IWSG: Themes
3 days ago
Tuesday, August 05, 2003
Monday, August 04, 2003
Sorensen's Resort
I should put a plug in here for Sorensen's Resort.
This is where I go when I need to get away from the bay area. I used to go to the mountains, backpack my way in a few miles, and sleep out under the stars. These days I am lucky to pack myself in the car, travel a few hours and sleep in a cabin in the mountains with the windows open. At least I can breathe the air and smell the trees and listen to the creek babble. Not quite like the old days but I will admit it is much nicer sleeping in a real bed. Oh dear, I am getting old.
This is where I go when I need to get away from the bay area. I used to go to the mountains, backpack my way in a few miles, and sleep out under the stars. These days I am lucky to pack myself in the car, travel a few hours and sleep in a cabin in the mountains with the windows open. At least I can breathe the air and smell the trees and listen to the creek babble. Not quite like the old days but I will admit it is much nicer sleeping in a real bed. Oh dear, I am getting old.
A Short Time Out
Took Baby J to the mountains Sunday night and returned today. Needed to breathe some of that fresh mountain air. Baby J and I had lots of fun.
Friday, August 01, 2003
My Name in Print
I got the e-mail today from Writer's Digest. They liked the writing prompt I sent them so I'll be listed as one of the contributors of prompts in the December issue! I know, it's just a small reward but it means a lot because somebody liked something I said enough to give me a credit. Can I now say I am a writer and have been published?
Actually I have been published in a rather indirect way previously. I submitted a letter once to Lauren Artess for a book she was writing about Labyrinth experiences. It did get printed in her book. However I was only an anonymous writer at that time.
Somehow it is still exciting to see something that you write in print. I get satisfaction just seeing my contributions appear in the Story Circle Journal which is a quarterly 16-24 page magazine. It's always a good feeling when we are accepted. And being selected as writer of the month earlier this year was even better.
Now about that book I will write someday... I was going to use a pen name but I am rethinking. I want my name on there. To heck with the consequences. Remember, it will be fiction. But then again, we write what we know don't we? In that case I guess it might be creative nonfiction. Maybe I better work on a pen name afterall.
Actually I have been published in a rather indirect way previously. I submitted a letter once to Lauren Artess for a book she was writing about Labyrinth experiences. It did get printed in her book. However I was only an anonymous writer at that time.
Somehow it is still exciting to see something that you write in print. I get satisfaction just seeing my contributions appear in the Story Circle Journal which is a quarterly 16-24 page magazine. It's always a good feeling when we are accepted. And being selected as writer of the month earlier this year was even better.
Now about that book I will write someday... I was going to use a pen name but I am rethinking. I want my name on there. To heck with the consequences. Remember, it will be fiction. But then again, we write what we know don't we? In that case I guess it might be creative nonfiction. Maybe I better work on a pen name afterall.
Thursday, July 31, 2003
My Life is Fiction
"He said. She said." He said.
"What?" I ask.
"He said. She said." She said.
"Okay, I give up, what are you two talking about?" I looked them in the eye. The ones who keep saying "He said. She said."
She said, "well we know you write everything you do and see. You write about us don't you? so, when one of us forgets and says or does something, we remind each other with "He said. She said."
I said, "I only write fiction."
"Is that so?" she said. She seemed relieved at that comment.
With that in mind, perhaps I'll start yet another blog. Complete fiction. Honest. And guess what? It probably won't be believable. But then our life isn't believable either. If I wrote the truth, you would think it is fiction.
Other than that, it was an umbrella kind of day. Has been that way for two days now. I missed the thunderstorms a couple of nights ago. Sound asleep, totally oblivious. Tomorrow the sun will come out. Our summer storm will have happened. No more rain until Halloween... if we are so fortunate.
"What?" I ask.
"He said. She said." She said.
"Okay, I give up, what are you two talking about?" I looked them in the eye. The ones who keep saying "He said. She said."
She said, "well we know you write everything you do and see. You write about us don't you? so, when one of us forgets and says or does something, we remind each other with "He said. She said."
I said, "I only write fiction."
"Is that so?" she said. She seemed relieved at that comment.
