tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-75158723583187743112023-12-12T06:46:14.839-08:00Listen, Listen, Do Not Hasten!Elisabethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07931394451689080267noreply@blogger.comBlogger376125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7515872358318774311.post-64802079887230802972018-03-07T15:42:00.000-08:002019-05-26T22:06:44.002-07:00La La La Lies<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: 13pt;"><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="background: #ffffff;"><br />So
-- let me tell you a little story. It's about me. That
is, it's about my sudden understanding of something I've known for
years and was just never actually </span></span><span style="color: #222222;"><i><span style="background: #ffffff;">aware </span></i></span><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="background: #ffffff;">of.
I don't know whether these small epiphanies that I keep having as I
age are standard human behavior, and therefore nothing I need to
worry about, or whether I am showing myself to be a strikingly obtuse
individual who merely </span></span><span style="color: #222222;"><i><span style="background: #ffffff;">thinks</span></i></span><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="background: #ffffff;"> she
is intelligent (also, no doubt, standard human behavior.)</span></span></span></span></span><br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: 13pt;">This
is an example of how a person with a fully functioning brain can go
through life looking at fact A, and also at contradictory fact B, and
merely whistle a happy tune.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: 13pt;">You
may already know the story of the stalker I had when I was young and
living on my own for the first time. It was a very frightening thing
for me, also for my Loved Ones, and resulted in my moving several
times in rapid succession, in nailing my bedroom window shut, and
pushing my dresser in front of my bedroom door every night. It wasn't
until my third move put me on the second floor of a lovely old
building with only one outside door and very creaky stairs, that I
calmed down enough to put the butcher knife (under the edge of the
bed) back in the kitchen drawer.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: 13pt;">Okay.
So after I had moved from the second location, and was busily
pounding nails into the woodwork, a young woman (we'll call her
Shmeesa) whom I had known from her babyhood but hadn't seen in many
years, turned up at my door with my sister Rose. It seems that
Shmeesa was also being stalked and it seemed to be by the same
person. He had apparently told her on the phone that he was someone
who had known me since my childhood. This sent the whole thing
suddenly from “Random Nutjob” into “Beyond Terrifying Psycho”,
especially since the childhood we had shared had been a rural
American Christian one, and Religious + Wacko = RunRunRun. It's one
thing to have voices telling you what to do, but when that voice is
the Supreme Being, it's a whole other ballgame.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: 13pt;"><i><b>Anyway. </b></i>Shmeesa
ended up moving in with me for several months, bringing me up to date
on the strange and dramatic life she had led, and confiding in me
about her rape and her brain tumor and her car accident. She
convinced me that since the police were not "doing anything"
about the stalker, we should get a private investigator (and that's a
whole other story, o my god) and just generally kept me fearing this
obsessive psychopath.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: 13pt;">Fast-forward
several years, to me finding out from three or four independent
sources that young Shmeesa was a Dreadful Liar. That she had no brain
tumor. That her claims of nights spent in the hospital were no doubt
merely nights spent on the tiles. That no one else seemed to think
she had been raped. Etc, etc, etc. This was, to some extent,
corroborated by Shmeesa herself. ("Oh, yeah, I guess I lied a
lot when I was younger.") I was pretty much stunned, but
eventually allowed myself to accept it and move on.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: 13pt;">This
all happened about thirty years ago. And yet! It was only <i><b>last
week </b></i>that it dawned on me, in an
absolutely <i>shattering </i>way, that this <i><b>also
meant</b></i> my stalker was merely some random guy on the
telephone who finally broke in to my house, and was then stymied by
my moves. Frightening, yes. Years-long psycho-religious obsession
carefully nurtured over time and finally acted upon, rendering every
relationship I had ever had with any male potentially
life-threatening? No. NO!</span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: 13pt;">So
-- I guess this is a happy ending. I'm mostly feeling stunned
chagrin, but I will probably feel happy about it <i>eventually!</i></span></span></span></div>
<br />
<br /><br />
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<br />Elisabethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07931394451689080267noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7515872358318774311.post-85747834117065854542017-10-03T09:27:00.003-07:002017-10-03T09:27:41.531-07:00A Used-Up World<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">There is a chill in the air this morning! 42 degrees here at the coast, where I'm once again sitting up in the World's Best Bed. It is </span><b style="color: #222222;"><i>so much</i></b><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"> nicer to wake to this freshness, this feeling of a new start and a new atmosphere to start in, than this past summer's sensation of a used-up, leftover, worn-out world, when the morning dawning only brought fat, hot, listless air, warmer than your body, and smelling stale and re-used.</span></span>Elisabethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07931394451689080267noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7515872358318774311.post-23503145039757686872017-09-27T12:11:00.002-07:002017-09-27T12:29:13.907-07:00Dishes and Sheets<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; line-height: 19.5px; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: large;">I</span>'m at the Retirement Home, sitting up in The Best Bed with a cup of strong, hot coffee, and some cinnamon toast (fresh potato bread!) listening to the occasional bird call overlay the deep silence. It's not that it's really silent, if you concentrate you can hear the distant surf, but in general the constant same sound of surf sort of wipes out the smaller sounds of distant car engines and makes the air feel silent. If that makes sense.</span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; line-height: 19.5px; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; line-height: 19.5px; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Mom and Dad have left for Mom's daily radiation treatment -- in Longview, An eighty mile drive for a five minute treatment (tooth grinding noises.) </span></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; line-height: 19.5px; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; line-height: 19.5px; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Fortunately, tomorrow is the last day of this particular round of treatment, and when the next one starts, there will be a radiation treatment center in Astoria, which is less than an hour away. Mom is beginning to show signs of the treatment -- sort of a wobbliness that is new, and a tendency to lapse into waking-coma -- that is, staring with out-of-focus eyes at nothing until you speak to her. Could be merely weariness, I don't know, but I'm very sensitive to every little thing -- she's my mama!</span></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; line-height: 19.5px; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; line-height: 19.5px; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I offered to drive her to her appointment today or tomorrow, but she instantly turned me down -- then recollected herself and thanked me politely, but said that she "needs Daddy" to be there with her -- it keeps her able to bear it! I was hoping that with the passage of time, she would be getting more accustomed to it, and thus more able to bear it, but no.</span></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; line-height: 19.5px; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; line-height: 19.5px; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Even with the worry of Mom and the Cancer Treatment, relaxing at the Retirement Home is so much more <i><b>relaxing</b></i> than relaxing at home in the apartment. Something about the bed, perhaps? Or the stillness? No traffic noises? I'm feeling very calm and peaceful.</span></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; line-height: 19.5px; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; line-height: 19.5px; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I've got some dishes to wash, and some sheets to fold, so I'll be on my way rejoicing.</span></span></div>
Elisabethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07931394451689080267noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7515872358318774311.post-67303194416616788782017-08-01T11:47:00.001-07:002017-08-01T11:47:14.240-07:00Heroes and Villains<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">So I'm at the Retirement Home, for the first time in MONTHS, since I've had car difficulties and scheduling difficulties and all -- I think the last time I was here was in April. And now I have my new Toyota Camry, Opal Whitely, which I was thrilled to drive up here in, and thrilled to show my parents. </span><br />
<div style="color: #222222;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="color: #222222;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">When I arrived, it was still very bright outside, and we began unloading the car, while my dad was looking at various aspects of it and asking questions, and my mother was admiring its cleanliness and beauty. She sat down in the driver's seat, and awkwardly thunked her elbow against the door frame. And broke her humerus clean through!</span></div>
<div style="color: #222222;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="color: #222222;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Leaving aside the feeling that her bones must be made of barley sugar, and how can she walk around? and all that sort of thing, it was a big hairy deal, since a) we did not know what had happened, just that she immediately passed out, and b) when she came to, she was incapable of telling us what was wrong, and she didn't know, anyway; and c) their car was not running, due to a split radiator. </span></div>
<div style="color: #222222;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="color: #222222;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">So, on the one hand, it was perfect timing that I was there, with a new car which had been recently minutely inspected by Mechanic Bob, and was able to assist my dad in getting her up and into the car. But on the other hand, if I hadn't been there, it would not have happened at all! So am I the villain or the hero of this piece?</span></div>
Elisabethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07931394451689080267noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7515872358318774311.post-66313530233092367912017-06-17T14:44:00.002-07:002017-09-27T15:32:57.949-07:00Forty-five Degrees<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; margin-bottom: 12pt;">
<span style="font-family: "courier new";">In the library where I now am, not my </span><i style="font-family: "courier new";">regular-home-library</i><span style="font-family: "courier new";">, nor even my </span><i style="font-family: "courier new";">every-weekend-and-occasional-<wbr></wbr>other-times library</i><span style="font-family: "courier new";">, but a </span><i style="font-family: "courier new";">nearly-new-and-almost-foreign library</i><span style="font-family: "courier new";">, there is a corner, just one, with two long thin windows on each side of it, sort of facing one another, at a forty-five degree angle, or some sort of degree angle, I guess I don't actually know what the facing-each-other angle is, but the corner is a forty-five degree <b><i>corner,</i></b> so I was just guessing. </span><br />
<br style="font-family: "courier new";" />
<span style="font-family: "courier new";">Anyway, a few inches beyond the outside edge of each tall thin window is the ten-inch wide end of a bookshelf, standing out from the wall. It makes a great little sitting and reading spot, which, if I were forty years younger (O my god) I would immediately take advantage of and never leave. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new";"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "courier new";">I would sit cross legged completely inside this little space, lit by two tall thin windows and enclosed by two bookcases, and read to my heart's content. Even now, forty years older and forty million pounds heavier, I am still tempted to give it a try. Pretty sure I would fit, but the thought of attempting to arise from my cross-legged posture -- dear me, no. Horrible idea. I wouldn’t be able to lever myself properly, and would get completely stuck, or my dislocatable knee would dislocate when I was halfway up, and freeze me, bravely trying not to shriek, in a ridiculous and extremely undignified position.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new";"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "courier new";">Sigh.</span></div>
Elisabethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07931394451689080267noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7515872358318774311.post-83141465519352933032017-05-02T14:03:00.002-07:002017-09-27T12:17:46.955-07:00Dentists and suchlike<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">I don't remember if I told you or not -- my longtime and beloved dentist retired, and sold his practice to a younger man. I like the system they have there, but I'm not sure about the actual <b><i>dentistry</i></b>. Perhaps I should say, the actual <b><i>dentist</i></b>. </span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">The man has very large hands! (he's a very large <b><i>man</i></b>, easily six foot six or so). He is very careful and asks me frequently if I am numb, or if I am experiencing pain, (which can only be answered with a yes or no, by the way) but I think the difficulty is with his hands. He has very large hands, with thick fingers. I'm sure they are very good for all kinds of things, but not for fitting into the mouth of someone, along with a drill, a spray of water, a suction device and his assistants's fingers. It's been over five hours, and the dull ache in my jaw, face, nose and cheekbones has increased to a dull throb. I feel I should go home and take anti-inflammatories.</span><br />
<div style="color: #222222;">
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="color: #222222;">
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">I know most people have far worse stories to tell of their dental experiences, but I have been utterly spoiled by Dr. Belusko, who had thin hands with long skeletal fingers, and who never hauled on my cheeks, facial muscles and <b><i>tongue</i></b>, ("Can you get ahold of her tongue and hold it out of the way?") while doing his careful and beautiful dentistry. Whaa-aa-aah!</span></div>
Elisabethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07931394451689080267noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7515872358318774311.post-89214998765702394422017-04-08T10:51:00.001-07:002017-09-27T12:18:34.186-07:00A lovely Saturday<div>
<div>
<div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">It is the perfect Spring morning! Warm and breezy,
nothing like the chill buffeting winds of yesterday, delicate sunshine,
high blue sky, new pale green everywhere... So perfect that no one is on
the library this morning! Of the thirty computers here, five are
occupied, and that includes me.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Had a bad night last night
-- I haven't been sleeping well for several weeks, but that's usually
more or less okay -- but last night was a misery of wakefulness. At one
point, at about two am, I turned the lamp back on, and read for awhile,
but so sleepy was I that I mostly just held the book with my eyes
closed. Still could not drop off. I think it was because I wasn't well
in my little tum, and that gave a rather nauseated flavor to all my
thoughts, so they all felt bad and anxious and worrisome, and as though
today was going to implode into a dreadful day of distress and disaster.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">However,
when the alarm went off, and I woke, the day was perfectly friendly,
and everything that has occurred has been quite lovely. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">I would like to know what the problem is with my sleeping, though. I mean, I have always had the<i><b> occasional</b></i>
white night, but as a rule, twice a year was the most frequently that
occurred. Not since my bout of insomnia in college has it been this long
without an uninterrupted night. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">In any case, it is a
beautiful Spring morning, tra-la, tra-la! My Norwegian friend Marit is
already on her Easter holiday, as apparently everyone in her country has
