPhone was the best of them. Besides, it was the only one to offer the kind of apps I wanted. It had nothing to do with it being an Apple product and everything to do with functionality.
But it really is true, I think, as Roger Ebert said in a tweet the other day (even though it was about the iKotex -- er, iPad): "Steve Jobs has done it again. One market-changing idea after another, while Microsoft totes that barge and lifts that bale." It really has been, for Microsoft, the focus of, "How can we make our OS clunkier and more unweildy so people have to spend several hundred dollars on software to make it functional?" Its like selling a new car for a higher and higher price, but offering fewer and fewer options you have to add on -- like steering.
I really liked that my iPhone was totally self-explanitory for setting up. I checked the manual maybe three times, though there were a few calls to techsupport when I was stumped. Before, when I got a new phone, I had to spend at least an hour or two going page-by-page through the manual to (1) unlearn all my habits from the previous phone and (2) learn how the new phone was oriented. Didn't feel like that at all when I got the iPhone, despite it being totally different than anything I'd ever owned before.
When I got a new PC or Windows-based laptop, there were many frustrating/-ed calls to my brother to figure the damn thing out. I had this thing up and running in 30 minutes, and that was including the tweakig of personal preferences.
Okay, okay. So I sound like I'm trying to convert the masses. No -- really I'm not. The two platforms -- Windows vs. Mac -- have different functions, different appeals to different people. It's just a computer, and it's no different than someone wanting a Ford over a Chevy. Or whatever. I just changed my mind. I could very easily go back to a Windows-based computer some day. Who knows.
But to the purchasing software to make things run, I'm going to spend a total of $53.44 -- and that's for iWorks '09, the Apple version of MS Office. I found it online for $30 less than what Apple wanted for it. Everything else, plus some things I may never touch (as happens with a Windows PC, too) are already on here.
I've had to dredge up some long-hibernating Mac knowledge to figure out how to work things (I asked Andrew one question: "What's the Mac equivalent of the control key?" Answer -- the little curlicued square key, the "command" key), and I've had to look up a few things. But it's otherwise pretty self-explanatory.
It's also cooler and quieter than the Gateway; that thing could make you sweat on a freezing day when the processor got into a run, and I could hear the cooling fan all the way in the other room. Neither is happening here...much quieter fan, much cooler body, likely having to do a lot from the fact that the case is made from aluminum, thereby wicking off much of the heat.
I have had to deal with a headache given by the newer, better, and thusly smaller-fonted resolution, but I'll get used to that. That always happens when I move to a better one. Always has. But that's okay. I waffled between wallpaper of the famous Japanese woodblock of The Wave, to an F-15 (my favorite fighter jet), F-15s, F-15s and F-16s flying over the Iraqi desert after a bombing run that lit up the oil fields (it's a cool picture, and one I tried to have on my old laptop, but it was always clipped). I finally settled on one that's an homage to a video game Andrew and I have loved called Portal.
Oh, and Daniel Craig, a la Casino Royale when he walks out of the ocean in nothing but a lovely, very tidily-fitting bathing suit that quite marvelously matches his blue eyes.
*sigh*
I can always go back to that one later. A girl has to have her man-candy/beefcake fix every now and again.
And again.
And...again. Mmm...Daniel Craig.
Sorry. I'm straying.
Anyhoo -- I'm loving my new piece of modern technology so far. iWorks should arrive in a few days and I can finally get down some of these story ideas that have been whapping around in my head like a large yacht in windy waters against a small pier. It's sometimes like having a room stuffed to the gills with restless, energy-sodden kids itching to get out into the sunshine at recess.
Getting my laptop did involve some adventure. I realize FedEx, UPS, DHL, UHF, PDQ, XYZ -- whomever -- design their routes by best-fitting, but you would think that with many packages marked "OVERNIGHT" (as was my laptop, a very nice upgrade in shipping given to me by Apple -- they really do have some awesome customer support!) and that -- put on your genius hats, please -- the knowledge that our apartment complex often closes for lunch every day from noon until one (has ever since I moved into this complex ten years ago), the driver/system/packagebot would figure out not to deliver at that time.
I was so excited to get my new laptop, I checked at lunch when I came home on Friday, having also asked the front office to put it in my apartment for me, to see if it was on its way as no package was inside when I got home (I come home for lunch every day...or usually do). My lunch hour on Friday was from 12:30 until 1:30.
I got home at a little past 12:35. To my utter dismay I saw that there was a "delivery exception" on the website because nobody was around to sign for it. When did the driver try?
