Why I Like My Jowls and Other Stories

It's been awhile since I posted because--why not?  It's The Year of All Things Breaking Down--my computer's been on the blink.  The right click was jammed, and the computer became like a disoriented street person, nothing making sense.  Weird windows were popping up everywhere.

I got that sorted out by Steve, the computer fix-it guy, came home, began to work on a quilt, and my sewing machine broke.  While I was trying to tease out a thread jammed in the bobbin, my glasses broke.

 One more thing that needs fixing

Okay.  Onward.

* * * * *

I read this article by the mother of a frat guy at Cal and banged my head several time on my desk.  Her son wrote an anthropology paper that was supposed to be a "mini-ethnographic study of some aspect of college life."  He chose fraternity parties.

Boomer girls, read it and weep!  Theme parties that force girls to dress promiscuously.  Selecting sororities to attend based on which were "the most rich, white, and attractive."  Always having a ratio of 2-1, women to men.  Etcetera.

I remember frat guys scouting for rush hostesses in my freshman dorm at UC Santa Barbara in 1968. My roommate made the cut; I did not.  Has anything changed?

* * * * *

Better news:  We met with Jerry's new cardiologist (two have retired on him), and despite the fact that the doctor was focussed solely on Jerry, never addressed me, and left me resorting to chipping nail polish off my fingernails, we both thought he was smart and encouraging.  Jerry had bypass surgery in 1979, and has forged ahead with an active life ever since, to the amazement of his doctors (most grafts clog within ten years).

* * * * *

We humans fixate on the negative, say social scientists, according to a New York Times article I read last week.  The piece was about mean comments on the internet and how much they hurt, but I extrapolate to things cropping up every day that wound us:  slights, criticisms, cruel comments.

Apparently, "just as our attention naturally gravitates to loud noises and motion, our minds glom on to negative feedback," and "we respond more strongly to bad experiences and criticism" and remember then more vividly.  We're programmed that way.

But there are things we can do to counter that.

"Harsh comments can be made to feel less potent by directly disputing to yourself what was said"--in other words, challenging the reality of them. Marshal evidence on the other side.

I find I can do that best by pretending I'm talking to a friend who's reporting criticism.  Springing up and defending my friend is easier than being my own advocate, but knowing we're prone to fixate on the mean stuff makes it a little easier.

* * * * *


Better posture:  I think I'm getting it.    The physical therapist I see every six weeks has really helped, and the more often I do my home exercises the better.

But one thing has cropped up:  How many times well-meaning friend and family have told me to stand up straight, or even seized my shoulders and pulled them back.  I always feel criticized, even humiliated, when this happens.

I think there are myriad emotional, as well as physical, reasons why someone slumps:  dejection, sadness, feeling overwhelmed and inadequate, or maybe even feeling that everything of value about you is in your head, which is why it's way out in front.

This link between posture and emotion came to me last week when I read a poem in The New Yorker that ends:

Look closely and you will see
Almost everyone carrying bags
Of cement on their shoulders

That's why it takes courage
To get out of bed in the morning
And climb into the day.

--Edward Hirsch

The poet is referring to the terrible grief of losing a son, but I think there are all kinds things on our shoulders.

* * * * *

Finally--am I being uber Pollyannish in this post?--I had an incident I'm thinking of as "Revenge of the Jowls."

I went to San Francisco for a haircut a week ago, and I described to Joseph,who cuts my hair, the length that I wanted by saying, "jowl-length."  He suggested, not for the first time, that I could have my jowls fixed repaired with the help of plastic surgery.  It stung a bit.

"You go first," I retorted.

"I'm a man!" he said (a gay man and a liberal, which somehow meant I thought he would be more sensitive).

Then I got on BART during rush hour and had to stand for several stations, including through the transbay tube.  I was tired, and I was clutching a pillow and some other things I'd  bought at Macy's.  As we pulled into MacArthur Station in Oakland, an older woman a few rows ahead caught my eye and pointed to her seat.  She was getting off.

I pushed past all the young people--the majority on the train--and took this woman's seat.  Whew.

There are advantages to looking older, and I've resolved to cast around looking for older people when I next vacate seat on BART. Never thought I'd say it, but "Senior Power!"  We don't have to go to fraternity parties, we get seats on trains, we can accept the reasons for our poor posture and our tendency to beat ourselves up. 

 Have I gone over to woo-woo?



God Help Me, I'm a Housewife

I'm married to a house!  I'm a housewife!

I didn't mean to be, but I am.

The bathroom remodel, the damned refrigerator (another repairman),  a patio that's being heaved up by tree roots, the broken irrigation system.  I'd like to ignore all of it, but I can't.

I need a refrigerator, I don't want a patio that trips me, I can't waste water during a drought, and the bathroom is archiac and sometimes leaks into the kitchen below.