two weeks off at Eastertime. Why don't WE?</span>Elisabethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07931394451689080267noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7515872358318774311.post-80258768355689639042017-02-07T14:06:00.001-08:002017-02-07T14:06:10.954-08:00The rain rain rain came down down down....<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; margin-bottom: 12pt;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">The snow started at nine this morning -- much earlier than the four-in-the-afternoon the TV news weatherpersons were predicting. It was still raining, heavy wet rain, with melty snow mixed in -- dime-sized flakes hitting the windshield, about five or six, splatting wetly over my viewpoint, before the wiper blades wiped them away, and again, and again. <br /><br />It didn't feel cold outside, was the odd part. Still felt warm enough that I am wearing my little coat, my car coat, not the long woolen overcoat I wear in the snow. Carrying my giant umbrella, but that's just because both my smaller umbrellas have broken spines, so I've got to either figure a way to fix them, or make up my mind to throw them away. Don't want to throw them away, either of them. One of them a beautiful royal blue Klimt design that my dear Jessica gave me, years ago, and the other a small compact fold-able one of Black Watch plaid that I just particularly like. Still, I'm not sure they can be fixed. Why aren't there umbrella repair shops? It ought to be very easy to remove and replace a broken spine, and think of all the business you would have! Perhaps I should learn the art of umbrella repair and open my own place.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; margin-bottom: 12pt;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Anyway, the snow continued for about an hour, and has now completely stopped. Still raining, however, very wetly, and <i>mirabile dictu</i>! -- it feels significantly colder than it did this morning. Isn't that odd? Unlikely? Isn't snow merely rain in the cold? So how does that work? And another question I have about rain -- the size and velocity of the drops seem to have little or no rhyme or reason to it. Sometimes a tiny, misty droppage of minuscule drops, other times large fat drops falling without much impetus behind them, other times the drops are driven down as by a powerful wind, but the winds aren't blowing <b><i>downwards</i></b>, they are blowing east or west or north or south. The size and velocity of today's rain has changed several times, and who knows why? Is it the pressure in the air above? Do some of them contain particulate matter that are pulled downward by gravity? Who knows? (Well,<b><i> I</i></b> don't know -- someone does.)</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; margin-bottom: 12pt;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">As I finished making one of my clients his lunch today, his roommate Myke blew in from grocery shopping, fresh and wet, with his arms full of bags. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; margin-bottom: 12pt;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">"It's a very wet day out there," I observed.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; margin-bottom: 12pt;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">"Sure is," he replied, setting his bags down. "And I love it. I love the rain in all shapes and sizes."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; margin-bottom: 12pt;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">"Me, too," I said. "That's why I live in Portland!"</span></div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">"Yup," he said. And we smiled at one another.</span></span>Elisabethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07931394451689080267noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7515872358318774311.post-91952650863589527232016-11-06T12:36:00.001-08:002017-09-27T15:35:16.763-07:00November Sunday<div>
<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace; font-size: large;">Sitting
in the nearly empty parking lot of the Midland Library (it's a large
library that sees a lot of use) before it opens, eating my weekend
breakfast of an English muffin sandwich with bacon, egg and cheese, and a
small carton of milk (it's funny, when I ask for milk, they nearly
always respond with "white milk or chocolate milk?" As though those
were the <i>two types</i> of milk!) and marveling happily to myself at
the nearly steady stream of cars circling through. They are all
dropping their votes in the large Ballot Box which is in the back of the
parking lot. Keep voting, people, keep voting!</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace; font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace; font-size: large;">The
peach of the day, however, was an old Ford pickup truck, very large,
which had originally been blue, but was now 90 percent rust. At least
90 percent. It had a two-by-four fence around the bed, rickety and
broken down on one side, and was making a dreadful racket --
blap-blap-blap, very loud. The driver was a tiny little wrinkled-up
lady -- barely big enough to see over the dash, and you could see her
head tipped sharply back to manage it. She maneuvered the monstrous
beast (blap-blap-blap) through the parking lot, and up to the ballot
box, and her tiny hand on her scrawny arm came shakily out of the window
and slowly, carefully (shakily) deposited her ballot envelope. I
wanted to stand up and cheer.</span></span>Elisabethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07931394451689080267noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7515872358318774311.post-11193793489441092232016-10-18T13:30:00.002-07:002016-11-20T16:36:08.854-08:00Private Property<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, monospace;"><br />So
I came out of my house Saturday morning, at about seven-thirty, and
saw a grey-haired woman sitting in the gazebo, with a raincoat on,
and a coffee cup from the bakery next door. She was shaking out a
tiny folding umbrella and seemed cross. I called out, "Good
Morning!" She looked up and gave me a decidedly dirty look,
before pointedly turning her shoulder toward me.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, monospace;"><br />Now,
I'm a fairly shy person, at least I used to be, and it still flavors
my behavior from time to time, but this was my house, my yard and my
gazebo, and I was beginning to suspect that she had no right to be
there. So I skipped down the steps and headed on over.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, monospace;"><br />"Isn't
it nice after the rain stops?' I said chattily. "You still need
your umbrella for all the drips, though!"</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, monospace;"><br />"Mmm-hmm,"
she said, on a high note, and without looking at me.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, monospace;"><br />"Who
are you visiting?" I asked, sitting down beside her. She looked
at me like I was insane.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, monospace;"><br />"I'm
not visiting, I live here!" she snapped. I did a double take.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, monospace;"><br />"What?
No -- unless you just moved in?" I asked, gesturing toward the
apartment house.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, monospace;"><br />"No
-- I live in Alameda -- wait, is this your yard?" she asked. I
nodded, with raised eyebrows.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, monospace;"><br />"Well,
for heaven's sake," she snapped, getting up and gathering her
possessions angrily. "You shouldn't be here -- I mean -- how is
anyone supposed to tell?"</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, monospace;"><br />"By
the sign on the gate that says 'Private Property' ," I said
sweetly. She stomped down the steps and headed across the grass.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, monospace;"><br />"Sorry!"
she called over her shoulder, not politely. I almost felt bad.</span></div>
Elisabethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07931394451689080267noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7515872358318774311.post-90448819050511189862016-08-21T10:23:00.005-07:002019-04-27T22:06:17.869-07:00I am really not<br />
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, monospace;"><span style="font-size: small;">Okay
-- I find this strange -- or at least remarkable. I had an
"aha!" moment last year, when I realized -- for the <i><b>first
time</b></i> -- that something which had happened to me in
the past put me in a well-known statistic. </span></span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, monospace;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />Okay.