(Here's where you hold onto your genius hats)
12:33 pm.
Twelve thirty-three in the afternoon. Thirty-three minutes past the noon hour. Twenty-seven minutes before one.
Right when the office is (really hold onto your genius hats now) CLOSED FOR LUNCH.
So I had to drive all the way to Lake Oswego to pick the damn thing up. It was advantageous, though, because I was planning on going to my father's house to have dinner with my grandmother (who lives with my father) and him this weekend, and I was able to do a load of towels in hot water to clean them up from last weekend's water fiasco.
Funny thing was, I'd been thinking just that morning, Gee, it would sure be easier if I could go have dinner today since I get off work early, but I really want to be home fiddling around with my new laptop.
I guess I got what I wished for.
For what I wished, that is, to appease you English-y type people out there. As Winston Churchill said about ending a sentene with a preposition, "That is something up with which I will not put."
So, to my title -- the Mac is pretty much the same thing, yet it's totally different. I remember making a similar remark to a friend about England and America (he's from London) -- mostly about the grocery stores and such, but also about the cultures -- "They're exactly the same -- " and here he chimed in "--yet completely different."
Then again, we know which is the right side of the road to drive on --
er --
-- upon which to drive.
-- H
P.S. I'm feeling much better from the surgery. The scars -- especially the one just below my sternum -- still ache from time to time, and I'm still really tired most of the time. But that's to be expected, according to all health-type people with whom I've spoken.
Recovery is going pretty well. I was physically down and out for about a week after the surgery, and now I'm mostly dealing with the post-op fatigue. I've been told to expect at least six weeks of feeling under-energized, and other websites I've read have said that after (semi-)major surgery, it can take a few months or so.
But that's okay. I'm otherwise feeling much better; as I lay in my anesthesia-and-drug-induced fog in post-op, I noticed an immediate difference. The area where my gallbladder had been felt empty -- in a very lovely way. I had no idea I'd been living with that much discomfort all the time. The first few days I looked ashen and like leftovers of death that had been kept in the fridge too long and warmed over a few times too many. And then suddenly I didn't. The first thing I noticed was my skin -- it looked clean, clear and like it was somehow getting nutrients it had been lacking.
I can tell my body is still sorting out having an organ removed, and I think I've even lost some weight already. It's going to take some time before I feel balanced, but with summer coming up, I'll have some lovely time to recuperate. It's just that right now, I'm exhausted.
What I don't understand is how people become addicted to oxycodone, what the surgeon prescribed for me for the days that followed the surgery. It did a spiffy job on removing the pain, but it left me feeling like I had one of those gloppy algae-laden ponds in me and foggier than some of the stuff that floats into the San Francisco Bay. It messed up my natural sleep rhythm, too, which is partly why I'm still so tired, I think.
It also gave me whacked-out dreams. In one I was playing poker with a bright, emerald green, cartoon crocodile wearing sneakers, athletic socks, Wayfarers and was smoking a cigar. In another, I had a long epic dream of searching for the love of my life. I finally found him, and when I went to put my arms around him and kiss him -- I discovered he was made of sushi. Delighted, I began chewing on his chin and eating him.
I woke up craving a platter of sushi, something that stayed with me for several days.
So all is getting well there, in all meanings of the phrase. I spent last Saturday sprucing up my terrace. Given the disaster last year of frying everything I planted, no veggies this year, other than the hanging tomatoes I'll try. Instead, I planted seeds for flowers that tolerate dry heat, given the mini-climate I have out there. I also got two lovely four-foot pink jasmine bushes for $29.99 each at Fred Meyer; the nursery near me charges around $125 for the same thing. I also got a lovely chaise chair and pad to put on one end of the terrace so that the chairs can go on the other. It's going to be really nice out there this summer.
Then began a mini-war with a squirrel I've come to call the Little Trucker (except that rhymes with what I really call him) that seems to think my pots somehow contain magically-appearing nuts. I finally went to Fred Meyer and bought two owl statues to keep the L.F. off my terrace. The trick, however, is placing them where they scare him off, but don't terrify the little birds that come to the seed feeder, or my hummers.
I also came up with the idea of purchasing a Super Soaker to spray him when he sits in the trees outside my apartment and clucks at me when I'm out there reading. However...they can be rather clever and I may find myself with him fighting back. Like last year when I covered my newly-planted pots with clear plastic and he peed on them.