With that in mind, perhaps I'll start yet another blog. Complete fiction. Honest. And guess what? It probably won't be believable. But then our life isn't believable either. If I wrote the truth, you would think it is fiction.
Other than that, it was an umbrella kind of day. Has been that way for two days now. I missed the thunderstorms a couple of nights ago. Sound asleep, totally oblivious. Tomorrow the sun will come out. Our summer storm will have happened. No more rain until Halloween... if we are so fortunate.
Tuesday, July 29, 2003
Chocolate Anyone?
Nice and Sweet and not too overbearing, you are
Milk Chocolate. Everyone likes you to some
extent, and a lot of people love you more than
they love their cat.
What Kind of Chocolate are You?
brought to you by Quizilla
What Cat I Am
| Lynxes (Lynx lynx) are compact, agile cats found in great numbers worldwide. Their coats are brownish gray and are covered with irregular spots. They have unique tufted ears and fluffy cheeks. Being a Lynx, you are a very quiet person. You have many talents yet prefer to keep them quiet rather than flaunting them boldly. Many admire you – and for good reason! |
The MRI Experience
Got up extra early today. Didn't want to chance missing my appointment for the MRI that has finally been approved after a two year battle with my HMO. "There is no preparation required," the receptionist assured me yesterday when I made the appointment. Yeah right I think. I've heard about those MRIs. The discomfort. The noises. The claustrophobia. 30 minutes of not moving. So I prepared.
I woke up extra early. I showered, shaved my armpits, applied deodorant, lotion and makeup. I dressed in clothes easy to remove and replace because I am always afraid someone will open the door to the dressing room and catch me half naked. I ate my bowl of Kashi Good Friends Cereal with raspberries and non-fat milk a bit slower than usual not wanting to risk gas or indigestion. I skipped the coffee so I wouldn't have the jitters. Truth is I skipped the coffee because I was afraid I would have to go to the ladies room in the middle of the procedure. I removed all the extra jewelry (one necklace and two rings). I left early because I was sure there would be a traffic jam. I got there half an hour early.
After completing the 3 pages of paperwork, I was ushered to the dressing room, handed a gown, given a key to the locker for all my valuables and told to take everything off but my undies and sandals and tie the gown in the back. I was also told the restroom was right down the hall. I figured I didn't need to use that. After placing my stuff in the locker and fiddling with the key (I always have trouble with locks) I decided I better use the ladies room anyway, just in case. The receptionist seemed a bit taken aback when I exited the dressing room in my gown asking where the restroom was. Of course I didn't really have to go.
Just as I picked up a year old copy of Oprah magazine so I could look at the fuzzy pictures (I had stashed away my reading glasses), the technician knocked on the door. She led me back to the MRI room, "you took everything off but your undies right?"
"Yes," I said looking around to see if anybody heard that.
"Are you claustrophobic?"
"I don't think so." I don't think she was listening to my responses anyway.
She handed me earplugs. "There will be loud noises." I hate earplugs but I softened them up as instructed and molded them into my ears. Then she started to explain the procedure. More through her motions than her muffled voice, I figured out I had to lie on the table with my head in the cradle.
The table inched in. The chatter starts in my head. I am not claustrophobic. There is plenty of room in here. Even Eric fit in one of these and he's twice my size.
What's that click click? Doesn't seem too noisy to me. I hear a voice. "This one will take one minute." I don't move. I hear loud popping noises then machine gun sounds. I try to count to 60. Breathe in breathe out. Don't move. The noise tops.
The voice comes back, "how are you doing?"
I answer "fine."
"This one will take two minutes." I breathe in and out. Tell myself I will have a caffe latte reward when this is over. I made it through one minute, I can make it through two. The pops, the clicks, the machine gun. I wonder if I am being sliced and diced. I picture the woman in the magic show being sliced in two.
The procedure is repeated for 4 1/2 minutes, then another 4 1/2 minutes, then 4 minutes, and then finally the last one only 3 minutes. Same noises. Same thoughts running through my head. I'm conscious of my breathing. Once in a while I can't help it, I have to gasp. I wonder what happens when I do that. I try to breathe slowly, rhythmically. I don't want to have to do this again. My back aches. My neck is stiff. I want to move.