That was strange enough. That I, who sort of pride myself on my
ability to look at things and see how they are, could have skipped
lightly over this event, even though I thought about it every so
often, just never called it by its name. And in fact had said
aloud, several times, and to myself, several more times, that I was
very lucky that I did not, in fact, belong to this statistic. I
feel weirdly ashamed, as though I did it on purpose, although I
assure you I did not.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, monospace;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />But
here's the part that seems freaky to me now. When I read
articles online or in the news about these statistics, and other
sufferers from it, I get very anxious and start shifting in my chair
and breathing in little gasps, and want to leave the room.
That's the way that "trigger" stories make people feel
who <i><b>know </b></i>that this happened to them.
And I didn't know, until just recently. So I feel as though I
must be making these reactions up. But I am not. I am
really not.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<br />Elisabethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07931394451689080267noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7515872358318774311.post-53463524982071036762016-08-20T14:13:00.000-07:002016-08-20T14:29:04.326-07:00Hot Times, Summer in the City<div style="margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Merciful Heavens, 84 degrees at 8 in the morning! How is this possible? How? How, how, how? You see, it's turned me into Rowsby Woof!</span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">I am pretty much living in my bedroom these days, since I have a window unit air conditioner in there. This is nice, and means I sleep through the night pretty well, but it would be better if I had a chair to sit in. Reading in bed, or watching a movie on one's laptop in bed is not as comfy as one might think. And yes, there</span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace; font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;"> is</span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"> a chair in my bedroom, but it is invisible under the pile of clean but un-put-away clothes. </span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="color: #222222; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">I do love the open, beckoning emptiness of the Banfield freeway on these early weekend mornings! It is all swooping curves, and I am always called to speed. The few cars that there are are all speeding as well, so there isn't any risk of suddenly coming upon a fifty-five-mile-an-hour-good-little-driver. There are other risks, of course -- as witness:</span></div>
<div style="color: #222222; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="color: #222222; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">This morning I was in the far left lane, doing about 75, and had no one in front of me, so I was getting ready to move back into the center lane. There were about five cars in my current sight, before and behind, all well-spaced. I turned on my signal, waited a few moments, and started moving right. As I did so, I was aware of a flash of movement behind me, and then a long, loud, I'm-extremely-pissed-off car horn. A small, shabby little sports-type car shot into the far right lane, at an angle that showed he had come from behind me in the far left, all the way across three lanes, and then without a pause, shot left again, across the middle lane and into the far right. No signalling, or anything, since that requires a hand off the wheel.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="color: #222222; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">A young girl, maybe 23-24, with floods of wild blonde hair whipping around her face, projected herself out of the open window of this car up to her waist, to turn back toward me and give me the deluxe double finger. She held this position, shaking her hands toward me and screaming something (much too loud out there to hear, and anyway, my windows were closed) and then retracted herself, and the car shot away at a minimum of eighty-five miles an hour -- we were all doing seventy, seventy-five, and he passed us like we were going backward -- in big triangular swoops across and back across, all without benefit of signal.</span></div>
<div style="color: #222222; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="color: #222222; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">I burst out laughing, it was just so ludicrous. It also made me feel oddly nostalgic about being that young -- that moment-oriented -- that the interruption of your wildly illegal and tremendously dangerous freeway shenanigans would have been enough to infuriate you to that extent. I was never that young, thank goodness.</span></div>
<div style="color: #222222; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="color: #222222; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Last weekend I took a day off and spent three days in Rogue River with my aunt and uncle at their gorgeous, opulent and extremely clean house on the river. It is a large and very plush dwelling and there was not a scrap of dust anywhere in it. The upstairs, where my cousin and I always sleep, was completely unused by the family, and still, perfectly clean. It was a lovely visit, extremely relaxing and very enjoyable. Spent most of our time just sitting in their luxurious living room with glasses of iced tea and talking about our lives and our shared memories and our jobs and our families. My aunt is a very careful and excellent cook, and she and my uncle both refused any offers of help, so my cousin and I just lay back and luxuriated. I didn't want to come home!</span></div>
<div style="color: #222222; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">We took a trip up to Crater Lake, so I have now seen this Oregon landmark -- hadn't until then! It is extremely beautiful. Very serene, with no background noise of rivers, since it has no input and no outgo. The water is an even, full, blue and very calm. And it's huge. Lots of tiny, rapidly-darting chipmunks with very bright eyes, who all flash across the paths and up over the rocks at a ridiculous rate of speed. Very relaxing to stand and look. And all the walls and buildings are made of stone, built by the Civilian Conservation Corps back in the thirties, and very beautiful. Plus, since this lake is </span>in<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"> the top of a volcano, exploded off and crumpled in, about seven thousand (!) years ago, you have to wind your way up and up into the mountains to get a look at it, so we were high among the pine forests. It was a gorgeous day, in spite of the heat -- 102 degrees, I believe -- and anyway, their car is very well air-conditioned.</span>Elisabethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07931394451689080267noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7515872358318774311.post-45255586794712709122016-07-27T11:43:00.002-07:002016-07-30T13:43:07.920-07:00A Smile on My Face<div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">This is perfect weather -- absolutely <i><b>perfect</b></i>. The sky is thickly overcast and glowing white, the air is crisp and a tiny bit too chilly, and there were tiny raindrops in the air for a moment -- just a moment -- on my way to the bank! When I walked out the door at about eight, the air I took in was gloriously fresh and promising, with none of the oppressive stickiness I am expecting later in the day. It is still cool enough in my apartment to necessitate a robe upon arising, and I reveled in my new bathrobe, soft and light and dark navy-blue, and perfectly comforting. Ahh....!