The Unravelled Sleeve of Care

My get-to-sleep kit: a book, hypnotherapy tape, and med

 

Last spring a doctor prescribed a sleep routine to treat my chronic insomnia:  low light for an hour before bed, no TV, no computer, no reading in bed.  I take a sleep med fifteen  minutes before bed and then listen to a hypnotherapy tape. I creep up to bed in the dark and try not to wake up Jerry. 

 

It's helped, but I still struggle to get to sleep.

 

This week I stopped taking a sleep med that could be habit-forming and switched to a more benign one.  Coincidentally,  I also heard a lot of sad news about friends and neighbors, including the bad news that Bill, the beloved Food Pantry director, had a mild heart attack and has been hospitalized. My sleep got even more ragged. 

 

I think I could make a good case for people suffering insomnia.  Why not?  Shit happens.  Things go wrong.  As you get older, more things go wrong.  And your sleep gets worse, possibly because, like me, you're busy cataloguing what's gone wrong and, even scarier,  what could go wrong.  Of course, none of this worry actually helps.  I know that.

 

But even Jerry, the scientist who approaches life with logic, has insomnia, the kind where he wakes up in the middle of the night and can't get back to sleep.  He worries about research papers he's writing, what the weather's going to be like on a field trip, and family problems.

I read an article in last week's Sunday New York Times about sleep ("Rethinking Sleep"), in which the author, David K. Randall, proposes that we let go of the idea of eight consecutive hours of sleep and have shorter periods of sleep, instead.   He reports that a researcher has found that people who wake up a little after midnight in an experiment that encouraged them to accept the idea of split sleep actually enjoyed a couple of hours in the middle of the night as "a chance for deep thinking of all kinds, whether in the form of self-reflection, getting a jump on the next day, or amorous activity."

Enjoy?  I'm never asleep before midnight because I'm busy running through a list of worries.  The most successful I've been at getting to sleep is imagining all food for thought, pleasant or unpleasant, locked up in a very sturdy file cabinet, removed and inaccessible.  Then I sleep.  The longer I have away from those worries, the better.

I might get an actual metal box, write my worries on slips of paper, and lock them up in it.   That's the next thing I'm going to try.

Having It All--Or Not

There's a refreshing blog I like to read, Clover Lane, written by a woman who made very different choices than I did.

She's a stay-at-home mother of six, a humorous, educated woman who's a good writer and has an eye for design, based on photos of her house and garden.  I like her.  Her investment-banker husband goes to work, and she manages the house and children, including a month-old baby born when she was 43.

We have a few things in common.  I have a retired-professor husband who goes to work.  But we have no children (he has three from a former marriage), and although I manage the house, I insist on help with cooking, gardening, and anything else that falls under "house management."  I did not change my name when I got married.  I gladly call myself a feminist.

The Clover Lane lady would not.  She's young enough to be my daughter, if I'd had a baby while I was in college, which was definitely off  the table.  My dorm pals and I would sit around drinking Miller talls and playing Hearts and conjuring up a vision of being successful artists or teachers or therapists.  We all wanted to be mothers, too, but we were vague about how we'd put it all together.  We fell back on the idea of having a nanny.

Me and my roommate, Marti, in our dorm room, c. 1971.  Marti had children; I did not.

 

It turned out to be harder than that. Of four dorm-pals,  two had children, two had none.  Three of us got married.  No one had a nanny. 

The Clover Lane lady, who is usually so philosophical and funny, mentioned in a post that she resents the "women's libbers" because we foisted off the expectation that women can have it all, which has oppressed subsequent generations of women. 

Did we really do that?

By the time I was 24, I could see that having children could not happen without my sacrificing time and energy that I didn't want to give up.  It was sad, because I love children, but that's the way it was.  Lop off that part of the Dorm Room Plan. 

I have no idea how she got the having-it-all message.  Magazine articles?  Pushy high school teachers?  People at parties asking what she does (besides being a mother of six).  Who knows?   I think she's very sensible to stay home with her children--which she can do thanks to her husband's salary--and  try to be the best mother she can be. 

And I'm a feminist.

The choices were hard then, I want to tell her,  and the choices are hard now.  Don't blame us.

 At least you have choices.












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Foiled Again

Alas, yesterday's attempt at re-making my attitude about cooking was not a success.  I can't tell you how many times I've been through these stages:

Stage I--Read inspiring new book by someone who loves to cook.  In this case, Tamar Adler's "An Everlasting Meal."  Become besotted with the idea of roasting a bunch of vegetables as soon as I return from supermarket so they'll be ready for me to eat healthily and creatively the minute I open the refrigerator door.