Speaking of water, I had a small fiasco this weekend. Tired of lugging the big watering pots out to my terrace to water the plans, I decided to get a hose and an attachment that goes on my kitchen faucet. After happily using it as I fluffed up and moistened the Winter-hardened soil in the pots, I went into the kitchen to get something to eat...only to find standing water on the floor. Seeping into the dishwasher. In my kitchen drawers. On the counters. Behind the pasta jars.
Had I still been on the oxycodone, I may have seen Noah floating by with small arc stuffed to the gills with animals.
It did make a lovely tinkling sound, however; I adore the sound of running water and I do have two small fountains I run during the summer out on my terrace...but I can do without it in my kitchen, thankyouverymuch.
The hose had come loose and created a thin fountain that had been spurting upwards with great enthusiasm and pleasure for the last hour or so. It took all my towels to sop it up, followed by three days of them hanging up in my pantry to dry out so I could put them in a sack to wash this weekend. Despite the small flood, it was still decidedly easier to water that way than with the pots. I've sorted out a way to keep it from spraying. At least I believe I have.
In my research about gallbladder disease (cholecystitis if you want the $5 word; don't ask me to pronounce it) I found that it can cause a lot of things in your body to get off kilter; among them feeling tired all the time (which I am, even with a good night's rest and being knocked out by half a sleeping pill), weight gain and difficulty losing it (well -- I have no trouble "losing it" -- ha ha). My surgeon, at the consult, said I'd likely find that after that pesky bag of marbles lodged under my ribcage is removed, many things would clear up.
I hope so, given I woke up yesterday with the left side of my jaw aching. I thought perhaps I'd been clenching my teeth (I do that every once in awhile) and that side of my jaw was sore...but as the morning wore on I realized the lymph node just under the bone and slightly forward of the joint was swollen. The ache radiated all the way up my head, collecting in my eyeball, stopping at the temple -- and all the way down into my shoulder. I finally went home at one in the afternoon to take some prescription painkillers/anti-inflammatory medicine. It barely made a dent, and, after an hour, I swallowed three generic ibuprofins and finally got some relief.
Likely not something my liver and kidneys -- or my doctor! -- would like, but when you can barely open your mouth to slip in a straw to drink water you get creative. I just hope it doesn't get like the one under the right side of my jaw that went postal on me last month when I was sick; I ended up having to go on a 5-day dose of prednisone to calm it down. Or "progesterone" as I kept calling it; my acupuncturist was stumped at why I was prescribed progesterone; I replied back in my email it was for my lymph node (she later said she figured out what I meant). It wasn't until I was talking to a co-worker who paused and said, "You mean -- prednisone?"
I paused -- and then laughed as I realized the mistake I had made. It was somewhat like the time I got really sick as a child and my father took me to the doctor. When we got home, my mother said, "So what does she have?"
I declared, "I have FLUMATISM!"
Hey -- it sounded like a real word. (Still does, thankyouverymuch!)
I realize that it's movement and exercise that keeps your lymph nodes clear, but when even -- gentle -- yoga makes your gallbladderthrow a tantrum, you wind up just becoming more and more of a couch potato. Which is okay...I'm enjoying my PS3 immensely and the Netflix streaming; I also watched Up last night -- in Blu-ray format!). Great movie. And I'm glad I watched it that way, as there were parts that had me laughing so hard I was coughing, thus making it necessary to rewind it (can you say "rewind" when referring to a DVD?) and watch it again. There was one scene I watched about a dozen times merely because it was so funny.
Those Pixar people are absolute geniuses.
So, so much for my plans this evening. I was going to go see a friends band, but the idea of standing around for four hours makes me want to fall asleep. Oh well.
At least it's a beautiful day. I have my terrace door open at the moment, to let in the wind and air, which smells clean and creamy and limned with the scent of cherry blossoms from the tree outside my apartment. I'm also listening to the birds happily singing out there. I hear more over in this unit than I ever did in my old one (though I miss hearing the robins that live mostly over by that building), and I've even been hearing mourning doves. I just wish, come summer, the little guys would wait until 6:00 a.m. or so before they started chorusing, rather then the nanosecond the first ray of light hits the atmosphere.
I guess that's what earplugs are for.
I can also sit here on my couch and watch the hummingbirds come to my feeder. The species that lives around here don't migrate, and so I've had to keep my feeder filled all winter -- I have to put new food in every week! The hummers that come (holy cats ats their wings are loud; when they whizz past me when I'm outside it startles me every time!) are very territorial. I've watched more than a few humming bird beatdowns out there.