</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">I'm currently wearing a gauze skirt, to attempt to battle the coming apocalypse of heat, which I had to mend before wearing, since last time I had it on, my key ring caught in it as I was picking it up, and tore two long straight lines through it. It's always worse when you do it yourself -- you know, hurl a glass to the floor as you are trying to catch it, smack yourself in the face with something you are trying to heft -- it's no doubt all very salutary and lesson-teaching, but it's also very frustrating. In any case, the two tears lent themselves very nicely to being mended and are hardly visible now. </span></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><br /></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">I've just finished a book that I truly enjoyed. I was laughing repeatedly -- aloud! -- throughout the first two chapters, and snickering later on, and I wept very sadly all through the last chapter. So it has the whole, "I laughed, I cried" thing going for it. It's "A Man Called Ove" by Frederick Backman, and I put in on my library list because of another book he wrote called, "My Grandmother Asked Me to Tell You She's Sorry," which was charming although not as satisfactory as "Ove", in spite of the title. It had some real cleverness in it, however, as well as some spots that left me feeling unfulfilled -- and it was festooned with blurbs about his best-selling book, "A Man Called Ove." So I put it on my library list some months ago, and had completely forgotten about it when it turned up. I advise a look!</span></span><br />
<div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Last night I had retired to my bedroom with the door closed and the air conditioner on, since after sundown is when it gets too hot to be comfortable in any degree of dress or undress, and iced drinks do nothing to prevent the trickles of sweat, and had just begun to feel the eyelids closing, when like a sudden Taser-blast, I remembered that my car was still parked in the library parking lot. My eyelids shot open, and I was suddenly very wide awake. Why do you suppose memory does that? Why couldn't I have remembered several hours earlier, while still clothed? There is an actual physical jolt that goes along with these falling-asleep memories, not unlike those clonic leaps your body makes -- they call them hypnagogic jerks -- just as you are nearly asleep, which always leave me gasping, heart pounding, and very WIDE AWAKE. What's the deal there?</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><br /></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Well, in this case, I was just as glad to be widely awake, since I had to get up and go and rescue my car, and park it in front of the apartment, and if I had been staggering with sleep, I probably would have gone out in whatever articles of clothing met my hand, with my hair on end. And several of my neighbors were sitting in the gazebo, where I afterwards joined them, so I was glad to be relatively appropriately clothed. It's possible that my neighbors would not have been likely to notice my <i>deshabille</i>, since they had been out drinking and while none of them were intoxicated, they all were "flown with wine", which made it funny and delightful to talk with them, but also meant that they might have been just as likely to seize upon my clothing and want to discuss it in every detail. <br /><br />I went back to bed with a smile on my face! </span></span>Elisabethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07931394451689080267noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7515872358318774311.post-69598876494967720312016-07-25T17:17:00.000-07:002016-07-25T17:17:42.525-07:00TBD<div dir="ltr">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">Today is the third time
in a week that my work schedule included "TBD" which means "To Be
Determined" (for those of you who don't do initialisms) although today's
was the only one of the three which appeared on the schedule itself.
The first two were when clients cancelled their scheduled shifts without
telling us this would be happening. </span></span><div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">However,
in spite of three or four days to think them up, my boss had only one
chore for me to do, which took a total of ten minutes, even though I
checked it over and then checked it over a third time just to use up
some minutes. So I spent most of three hours reading at an empty desk.
Read the Residential Books (case histories, etc) of clients, and then
read the book I always have with me (at the moment it's Barbara Vine's
"The Blood Doctor" which has been unread long enough since the first
time I read it, to have vanished back into the mists of time for me -- I
truly cannot remember what the twist is going to be, nor a lot of
details in the story itself. Which is almost unprecedented, and also a
great benefit to me, since Ruth Rendell {Barbara Vine's actual name} has
recently died and will not be writing any more. So it's almost new! <b>WIN</b>!) until that shift
was over. This is the break before my afternoon shift.</span></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">One
of my co-workers had made and brought in for me, two chocolate chip
cookies and a slice of what she called "Zucchini Pie" and I would have
called quiche if anyone had asked me. Needless to say, I did not eat
it. The chocolate chip cookies were perfectly fine, although they
included walnuts in them, which was an unexpected though not
off-putting occurrence, but were fat and puffy like -- like -- can't think
of any cookies which are intended to be puffy, although I know I've
eaten them. Anyway, they were quite good, and I ate them with
enjoyment, although I'm a little uncertain as to the intentions of the
co-worker. At the moment, I'm just assuming that she is being friendly
and making friendly overtures to me, her friend. Right?</span></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;"> </span></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">Miserable hot day, today, somewhere in the mid-eighties, I'm guessing. It's funny how quickly that sucking misery can dissipate from my mind when I am in an air-conditioned building.</span></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;"><br /></span></span></div>
</div>
Elisabethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07931394451689080267noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7515872358318774311.post-75986340028648614202016-07-19T14:12:00.000-07:002016-07-19T14:12:00.512-07:00Further Up and Further In!<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">This morning I had breakfast in the Tardis of restaurants -- the Aslan's Country of restaurants! Definitely bigger on the inside than it was on the outside. It was a small, brown, snub-nosed building on the corner of a busy street, with dark reflective windows, so you couldn't see in. But once inside, it had been laid out by a master hand, with the bar fronting the kitchen in such a way as to give all the room light from the windows, the odd-shaped corners used for the poker machines, and booths around the outer walls. Light, airy, spacious -- it was a joy to enter, and an even bigger joy to eat in! The hashed brown potatoes were crispy and yet tender, the gravy was sausagey and delicious and their bacon was a thing of beauty and a joy for the very brief time it took to eat. Next time I'm going to try the oatmeal -- see if they can take it to the next level!</span><br />
<div style="color: #222222;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="color: #222222;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I had breakfast there with Linda, my apartment house manager, chatting about books and marriage and raising boys and baking -- Linda and I have had similar lives in certain ways! Now that I know where it is, I invite you to come and breakfast there with me! Tuesdays and Wednesdays -- I'm always available!</span></div>
Elisabethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07931394451689080267noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7515872358318774311.post-53511018037669752572016-07-05T13:17:00.002-07:002016-07-05T13:18:32.423-07:00Dichotomy Pie<div>
<div>
<div>
<div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">I
was just re-reading a Tim Powers novel recently -- in fact, it's my
go-to-sleep book-on-tape at the moment -- called "Last Call," in which
Scott Crane dresses in drag in order to get onto a yacht incognito.