Stage II--Go to supermarket.  Buy a TON of  fresh vegetables: fennel, carrots, squash, eggplant, green beans, and more.  Husband baffled by scope of purchase.

Stage III--Get home with groceries.  Throw vegetables in fridge.   Break for lunch.  Read very engaging biography of playwright Wendy Wasserstein.

Stage IV--Vegetables nag.  Give up reading.  Prepare and  steam green beans.  Slice fennel and toss with olive oil, salt, and pepper,  per Ina Garten's recipe.  Ditto carrots.  Agonize over who's right: Garten, who says roast at 400 degrees, or Adler, who says 450.  Settle on 425.

Stage V--Get bored hanging around kitchen, retreat to desk.  Begin googling people in Wasserstein biography, especially her daughter, Lucy Jane.  What happened to her after her mother died in 2006?  Become very engaged with digging around for info.

Stage VI--Suddenly remember  veggies! Sprint to kitchen.  Green beans overcooked.  Fennel sprinkled too early with Parmesan has made an oily, burned-bit mess on oven.  Carrots not done.  An everlasting meal?  In my dreams!

Stage VII--Husband returns from work an hour-and-a-half earlier than expected. My mistake. Together we make reader Ann B.'s "Foiled Salmon with Vegetables," a last minute decision so we're  missing yellow squash.  Substitute zucchini.  Quite good, but unreliable oven doubles cooking time.



Sorely tempted to drink the vodka rather than sprinkle over fish and vegetables.

Stage VIII--Conclude that reading two books at once is not a good idea.  Determine that Lucy Jane is living with maternal uncle's ex-wife,  who has penthouse apartment across from Metropolitan Museum of Art.

Fall

 

 

This morning I wrote in my journal  "A foggy Tuesday morning, post-swimming.  Fall is in the air.  It's crisp-coolish, air heavier with moisture, leaves browning and dropping.  Wearing socks with my slippers.  J. puts on his puffy [down vest] now and then."

At the pool, some sad news.  A former classmate lost her battle with breast cancer (and it was a battle); another classmate has had heart symptoms and is now afraid to drive to class because she's taking a med that makes her drowsy; yet another hasn't come to the pool for awhile, overwhelmed by things she has to do to move from her home.

Hell.

I just finished reading "I Remember Nothing," Nora Ephron's last book, which is especially poignant because she died in June at the relatively young (to me) age of 71.  She says of the train bearing down on all of us:

"I try to figure out what I really want to do every day, I try to say to myself, 'If this is one of the last days of my life, am I doing exactly what I want to be doing?  I aim low.  My idea of a perfect day is a frozen custard at Shake Shack and a walk in the Park. (Followed by a Lactaid.)"

I'm with you, Nora.  Thinking you have to make the most of every moment is pretty daunting, and I'll end up going to See's for California brittle if I think about it too long.

Aiming low, here are some of my projects for fall:

Friends and blog readers have sent numerous recipes for me to try, simple ones that they find dependable. I've tried two and am about to go to Berkeley Bowl to get ingredients for more.  It's fun to cook in cold weather, when the kitchen windows fog up, and you listen to NPR, or have a friend on speaker phone while you chop onions.

I've got a quilt in the planning stages.  This is a traditional pattern called "Sawtooth Star." In 15 years of quilting, I've never made a star, so might as well try it.

 

 

The finished product will look different but it will be stars.

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And I've got a stack of books waiting.

A doctor I saw recently asked what I'd found enjoyable in the past week.   I said, "Getting into the pool and moving through the water, and driving my car down a street with leaves turning color." Doesn't take much.

Afternoon Wedding

My friends Alison and Arnold got married yesterday, the first wedding I've been to of people over sixty.  It was wonderful!  Tradition loosely interpreted: no garter tossing, no smashing-of-cake-in-face, no bridesmaids or flower girls.

Instead, it was a comfortable, casual celebration for over a hundred people at the El Cerrito Community Center.  I walked in and thought, hmm, that fabric looks familiar.  Yards of Marimekko fabric, which can be purchased for a reasonable price at the Crate and Barrel outlet (and therefore I've used in quilts), hung on the bland wood panelling of the walls and the front of the bar.