And for little birds, their call/song sure is loud!
So Spring is definitely springing. I'm not sure if I'm going to attempt any veggies. I may try a hanging basket of tomatoes. But as for flowers -- maybe some of my usual geraniums, but I need to get others that are fine in hot, dry heat, given that even on days when it was around 80 it was still warm due to the heat and light bouncing back up from the cars and asphalt below. My dad suggested salvia, and I noticed on a website zinnias (one of my favorite flowers) and dahlias are good too. Perhaps I can take the list to the nursery near me and see what I can find.
My first step towards getting healthier will be my surgery on March 11; they said to expect recovery time to be around 5-7 days, so I won't miss too much work. Just Thursday the 11th, Friday and Monday and Tuesday perhaps. Plus I have Saturday and Sunday in there. I lost a bunch of paid time off and vacation time last month when I went kaput, so I earmarked a chunk of my tax return to offset any time lost (another chunk is going to go towards a new laptop).
Then I'm going to focus on the exercise. I'm considering hiring a personal trainer to help me get back on track -- and not move too quickly. I feel like a review/reset of my habits might be a good idea. I also have an appointment with a nutritionist later in March -- my choice -- to have someone take a look at my diet. It's generally pretty good and healthy, but again -- a review is always good, especially post-gallbladder ejection.
My goal and focus for the summer is to get back on track with everything, maybe even take part in the Race for the Cure. Walking, of course; I'm way too out of shape to train in time to run it. I have to say it's really nice to be moving towards a solution for all of this. It's been taking a toll on my spirits, too.
Anyhoo -- perhaps I shall at least go for a small walk around the perimeter of the apartment buildings later this afternoon; fresh air and a dose of sunshine can really do a lot.
It's an absolutely glorious day outside, warm sunshine, cool air, pale crystalline-blue sky, more and more birds returning and singing. The air smells clean and sublime. Right now there's a private plane flying overhead and days like this combined with that sound make me think of being a little kid in Walla Walla, Washington; I remember lying out in the grass on pretty spring and summer days just like this one, listening to the wind in the trees and to private planes thrumming by overhead.
If it were any other day, I'd be outside in a jiffy, going for a walk, but I've been on the downside of health this last month. I came down with a rotten tummy virus around January 11, that cascaded me into being out of work for two weeks (I was able to do some work from home, thankfully), several trips to the doctor and the urgent care facility at Kaiser -- as well as multiple calls to the advice staff after hours.
I had been having pain off and on in my sternum and under my right ribcage, and one Sunday morning a few weeks ago I started feeling dizzy and hurting more; after another trip to Urgent Care (chauffeured by my father) and a follow-up ultrasound -- and, in addition, another trip to Urgent Care a week later -- an EKG and X-Rays, it turns out my gallbladder has finally gone kaput.
I had a terrible attack four and half years ago, resulting in my brother -- who was living with me at the time -- needing to rush me to the hospital around two in the morning. I had awakened in serious pain and feeling like I'd had 32 chili cheese dogs just prior to going on as many whirly rides at a county fair; I finally did manage to throw up -- several times -- and relief didn't come. Generally, the thought is, If I could just throw up, I'll feel so much better! -- but, it didn't work that way that time. That's when I knew I was in trouble.
The suggestion was to have it out then, but all the surgeon could do was repeat himself by saying, "I think you should take it out on the possibility you might have this happen again."
"You mean it will happen again?" I asked.
"Maybe," was his reply.
"So there's no guarantee, then."
"You might have another attack -- and you might never have one again."
"So why do I need to have my gallbladder removed -- right now?"
"Because," the surgeon said again, "you might have one again. Someday."
I declined; the idea of having surgery maybe possibly perhaps on the off chance you might / might not just didn't sit well with me.
But apparently I'm now carrying a small bag of marbles in me, many of which are apparently half a centimeter in size. My current physician suggested surgery, and my reply this time was, "Yes, please."
I was, however, on the fence for awhile about it, but after being awake all night feeling my gallbladder spasming like it was spitting out desperate Morse code, I decided it was definitely time. Technically, that was when I sent my doctor an email that said, Yes, please. Get this thing out of me.