At last the table moves out to the brightly lighted room. I blink. It's over. The technician tells me to get up. I look at her blankly. You mean I'm supposed to just jump off this table as if there is nothing wrong? I'm here because I can't do those sorts of things. I need help. Finally she gets the message and offers me her hand.
On the way out the door she asks, "you did remove your bra didn't you?"
I want to rip my gown off and prove it to her but I just nod my head.
"Well I detected some sort of metal artifact. Are you sure you don't have some sort device in there?"
I think about it. No I don't know of any devices. Maybe I was abducted by aliens one night and implanted with a chip of some sort. Maybe they are studying me. Maybe there is some tool in there from a previous surgery. Maybe I can sue someone and get rich. I look her straight in the eye. "no I have no metal artifacts."
Next stop, Starbucks. Reward - caffe latte and maple oatnut scone.
I woke up extra early. I showered, shaved my armpits, applied deodorant, lotion and makeup. I dressed in clothes easy to remove and replace because I am always afraid someone will open the door to the dressing room and catch me half naked. I ate my bowl of Kashi Good Friends Cereal with raspberries and non-fat milk a bit slower than usual not wanting to risk gas or indigestion. I skipped the coffee so I wouldn't have the jitters. Truth is I skipped the coffee because I was afraid I would have to go to the ladies room in the middle of the procedure. I removed all the extra jewelry (one necklace and two rings). I left early because I was sure there would be a traffic jam. I got there half an hour early.
After completing the 3 pages of paperwork, I was ushered to the dressing room, handed a gown, given a key to the locker for all my valuables and told to take everything off but my undies and sandals and tie the gown in the back. I was also told the restroom was right down the hall. I figured I didn't need to use that. After placing my stuff in the locker and fiddling with the key (I always have trouble with locks) I decided I better use the ladies room anyway, just in case. The receptionist seemed a bit taken aback when I exited the dressing room in my gown asking where the restroom was. Of course I didn't really have to go.
Just as I picked up a year old copy of Oprah magazine so I could look at the fuzzy pictures (I had stashed away my reading glasses), the technician knocked on the door. She led me back to the MRI room, "you took everything off but your undies right?"
"Yes," I said looking around to see if anybody heard that.
"Are you claustrophobic?"
"I don't think so." I don't think she was listening to my responses anyway.
She handed me earplugs. "There will be loud noises." I hate earplugs but I softened them up as instructed and molded them into my ears. Then she started to explain the procedure. More through her motions than her muffled voice, I figured out I had to lie on the table with my head in the cradle.
The table inched in. The chatter starts in my head. I am not claustrophobic. There is plenty of room in here. Even Eric fit in one of these and he's twice my size.
What's that click click? Doesn't seem too noisy to me. I hear a voice. "This one will take one minute." I don't move. I hear loud popping noises then machine gun sounds. I try to count to 60. Breathe in breathe out. Don't move. The noise tops.
The voice comes back, "how are you doing?"
I answer "fine."
"This one will take two minutes." I breathe in and out. Tell myself I will have a caffe latte reward when this is over. I made it through one minute, I can make it through two. The pops, the clicks, the machine gun. I wonder if I am being sliced and diced. I picture the woman in the magic show being sliced in two.
The procedure is repeated for 4 1/2 minutes, then another 4 1/2 minutes, then 4 minutes, and then finally the last one only 3 minutes. Same noises. Same thoughts running through my head. I'm conscious of my breathing. Once in a while I can't help it, I have to gasp. I wonder what happens when I do that. I try to breathe slowly, rhythmically. I don't want to have to do this again. My back aches. My neck is stiff. I want to move.
At last the table moves out to the brightly lighted room. I blink. It's over. The technician tells me to get up. I look at her blankly. You mean I'm supposed to just jump off this table as if there is nothing wrong? I'm here because I can't do those sorts of things. I need help. Finally she gets the message and offers me her hand.
On the way out the door she asks, "you did remove your bra didn't you?"
I want to rip my gown off and prove it to her but I just nod my head.