Fresh flowers from the farmer's market:

 A photo booth so guests could have their pictures taken for a scrapbook for the bride and groom:

A group of us who worked together in the 1980's



A relaxed bride and groom, who met through a matchmaker:

Alison wore a beautiful dress she found in a vintage shop

The ceremony was outside in a courtyard with a small number of guests.  The bride and groom walked in together:

They were preceded down the aisle by Arnold's sisters and mother, and by Alison's brother and sister-in-law, each group carrying a candle representing the late fathers.

Afterward, more guests arrived and we sat inside at round tables, each with a schedule how the evening was going to go (how many times have you sat at a wedding wondering what was next and when?):

And they kept to the schedule

Arnold and Alison visited each table and had their picture taken with every guest, in groups.

Then a buffet dinner, dancing, and tiers of cupcakes, which were distributed on trays by family members:

 

 

 

A band played, people danced, and some slipped away into the cool autumn evening.

 

Now if I could just learn that weddings do no necessarily require high heels, or Spanx, or control-top pantyhose! Go for comfort, not appearance.  That's the kind of wedding it was.  Could have shown up in glitzy flip-flops (note to self).

 

My sister and I share these shoes.  They've been to several weddings.

 

 

 



Saturday Morning Rummage

Up and out the door early(ish) this morning to go to the rummage sale held by the Quaker church that donates space and money to the Berkeley Food Pantry.  All proceeds to the Pantry.

I was determined to bring home nothing, since I have too much stuff and had donated quite a bit of it to the sale. Nada to be acquired, I told myself.

At a few minutes past 10, the church  parking lot was full of stuff and people sifting through it.  Books, strollers, household goods, paintings donated by a grateful Pantry client, backpacks, you name it.

Lots of books,  some donated by another church, left over from their rummage sale:

 

 

 

 

 

  

One I probably should have bought:




What a concept

There was a free box of various that was being eagerly picked through, and also a free box of food that the Pantry doesn't have enough facilities to refrigerate.

 I saw people I volunteer with on Mondays:

Pantry Director Bill Shive and  Sarah, another Monday volunteer

I was tempted by only one thing:  a bell to summon people (who?  the butler?) .  I bing-ed it a few times and thought, what the hell are you going to do with that?

The one item that tempted

I slipped a $5 bill into a jar marked "Donations," and made my getaway.


Guess what?  The world is awake and lively and full of good will on Saturday mornings!  Who knew?  There was a magic show going on in front of the North Berkeley Library and a food truck parked nearby.  People were jogging, getting gas, wandering around with coffee cups trying to wake up, buying produce at the Monterey Market.   I came home and told Jerry we ought to get out on Saturday mornings.  He looked at me like I'd lost my mind.



Perfectly content to stay home, work on moths, and listen to an "A's" game

Endeavoring to see The Endeavour

 

 

 

Squint and you'll see it: The space shuttle Endeavour during its Bay Area fly-over this morning, mounted on the back of a 747, with a fighter plane trailing behind it.

This was the scene at just past 10 o'clock, as viewed from the parking lot at the Lawrence Hall of Science in the Berkeley hills, with the UC campus in the distance and beyond that the bay and San Francisco.

I had with me two cynics: Jerry and Claudia, who intermittently moaned about a wild goose chase, a fool's errand,  and a possible waste of time.  We'd collected Claudia at 9:15, and zoomed up into the Berkeley Hills to my friend Suzanne's house to get a view.  Alas, we couldn't work a key to get out on her deck (she was at work), and the view didn't look promising.

Poor viewing from Suzanne's house because we couldn't get inside to her deck

We wound our way on back roads through the Berkeley Hills, hoping the shuttle wouldn't pass overhead before we got SOMEWHERE open.

"There it is!" I exclaimed at one point during our drive,  only to realize I was pointing at the Sutro Tower.  Claudia claimed multiple vapor trails were evidence that it had come and gone.  Jerry drove on gamely.

I expected huge crowds at the Lawrence Hall of Science, and there were quite a few people, including the media.

But we could park, walk down the hill to a viewing spot, and sit on hill near the parking lot,  looking out over the bay.  We waited about half an hour, heard that the shuttle had been delayed leaving Sacramento, and then suddenly, a tiny speck approached in the sky to the southwest.

 A man shouted, "Here it is!"  I couldn't believe it.

But as it got closer, I did.  There it was, flying quite low. People cheered.  We got a good look. And then it disappeared behind some eucalyptus trees and that was it.  We were left picking stickers and bark chips out of our socks.   Mission accomplished.

End of a 28-year Friendship

The Postal Service is taking away the mailbox we've used ever since we've lived here. Today is the last day they're picking up mail, according to a sign plastered on top of it.