I blame my father. I have no other reason for gallbladder disease other than my inheriting his clunker of one. I've always eaten well, and don't have a smidgen of a lifestyle that would result in developing it. The last possibility of it was family history. I.e. -- Dad. Apparently his started misbehaving when he was 17, and it wasn't until about 15 -- give or take -- years ago he had his out on an emergency basis while on business in Taipei. It was so bad for him, a stone had gotten lodged causing pancreatitis and internal gangrene. I really do not wish to have that experience.
My father has a theory of "reverse genetics", in that he did not develop certain traits until after I was born, and I told him he couldn't claim that this time for his own malfunctioning gallbladder, consider that, when he was 17, I wasn't even a gleam in his eye yet.
"True," he said. "So it's your inheritance."
Thanks, Dad. I'll be sure to not spend it all in one place....
(The last thing he saw before he fell asleep prior to his surgery was a fly going by...sorta sums up the conditions at the hospital there!)
So, consequently, I've been feeling particularly under the weather these last weeks; it doesn't matter what I eat now..anything can cause this stupid thing to have a fit. I had sushi the other night and it threw a minor tantrum. A plate of mostly raw veggies and a Morning Star "burger" (all very low-fat!) and it had a fit. It's okay during the day, but, at night, it makes it hard to sleep. I was prescribed vicodin a few weeks ago for the pain so I could sleep, and I ended up having an "adverse reaction" to it; instead of knocking me out cold, I wound up as wired as if I'd had five espressos right before bed, having a racing heart and I kept breaking out in hot flashes and sweating. I didn't fall asleep until after 5:30 that morning, causing me to miss more work.
I haven't felt rested and fully well in over a month, and, after doing research about issues that can arise from having a factory-defective gallbladder, it seems a lot of my other health complaints could very easily be stemming from it. My surgeon (she's actually an intern, but I liked her right off the bat) said that I'll easily feel much, much better shortly after it comes out.
Amen, sister. Amen to that.
Some days are better than others, but usually I just want to sleep and stay still...hence my being inside on this glorious day.
Although it's laproscopic, the surgery information says to give myself about 5-10 days of recovery time, still. My hope is to have my new laptop by then so I can work from home (I can do it on this one, but it's somewhat on the laborious side due to the screen being so small). If not, this laptop will do -- plus I have my brand spankin' new PlayStation 3, which my brother convinced me to purchase.
I mentioned I was going to use my Christmas gift money for a Blu-Ray player, particularly one that had the ability to stream Netflix movies; Andrew suggested I get the PlayStation 3 since "you can also play games!"
Yes, I like a good computer game, but I don't really need that ability. But then he started explaining exactly what else the snazzy little thing can do, I decided to do so. In addition to being one of the top-rated Blu-Ray players out there, you can also purchase and store movies on its 120GB hard drive (there's also a 250GB model) -- as well as music and photos. There's also a multitude of other things it can do (like browse the Internet!), and you can even swap out the hard drive for a larger one as it's just a standard laptop drive. There's even a utility on the machine to transfer your data -- but you can also hook up external drives and store more movies on them and access them through the player.
It's pretty sweet.
I'm hoping I can do what my brother did with his media center (which is essentially what the PS3 can be), and that's load all my DVDs onto an external drive and store them that way...I'm running out of room to store my DVD boxes, and I'm starting to need to get a rack of some sort -- and I don't really have the room for one.
The streaming Netflix ability is really cool, too. I'm working my way through Torchwood -- a spin-off from the "new" Doctor Who show -- and have a bunch of other things lined up as well. I also watched my first Blu-Ray movie today, Moon, which is excellent. I upgraded my Netflix account to one DVD -- Blu-Ray or standard -- out at a time (and as many as I want in a month) and unlimited streaming time. That was just $6.00 more than what I was already paying.
I also used the rest of my gift money to get some new, good-quality speakers to plug into my television (it's really nice to finally get the full use of its HD capabilities) so now I have really good sound, too. I also got a standard-looking remote for the PS3; you can use the game controller, but it's sort of awkward. I ended up paying a whole whopping $13 of my own money to get all that.
I mentioned to a co-worker I'd gotten the PS3, "But mostly for the Blu-Ray capabilities," I said.
"Not to play games, of course," he said.
"No," I said. "Never."
He burst out laughing and said, "Yeah. Just like people only get Playboy for the articles."
"Yes -- exactly!"
So game playing ability aside (a bonus, just like the articles -- er, the pictures -- are in Playboy) it's an awesome little piece of technology. I will have plenty to watch as I'm recuperating after my surgery -- which is scheduled for March 11.
I think I may ask the surgeon if I can toss my gallbladder into the incinerator myself.