While I was coping with repairmen and carpenters and stonemasons this week,  I kept saying to myself, "Mrs. Thatcher was a housewife [she would dash from 10 Downing Street to buy a special sausage for her husband], and the Queen of England fiddles around choosing soap for her guests [she also makes maids dust the floors on their hands and knees but whatever]."

And then there's this lugubrious poem by Anne Sexton:

Housewife

Some women marry houses.
It's another kind of skin; it has a heart,
a mouth, a liver and bowel movements.
The walls are permanent and pink.
See how she sits on her knees all day,
faithfully washing herself down.
Men enter by force, drawn back like Jonah
into their fleshy mothers.
A woman is her mother.
That's the main thing.

Thanks for sharing, Anne.  Especially the last two lines.

[During the time I wrote this, I was interrupted by the landscape irrigation lady and my sister sending an invoice for plumbing fixtures that needs to be paid for on the phone.]

* * * * *

My pool pals Val and Anne and I went to Pt. Reyes on Tuesday to celebrate Anne's birthday.  This required much planning re who brought what for lunch--inexplicably, Anne wanted to buy us lunch--but we managed to get it all together, load up my car, and get to Pt. Reyes in time for...fog.

Val and Anne at the Bear Valley trailhead

  

The sun never did come out, but no problem.  We walked the Bear Valley Trail to the Divide Meadow, returned to the picnic area near the park headquarters, ate lunch, and followed that up with a gooey and delicious dessert of cupcakes.  I'm afraid we were disgracefully greedy. We cut each one in quarters and sampled them all. 

 Val at lunch.  She's English, so of course we had a tablecloth.

 From top left:  Coconut, Lemon Kiss (2), Ginger, Raspberry/Chocolate, and Green Tea.  From "Love at First Bite," Walnut Square, Berkeley

Then we drove around  parts of Inverness and later stopped at Toby's  Pt. Reyes Station for coffee.

 Available at Toby's, euphemism and all

Selfie at Toby's

 A memorable day.  Anne just turned 81, but really she's 35, no kidding.

* * * * *

Yesterday I met my sister, who's designing the bathroom, at warehouse in West Berkeley where the genuis woodworker, Wes, had laid out boards with measurements showing how big everything was going to be: vanity, towel cupboard, and seven new drawers for quilting fabrics.  Here we are amid the dust and measurements:

 

They pondered measurements...

 

...while I gazed around the warehouse--very dusty

My hero, Wes, and my sister, who drove from San Jose for a 45-minute meeting

Now I'm off to pay for plumbing fixtures.   Have a good weekend and try to stay out of the fog.

What Fresh Post-Menopausal Hell? And Updates...

Last week I went off to my monthly appointment with Liz,  the physical therapist who's straightening out my posture.

"Any trouble spots?" she asked me at the beginning.

"My arm hurts when I reach around to do up my bra," I said.  "It's not big deal."

Wrong, oh, wrong.


"Show me," she said, looking concerned.

I demonstrated the motion and winced.

"You probably have a rotator cuff injury," she said.

Rotator cuff!  Isn't that something that happens to baseball players?  Do the rest of us even have rotator cuffs


"It's common in post-menopausal women," she said.

She told me that "dryness" is key when this injury happens in post-menopausal women.  I won't go on about how rampant "dryness" is in post-menopausal bodies, but you get the picture.  The joint is not well-oiled.  We are vulnerable.

Tell me it isn't so.

She did some very deep massage on that shoulder, and when I put my bra on: no pain!  A miracle.

The next day, I felt pulverized.  Couldn't go to the pool.  Had to take Extra Strength Tylenol and eat white food and have a morning nap.

Today, I read up on rotator cuff injury in the Mayo Clinic Health Letter and a depressing article called "Asymptomatic Rotator Cuff Tears More Common in Postmenopausal Women" on a website called "Bone and Spine."

Four muscles and a tendon are involved in the rotator cuff, and injury to any one of them is a problem.  Besides an out-and-out tear of one of those muscles, says the Mayo Clinic, you can hurt your rotator cuff "with overhead movement of your arms, and poor posture with slouching your neck and shoulders forward [my italics] contributes to pinching your muscles or tendons under your shoulder bones".
 
Oh, boy.

 Grim, innit?  Note "more frequent with age."

The Mayo Clinic and Liz recommended resting the shoulder, icing it, and taking non-prescription pain meds.  You want to avoid surgery at all costs. 
One more thing!

 * * * * *

Quilt update:  After struggling trying to construct this quilt:

Note the irregular spacing between blocks

...and becoming sewing-avoidant and hating the whole thing,  I said to hell with it and sewed the blocks together with 1/4" spacing between them all. I think it lacks the interest of the first version, but whatever:

Version 2

Here's the second version on a pale green background with a narrower border:

What think?