I called the Berkeley Postmaster and found out that this "curbside collection box" failed a density test. Over two weeks, people didn't toss 25 pieces or more into it per day.  End of box.

Jerry and I are bereft.  This was so convenient.  It was where we mailed our bills, sent back Netflix DVDs,  deposited birthday cards.  It's a mere 112 steps from our front door.

We can protest this by getting the neighborhood to sign a letter detailing why we need this box.  What to say?  We love it?  It's always been there?  We're going to have to get in a car and drive our mail to another box or the Post Office?  Quality of life?  Makes us feel old because we don't do everything online?  Shoot.

Our friend: 1984-2012

Moocher-hating

I'm as delighted as the next Democrat that Romney's made what seems to be a very bad mistake in describing 47% of Americans as dependent on government and believing that they're victims.  I hope this cooks his goose. 

But some people's reactions to what he said have been a revelation to me.  Boy, they hate moochers!  And they truly believe there's a huge number of moochers among us, people who have "a tendency to repeatedly ask help of others, especially if they are making little effort to help themselves," as the dictionary defines it.

That's what I took away from reading blog posts and comments this mornings.  Lots of people feel taken to the cleaners in a very personal way. And it makes them mad as hell.

One blog-commenter detailed the laziness of people in her neighborhood, how some work for awhile, tire of it,  go back on government support, and wear designer labels.  She extrapolated that this is happening on a huge scale.  Therefore, Romney is right.

This reminds me of a co-worker of mine many years ago.  Every morning on the way to work, she'd pass a group of people  leisurely drinking coffee outside Peet's.

"Why do they get to do that?" she complained.  "Why aren't they working?"

I remember being confused.  How did she know what they did with their lives?  Maybe they worked at home and didn't have set hours.  Maybe they had trust funds.  Maybe they worked the nightshift.   Who knew?  It was all I could do to keep up with typing on an IBM Selectric and using multiple colors of correction fluid.  The people at Peets----whatever.

I'm still puzzled by why this angered her.  Her perception--because she really didn't know--was that people were getting away with something at her expense.  And the blog comments I read online today: how do those people know so much about other people's lives?   And does it say something about their own?

Mailbag: BEARS

Two readers sent enlightening comments re grizzly bears.  I don't think I'll be going to bear country again without bear spray.

Marion, who does a lot of nature photography, wrote, "I always carry a big can of bear spray when hiking in bear country, and every photographer i know does too. Works on the 2 legged kind too! Of course i tend to talk to myself constantly so am in no danger of sneaking up on a bear. But it makes me feel more secure. Your post made me smile because it reminds me of the old joke about how to tell the difference between black bear and grizzly scat. Black bear dung contains lots berries and some squirrel fur. Grizzley dung contains little bells and smells like pepper spray."

And Jan related this scary incident in Glacier National Park: "The bears are a real danger.  About three years ago, my current supervisor and her husband were on a hike in the park sans any "bear-scare" tools.  They ran into two bears that started charging.  Her husband pushed her to the ground, covered her body with his, and they laid still until the bears went away.  In falling to the ground, she fractured her arm and required surgery.  Fortunately, the bears didn't attack them, but it was a SCARE."

I'll say! 

Generous Man Earns Pie

 

The husband of a friend of mine travels for work, and for years he's been collecting hotel toiletries for an agency close to my heart, the Women's Daytime Drop-in Center, which serves homeless and low-income women and children.

He regularly hauls home tiny bars of soap, bottles of shampoo and conditioner, shower caps, and other freebies back to California, where his wife, Karen, organizes them beautifully and gives them to me to be donated to the Center.

But Alan set a record with his most recent haul from a hotel on the East Coast.   He mentioned to the hotel maid why he was taking the toiletries, and when he came back from his daily meeting found this waiting for him.  His story obviously had struck a chord:

 

 

 

The next day there were more.  His suitcase was going to be full of toiletries:

 

 



 

 

 

Even unzipped and expanded, it couldn't hold everything.  Alan had to carry his boots home separately--but not a bar of soap was sacrificed!

 

Today, he dropped off 11 pounds of toiletries from that one hotel, plus 3 pounds from other trips.  And for his trouble and generosity, he got a treat: peach pie. (Jerry whined a bit at seeing a pie leave the house intact, but I told him the next time he flys home with 11 pounds of toiletries, he'll get a pie, too.)

 

 

 

Schlepped home in a suitcase; ready for delivery for homeless women and children

 

 

 

 

Does He or Doesn't He?