"Well I detected some sort of metal artifact. Are you sure you don't have some sort device in there?"
I think about it. No I don't know of any devices. Maybe I was abducted by aliens one night and implanted with a chip of some sort. Maybe they are studying me. Maybe there is some tool in there from a previous surgery. Maybe I can sue someone and get rich. I look her straight in the eye. "no I have no metal artifacts."
Next stop, Starbucks. Reward - caffe latte and maple oatnut scone.
Monday, July 28, 2003
My Sister Turns 45
Little sister has been having a difficult time dealing with the aging process. Yesterday at her birthday party, the trauma team came to her rescue.
Mutterings, Funerals, Etc
Yesterdays funeral for the other grandma was a completely new experience for us. First of all it was at a church located at the worst possible intersection in East Oakland. It was rather difficult to be inconspicuous on this particular occasion. We were the palest people in the neighborhood.
We settled in the back row not wanting to cause any consternation with the rest of the congregation. The church was sparse. There was not a hymnal in sight, no need here, they all know their gospel songs. No air conditioning. just square cardboard fans supplied from the local funeral parlors. The walls were bare except for a couple of faded Jesus pictures. There was no organist or pianist. They didn't need either.
The mother of our grandson has tried to explain to us that they have a different way of addressing funerals than we do. This is based on her attendance at two of our family "funerals" that we experienced a few months ago. These were not necessarily official "white" funerals. They were both celebrations of life done in the style the deceased requested, not characteristic of most white people funerals or memorials.
The service was a lengthy affair, almost 3 hours. While I never knew the other grandma well as her health was failing by the time I met her, I learned that she was a dearly loved woman with a heart that touched all of her four sisters and brother as well as the children and grandchildren of each. She was a loving mother and did the best she could. She had a hard life.
I was very impressed with the preacher. His message was lengthy but relevant to the situation. Here was a person who had survivied the the gutters of the streets, emerging with a purpose in life. A purpose to help others keep from straying into those paths. He had a powerful message, the kind only possible by one who has "been there and done that." My comment to my family when it was over, "you know that one sermon had a more profound effect on me than any that my own father ever preached." Strange that I would find this in a place that I would never have dared to visit.
One other thing, I have never felt as welcomed by a family as I was yesterday. There were no boundaries of prejudice here. It's just one more example how our experience of a mixed race grandson has brought us new understanding and a new level of compassion.
We settled in the back row not wanting to cause any consternation with the rest of the congregation. The church was sparse. There was not a hymnal in sight, no need here, they all know their gospel songs. No air conditioning. just square cardboard fans supplied from the local funeral parlors. The walls were bare except for a couple of faded Jesus pictures. There was no organist or pianist. They didn't need either.
The mother of our grandson has tried to explain to us that they have a different way of addressing funerals than we do. This is based on her attendance at two of our family "funerals" that we experienced a few months ago. These were not necessarily official "white" funerals. They were both celebrations of life done in the style the deceased requested, not characteristic of most white people funerals or memorials.
The service was a lengthy affair, almost 3 hours. While I never knew the other grandma well as her health was failing by the time I met her, I learned that she was a dearly loved woman with a heart that touched all of her four sisters and brother as well as the children and grandchildren of each. She was a loving mother and did the best she could. She had a hard life.
I was very impressed with the preacher. His message was lengthy but relevant to the situation. Here was a person who had survivied the the gutters of the streets, emerging with a purpose in life. A purpose to help others keep from straying into those paths. He had a powerful message, the kind only possible by one who has "been there and done that." My comment to my family when it was over, "you know that one sermon had a more profound effect on me than any that my own father ever preached." Strange that I would find this in a place that I would never have dared to visit.
One other thing, I have never felt as welcomed by a family as I was yesterday. There were no boundaries of prejudice here. It's just one more example how our experience of a mixed race grandson has brought us new understanding and a new level of compassion.
- Partner:: ship
- Goddess:: green
- Village:: idiot
- Relationships:: couples
- Irrational:: insane
- Volcano: erupts
- Fabulous:: Fifties
- Unencumbered:: free
- Coyotes:: howls
- Fulfilled:: happy
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