When they ask him at the gangway what his name is, he realizes that he
hasn't thought of one and says, "My name is Dichotomy Jones."</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><br /></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Well,
that is lurking around my frontal lobes because I was thinking about a
contradictory facet of my nature, this morning, and while trying to
decided which side came uppermost, that phrase floated into my mind -- <i>My name is Dichotomy Jones. </i></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><i> </i></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Anyway, as I left the house this morning at eight am, I felt a familiar <i>frisson</i>
of delight at the quiet emptiness of the streets, and long trailing
emptiness of the freeway, and how the bridge was bare in all
directions. It made me think that I would have no trouble being the
last human alive in New York City -- no trouble at all driving my 1970
red Ford convertible through the silent, empty streets like Charlton
Heston. I could be the <b>Omega Man</b>, no problem. I'd<b><i> love</i></b> it!</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><br /></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">But
on the other hand, you know -- I do sometimes get lonely. Some things
need another person involved to be truly enjoyable -- look at the
journal of my trip to London -- how many times did I say, "If only
Ruthie were here?" I remember sitting in the chapel of
St.-Martin-in-the-Fields, listening to a Bach concerto and absolutely <b><i>overflowing</i></b>
with the need to have someone there to share that incredible beauty
with. Some afternoons while I am sitting in my comfy chair with a good
book and a cup of tea, I am still driven to get up and go look outside
to see if any of my neighbors are hob-nobbing in the yard, since I am
just very aware of my all-alone-ish-ness. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><br /></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">On
the third hand, however, I cannot decide (I have no means of making
this decision, since I can't establish the situation which would decide
it <i><b>for</b></i> me) if this is because I know with the underneath
of my brain, that there are other people out there, doing their thing
without me. If I could know that there <i><b>weren't</b></i> any others on Earth, would it make any difference? You see the difficulty. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><br /></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">It
is an absolutely beautiful day, no question. Vivid blue sky and bright
sunlight, fluffy white clouds dotting about, covering about half the
sky, but only around 72 degrees, and with a cool breeze. I'm through
with my work for the day, and getting ready to go home and make a Key
lime pie, and a coconut cream pie, both specific requests from two of my
neighbors, for the Fourth of July barbecue tomorrow afternoon. Looking forward to it!</span></span>Elisabethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07931394451689080267noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7515872358318774311.post-56152854792331220012016-06-26T11:00:00.000-07:002016-06-26T18:40:41.298-07:00Branded!<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">While driving up 122nd this morning, I pulled over for a fire truck shrieking past, as did the other cars ahead of me. After it passed, I pulled back into the lane, and noticed someone crossing in the middle of the block, up ahead. I assumed that it was someone taking advantage of all the cars pulling over, to cross, but not thinking of the speeding emergency vehicle. <br /><br />I was mentally shaking my head at this self-absorbed, small-minded stupidity as I slowly increased my speed. I was expecting the person to walk quickly across the five lanes, and was surprised to need to brake a few moments later as I came right up to the man, still pottering across. Then, just after he had passed the front of my car, and my foot had moved back to the gas, he bent and picked something up off the street, (I couldn't be sure, but it looked like a wadded up paper towel) and <i><b>turned around to go back</b></i>! <br /><br />I quickly slammed on the brake again, and he noticed me for the first time, and stopped, standing directly in front of me. He looked through the windshield at me and I looked back at him. He was tidily dressed, with very short hair, and had none of the obvious sequelae of mental illness or signs of living rough. His clothes were older but very tidy and clean. As we looked at one another, he raised one hand and gravely, solemnly, wagged a finger at me, while slowly shaking his head. <i><b>Bad, bad girl</b></i>.</span>Elisabethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07931394451689080267noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7515872358318774311.post-50988282440276929322016-06-19T10:30:00.000-07:002016-06-19T10:30:14.847-07:00Heil Who, now?<div>
<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;"><span style="font-size: small;">On my drive just
now, I saw a man, about my age, who caught my eye, looking as he did --
sort of intelligent and competent and probably amusing and interesting,
and having the right sort of broad shoulders and large nose and wavy
brown hair and all -- I was admiring him as he crossed the street in
front of me. <br /><br />He had a "sleeve" on his left arm, though none on
his right, and it was done all in one color in a darkish sort of
blue-grey, fairly blurred, so that I couldn't tell what it was intended
to represent -- until he passed me and I realized that the large symbol
centered on his elbow was a swastika. <br /></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;"><span style="font-size: small;">It <i><b>really</b></i> threw me. I tend to expect that those who decorate their persons with the symbols of Nazi oppression will <i><b>look </b></i>like
ignorant racist pricks, and so I will not be surprised to see the
Waffen SS or the "88" or hakenkreuz on their idiot flesh. But this guy
looked <i><b>right</b></i>, he looked with-it, he looked like a smart, interesting person -- it flummoxed me. I'm sort of at a loss.</span></span>Elisabethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07931394451689080267noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7515872358318774311.post-17666510432152828082016-05-18T13:11:00.000-07:002016-05-18T13:11:25.255-07:00Just Like Everyone Else<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">I have spent a large part of my life imagining it to be different. I have spent many, many hours dreaming of lives with me as hero, in which I am thoroughly happy, illuminedly beautiful, incredibly intelligent, fabulously wealthy, in which I can speak dozens of languages, play many instruments, sing flawlessly and read minds. I've also imagined less perfect lives, in which I am merely fabulously wealthy -- many of these imaginings begin with the words -- "When I am fabulously wealthy, I --"</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">And even though I knew with most of my mind (I am, actually, quite intelligent, after all) that I was never going to <i><b>be</b></i> fabulously wealthy, having no such opportunities in sight, and having been scrapingly poor up to that point, there was always a tiny, subterranean and largely ignored part of my mind that stubbornly said, "But I <i><b>could</b></i> be -- I <i><b>will</b></i> be -- someday -- maybe."</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">Well. But now I am fifty. By any imagining, my life is half over, and and I have used up the resilience and energy and burgeoning potential of my youth. I am no longer one of the kids -- I am not a girl -- I am not even a young woman. I am decidedly middle-aged. And I do not have any wealthy relatives who are going to leave me a sudden influx of wealth -- my family has been one who took pride in poverty. I will not stumble upon a buried treasure, since I never leave my little corner of the world, and certainly do not spend any time in locations where pirates or traveling armies or other people with chests of gold might hang out. My job, although I enjoy it, pays just enough to keep body and soul together, allowing me to save very little (I look forward to an old age which will be similar to my young age -- one of carefully counting my pennies) and avoid all amusements which call for cash. My library is my best friend. I eat a lot of beans and rice (yummy!) and drive an old car. I never buy new clothes. Or new books. New <i><b>any</b></i>thing, really -- they call me Second-Hand Rose!