 

 

I went to San Francisco yesterday for a haircut, and Joseph, the hairdresser,  commented on Mitt Romney's dye job.

"He dyes his hair?" I was aghast.  The guy is such a straight arrow that I could hardly believe it.

"Of course!" said Joseph.  "Look at pictures.  He used to be much more gray."

"But he still has some around the edges," I said. 

"Oh, please!" said Joseph, clipping away.  "I wonder how he manages it so no one knows.  Maybe they dye it while he's  on the campaign plane."

We both burst out laughing.

"Maybe it's his-and-her coloring sessions," he said, since it's obvious that Ann Romney's hair is also dyed.

I came home and read up online.  Everyone but me has known for years. 

"It's the kind of teaser hair that says, 'I'll give you my suave gray sideburns, but I'm not ready to go all the way!' wrote a columnist in Salon.  Romney's long-time stylist says that Mitt likes a "controlled" look. 

And I was just saying to someone yesterday that I like Obama's gray hair, which makes him look weathered and experienced.  Sometimes gray is good.   But not on me. 

How Not to Get Eaten By a Grizzly

 
When we rolled through the entrance to Glacier National Park last month, the ranger handed us a brochure called, "Bears: Important Safety Information."  Note photo of bear to left. Big teeth!

I scanned the brochure: be observant, travel in a group, and make noise--a loud shout every few minutes is good. 

That afternoon we decided to go for a hike, and we ran into a group of middle-aged women at the trailhead, just coming off the trail. 

I asked one of them if she carried bear spray.

"Always" she said, looking alarmed. "Don't you have some?"

"No," I said.

"Then you'd better borrow mine, "she said, firmly, pulling a can from a holster around her waist.

"Point the nozzle toward the bear," she demonstrated.   "And make sure you're not down wind, or it'll all blow back in your face."  Which you don't want to happen because it's pepper spray.

"How far away is the bear?"  I asked, trying to imagine having enough wits about me to determine if I were down wind or up.

"Oh, about that close," she said, pointing to Jerry, who was ten feet away.

That close!  This was an exercise in futility, I thought.  But I took the can and promised to return it to her later that night.

In the general store the next day, I checked out the price of bear spray: $50.    Jerry recoiled.

"We're not going to need it," he said, being a thrifty type who's always most at ease in the outdoors. I was nervous, but also cheap, and, besides, I also couldn't see how we'd have the presence of mind to use it.

So we did two long hikes in bear country with no protection but my own personal system of bear deterrent, developed on the spot.

A whistle I keep in my fanny pack and my water bottle. I walked along the trails tapping the whistle on the side of  bottle and saying, "We're HERE!  We're HERE!"   Occasionally, I'd toot lightly on the whistle, enough to drive away a bear but not so loud that I'd look foolish to other hikers (?). Although some of them wore bear bells and jingled like Santa Claus.

We weren't attacked!  We even hiked past thickets of berry bushes, which bears love:

 

This sign gave me pause, though:



When I got home, I checked out bear spray online.  One website advises "rehearsing with the spray at least seven times," and adds that bears are "fast as lightning."  The cheapest spray I found was on Amazon: $38.99 for a brand called "Frontiersman."  The holster, highly recommended, is an additional $12.95.  You can use it on a bear as far away as 40 feet.  Whew (?).

Eating My Vegetables--Or Not

I've been doing too much  eating-my-veggies lately. Not real vegetables, but gotta-do tasks: doctor's appointments, errand-running, filling the fridge. The best thing about them is crossing them off my to-do list. Then I feel righteous, but it isn't fun.

A few weeks ago, I moved my computer, printer,  phone, and  to-do list into a small alcove off the dining room.  That's where I'm doing all my computer-related work now: trip logistics, bill paying, ordering online, returning phone calls.  All that stuff that feels like tasks.  Duties.

My new work alcove off the dining room

After I got the phone, TV, and computer out of my studio, it felt sort of irrelevant.  I wasn't spending much time there.

But gradually, that room has become a haven.  My only tools are quilting equipment (straight edge, roller blade, scissors, cutting table) and crayons/paint/pastels/drawing pencils/rubber stamps.  I've got lots of fabric, photographs, and trip memorabilia to play around with.  I putter.  I love going in there.

And instead of feeling the constant pull toward the computer and phone and Things That Need to Be Done, I feel peaceful and pretty much open to whatever might happen.

 

 

 

Why didn't I do this sooner?