</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">Knowing this ought to make those daydreams less interesting, less engrossing, less exciting. I <i><b>know</b></i> that they are never going to happen. (At least, I know it with <i><b>most</b></i> of my mind.) It ought to make me sad and melancholy to think of my life, which is draining away like everyone else's throughout history, never having risen to any of the elevated points I imagined so well and with such satisfaction.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">And it's true, I don't indulge in the game of "let's pretend" nearly as often anymore -- this could be because I am no longer in a marriage that was of such misery I had to distract myself in order to fall asleep at night -- nor am I a child-teenager-young-adult who always felt that there was <i><b>more</b></i>, there had to be <i><b>more</b></i>, it was just around the corner! -- or it could be because I am old. But when I do, they are just as interesting and comforting and soporific. No melancholia. No despair. Life will end, and my life will end, too. It will sink like a tiny pebble into the pond, no splash, hardly a ripple. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">I will never be rich. I will never be gorgeous. I will never have a brilliant intellect that amazes millions. And it does <b><i>not make me sad </i></b>to know this. I am, truly, quite happy, a large percent of the time.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">And I <i><b>could</b></i> be -- someday -- maybe!</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;"><br /></span></span>Elisabethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07931394451689080267noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7515872358318774311.post-77164927479390078162016-05-15T10:12:00.003-07:002016-05-17T17:45:08.977-07:00Portland Weather at Last!<div dir="ltr">
<div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Glory hallelujah! <br /><br />It is the <i><b>perfect</b></i>
day. Thick soft grey clouds obscure the sky, it's fifty-five degrees,
the air is full of tiny delicate drops of rain that seem to hover
immobile until you walk into them -- ahhh! The greenery of the trees,
bushes and grass that I am looking at is glowing like an emerald quietly
lit from within -- and just yesterday I was looking sadly at the
flowers in our yard which were turning brown from so much direct and
unshielded sunlight. Ahhhhh... my skin is drinking it in -- I can feel
my body blinking back online -- systems were shutting down!</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><br /></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Otherwise,
how are things? My house is about three-quarters clean, which is
enough for me to feel good about -- still some laundry to do, some
dishes to wash. The kitchen floor could use a good scrub. You know --
things like that. But there is no faint odor of garbage in the kitchen,
no dust thickening on the tops of things, no piles of what-not
accumulating in the corners of the living room. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Picked
up the food box last night, and felt again the familiar feeling of
guilt at the sight of a box of no-doubt extremely healthful vegetables.
I could eat a stalk or two of the celery, but three packages? And
there is no way I can consume anything <i><b>like </b></i>that amount of salad. And I'm not even going to <i><b>try</b></i>
to eat broccoli, cauliflower and artichokes -- those are all my
especially hated hates. Besides, I'm going to have enough to do trying
to consume some of the apples,(two <i><b>bags</b></i>?!) oranges,(5) pears (3) and raspberries (three boxes) that are overflowing my refrigerator right now. </span></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><br /></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">A
pair of young people just passed by in front of the window, using
umbrellas! Two black umbrellas have just put the finishing touch on my
delight with this day. Sigh of glorious relief and happiness!</span></span></div>
Elisabethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07931394451689080267noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7515872358318774311.post-73982135084115921272016-04-21T19:01:00.002-07:002016-05-04T10:22:45.173-07:00For ANY sake, speak!<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">I believe I have said this before, although possibly not to<i> you</i> -- one of the few things wrong with my job (which I love) is the lack of communication. Several times I have accidentally stumbled across some information which, turns out, I needed to know in order to perform my job. Today was another example of the poor communication at which we excel.</span><br />
<div style="color: #222222;">
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="color: #222222;">
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">I stopped by the office at about eight to do paperwork this morning, since my first shift was not scheduled until ten. I was reading my office e-mail, since I am generally unable to gain access to it from any out-of-the-office computer, and saw that the other weekend staffer, Christine, had been promoted to an Assistant Team Leader position. This is excellent, of course, and I mentally congratulated her, but the e-mail did not say who would be replacing her as weekend staff. She and I are the only two staff from our team working the weekend, and have to see all the people in need of meds or meals on those two days.</span></div>
<div style="color: #222222;">
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="color: #222222;">
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">So I stopped by my team leader Erik's office and asked him who would be replacing Christine. He said he did not know yet, that they had sent out the standard e-mail to Craigslist and the other sites, and to the whole staff, but hadn't had any responses yet.</span></div>
<div style="color: #222222;">
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="color: #222222;">
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">"We'll be trying to cover with subs, until we hire someone," he said. "We aren't just making you responsible for <b><i>all</i></b> of them." Then he laughed. I laughed, too. Uncertainly.</span></div>
<div style="color: #222222;">
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="color: #222222;">
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">"When does Christine start as ATL?" I asked.</span></div>
<div style="color: #222222;">
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="color: #222222;">
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">"Oh, she started yesterday!" he replied blithely.</span></div>
<div style="color: #222222;">
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="color: #222222;">
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">So-o-o-o-o --- I might have to be doing some rapid shuffling around on Saturday, the <b><i>day after tomorrow</i></b>! And if I hadn't stopped in and asked, I would not have known until someone called me on Friday afternoon, to sling three or four people into my already-full schedule. </span></div>
<div style="color: #222222;">
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="color: #222222;">
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Now, I know, it might very well not happen, there might be subs galore available. But it doesn't seem very likely! And even so, (she begged) why not <b><i>tell me</i></b>, for heaven's sake?</span></div>
Elisabethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07931394451689080267noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7515872358318774311.post-13125211425085186632016-04-20T12:32:00.002-07:002016-04-20T12:33:47.773-07:00Get off my lawn!<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">April -- a Spring month, I feel sure you will agree. And yet the last few days have registered temperatures in the eighties. The weather forecast predicts the following week will be grey and rainy and in the sixties, or I would actually be cross. My mother always says that I cannot allow myself to be controlled by the weather, to which I always reply (in my head), "Oh, yes I can!" </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Anyway, at the moment I am in the air-conditioned library, where people are misbehaving all around me. The woman next to me is loudly eating sour gumdrops. Come on, lady! That degree of smacking and sucking would be annoying on a cross-town bus. The man across from me is talking on his phone -- his phone! -- in a voice that would be too loud on the street corner, much less the library, which, as everyone has known all their life, is where you must be <i><b>quiet</b></i>. Not <i><b>silent</b></i> anymore, unfortunately, but still, <i><b>quiet</b></i>. And there are signs at the door reminding people to turn off their phones. Grrr -- makes me wish that guy who kills rude people was still around. Not that I want any of these people dead, of course, but they wouldn't be so ignorantly rude, if they had a madman with a politeness fixation to deal with.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><i>Sigh...</i></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">I sound like a little old lady, don't I?</span></span><br />
<br />Elisabethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07931394451689080267noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7515872358318774311.post-25600722531951762982016-04-10T10:58:00.003-07:002016-05-31T13:22:00.845-07:00Queen for the Weekend<span style="font-size: small;">It is definitely odd to see the changes in traffic patterns that result from the time of year. To all those of you who regularly drive on the freeway systems, I'm sure you noticed this years ago and have completely stopped noticing it now. But for me, who has always avoided driving during rush hour, and driving on freeways when overland will do, and has had a terror of being in a large traffic jam, especially on a hot evening with pitiless sunshine pouring in the windshield and the engine slowly getting hotter and hotter and...AARRGGHH!<br /><br /><br />Pant, pant. Okay. What was I saying?<br /><br /><br />Oh, yes! I have always avoided driving on the Banfield particularly, since it is the sole East-West freeway in a city which is constantly increasing in size, and seems to be nearly always crawling along, if moving at all. It is also walled in on both sides, with no way to escape a wreck that happened ahead of one, so venturing oneself onto it with a great many other drivers, tired, irritable and more-or-less stupid, and all in a hurry, has always seemed to verge on the suicidal.<br /><br /><br />So, early on weekend mornings, when I have been very nearly the only driver -- between three and ten other cars, and most of them headed for the airport -- on the Banfield, I have actively enjoyed its use. I feel as though it is all mine, that I am the Queen of it, the Conqueror of the Freeway, and I graciously wave to the crowds of cheering people as I pass by -- at least, inside my head I do. I can go as fast or as slowly as I like and am not impeded by anyone. It is MINE!<br /><br />So I have not liked these past few bright and sunny mornings, when the lanes are full of cars. All the way full, so that I have to be constantly aware of them and drive like an ordinary person and not Queen of All She Surveys, has been disappointing and frustrating to me. They are mostly SUVs, and a lot of them have bicycles or windsurfing boards or other outdoor gear on them, and I am entirely sympathetic to the desire to get out and play in the sun that occasions these trips. And I also understand that for a lot of people, especially those born elsewhere, the Banfield is the only way to get across town. But still! My kingdom!</span>Elisabethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07931394451689080267noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7515872358318774311.post-37240998907674003322016-04-07T18:33:00.003-07:002016-04-21T19:03:29.563-07:00Jo-Jo's Bizarre Adventures<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #222222; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><span style="background-image: initial; background-repeat: initial;">So I was with one of my clients this morning -- she is very intelligent, but has Asperger's which makes her interesting to have a conversation with. She was in a very good mood this morning, however, and was telling me, in her spectrum-y way, the whole history of a manga story called (something like) "Jo-Jo's Bizarre Adventures." (We got onto this from a monologue on Gundams, of which I had heard, {thank you, Ernest Cline!} but about which I knew very nearly nothing.) I, in the meantime, was trying to gently ease her into getting showered and dressed (yes, still in her pajamas) while I tidied up, since her job coach was coming that morning to discuss her employment. It somehow seemed important to me. But Nameless Client merely sat on the floor, wearing a big smile, and kept talking about the various Jo-Jos, starting from the first one, whose name was (something like) Jonathan Jostar and who was the protagonist for the whole first series. And then the </span><b><i>second</i></b><span style="background-image: initial; background-repeat: initial;"> series was his grandson, whose name was (something like) Joseph Jostar, and then the</span><b> <i>third</i></b><i> </i><span style="background-image: initial; background-repeat: initial;">series, was his grandson whose name was Joseph Cujo, and so on. And on. </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #222222; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #222222; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Her mind constantly edits and revises her thoughts, as do we all, but she does her edits and revisions out loud. So it goes like this:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #222222; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #222222; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">"In the <b><i>fourth</i></b> series, <b><i>Jolene</i></b> Cujo was accused of a crime which she did not -- was charged with a crime -- was <b><i>innocent</i></b> of the crime she was accused of -- was charged and convicted of a crime which she did not in fact <b><i>commit</i></b>, and was sentenced to a -- was temporarily -- was briefly incarcerated in a women's <b><i>prison.</i></b>"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #222222; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #222222; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Ordinarily, I really enjoy it when she does this, since it means she is feeling good and enjoying my company, and I just put in the occasional monosyllables to indicate my fascination. Not that she needs this, let me add, since she just barrels right on regardless. But I feel better about it, more involved, and like I'm helping in some small way. But this time, there was the job coach arriving, and the pajamas, and the unwashed hair, and there she still sat on the floor, beaming at me, and talking away. What <b><i>is </i></b>a body to do?</span></div>
Elisabethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07931394451689080267noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7515872358318774311.post-51595786375300768752016-03-27T16:14:00.002-07:002016-05-31T13:23:08.208-07:00Easter and Sudden DeathSo, it's Easter Sunday. And it's a beautiful day in Portland, by anyone's standards. It was cool and grey this morning, which made me happy, and now it is blue-and-gold and warm, which makes All The Rest Of You happy. I hope everyone has found their Easter eggs, loved their Easter baskets, enjoyed their Easter church service, and is now eating their Easter ham and deviled eggs. I am doing none of those things, but I am enjoying the fact that I am done with work for the day, and in a short while, will be eating my Easter bean burrito, hot and crispy. Yum!<br /><br />
So those of you who are not on Facebook, may not know that my friend Shannah, the first friend I made at Prairie Bible College, died suddenly this past week. I'm still in the can't-really-believe-it stage of grieving -- it just does not seem possible. Absolutely typically, I feel certain, I am thinking about suddenly dropping dead myself, and wondering how that would work -- who would find my lifeless body? How would they find it? Who would tell my people? How would they know whom to tell? Should I make up a list of<b> Important People To Tell If I Suddenly Die</b>? And where would that list be posted?<br /><br />
So, just in case I do die suddenly, and you get missed by the poor person to whose lot it falls to call all my Near and Dear, let me tell you that I love you. Yes, I truly do. You are someone whose memories make me smile (and sometimes cry), whose invitations delight me, even if I'm working that day, and whose face makes me happy to see. You are my Dear Friend! And I promise your name will be prominently displayed on my IPTTIISD list!Elisabethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07931394451689080267noreply@blogger.com0