Thanks to Debbie, Deanna, Claudia A., and Ann for their suggestions, which ranged from applique, raw-edge applique, and to using graph paper, etc., to figure out how to fit it together with seams.  Couldn't face it.  I'm a weenie.

I'm thinking of making a few small quilts that could be auctioned off as Christmas presents, with proceeds to the Berkeley Food Pantry.  Anyone interested?

* * * * *

Our fridge, which is only 12 years old, has become incontinent and confused.  (I know, more aging.)  Every morning we find a pool of water on the floor in front of it, plus it's freezing the lettuce.  We've already been told it's on its last legs, no point in putting any more money into it.

What a mess!  Didn't see it until I looked at this picture. 

I started checking out fridges online, and guess what?  Today's fridges are MEGA.   We do not want a mega-fridge, nor do we need one.  All the fridges are wider and taller and deeper than the space we have.  It looks as though we'll have to take out the cupboard over the fridge to make room for a taller fridge.

I think the world is telling us that we need a kitchen remodel, but it's not happening.  Especially with a bathroom remodel about to get launched.

* * * * *

Newest relaxation exercise:  Put a 10-pound weight on your diaphragm and breathe.  I'm not kidding.  I tried this with Liz-the-physical-therapist, and I instantly felt calm.  Doesn't have to be 10 pounds or a sandbag, just some sort of soft weight.

Helps slow me down in this hyper world.

Pig Roast and a Superlative Garden

First off, I loved the invitation:

So off we went on Saturday, so happy to flee the relentless Berkeley fog.

Not only was there roasted pig, but a raft of pies.  Plus a superlative garden.  (My pictures aren't very good because my camera gets confused when it's intermittently foggy and sunny.)

The pit

 

 The pig

Smartly dressed for a picnic:  my friend Elisabeth

Buffet table with vats of beans, herbed rice, fresh lettuce from the garden, and our hostess (sorry about the poor picture, Camille!)

The non-porta potty, complete with art on the walls

On the drinks table

Before dessert, we toured the huge fenced-against-deer garden,  on the other side of the house:

Many apple trees, fruit just ripening

...and pears

An greenhouse (left) and an office (right), with crops in the foreground

Greenhouse plants outside for a daytime airing

Inside: all manner of onions

A lot of work goes on here

 Mega-peppers

 Chard

 

Love the texture

 Plentiful tomatoes

 Looking toward the house

View from the deck

Pizza oven

 Where people feast

 And then it was time for dessert:

 Hidden, and then:

Ta-da!  Pies!

Interested small parties (the plastic container had pig cupcakes, very popular with this group)

Killer mocha cake

The biggest kid of all.  He went back for seconds, ice cream and all (note drips on sweatshirt)

It was one of those afternoons that feels like a gift from the hosts--really good food and a wonderful setting.  And why is it so heartening (nurturing?) to see a beautifully tended garden?   Still thinking about that.

Keeping Up with Kimye

"Kim and Kanye never moved into the 9,000 sq ft Bel Air mansion, as they attempted to refurbish the property for a year and a half to no avail.

'They are such perfectionists that staying up-to-date with the latest appliances and home systems, etc., has been exhausting for them,' an insider told E! News previously."-- E! News online, August 7, 2014

Okay.   Well.

I'm trying to imagine that Kimye and Jerry and I are even the same species.

We are proceeding with the bathroom remodel, though.

On Wednesday there was a high-level confab about it. Here are the attendees:

My sister, Madeleine, the designer, and Wes from El Cerrito Cabinet Makers

Geoff, the contractor, scratching his head over how he's going to make new cabinets fit in a 90-year-old house.

I was sitting just outside the doordoing e-mail and standing by in case I needed to be consulted, which happened only twice in an hour-and-a-half.  Jerry was in his study across the hall, writing up an autobiographical chapter of a book on entomologists. Very minor players.

Madeleine brought drawings of what things are going to look like.  Here are the before-photos and after-drawings:

The exceedingly dated, impractical cabinet and vanity, with pulls from Restoration Hardware slapped on some years ago to persuade me that it wasn't really that bad.

What it will look like:  New doors on the upper cabinet, toilet to be moved to new position below it and hidden by a ponywall (which appears as a short pillar to the right in this view).   I'm stealing the space that was the lower cabinet to become drawers in my studio closet.

New vanity, with ponywall to the left to hide toilet from hall.

Completely dated and impractical hall closet, probably last fiddled with in the 1960's.  Again, the pulls added in vain attempt, etc.

 Remodeled hall cabinet, with new upper doors hiding linen closet shelves and lower built-in drawers no longer hiding behind doors.  All three easy-slide drawers to be devoted to fabric storage.

Closet in my studio with preliminary hole bashed through to lower bathroom cabinet.

Four new drawers to be installed in studio closet, all for fabric.  They will be deeper and wider than what's indicated here.

I'm feeling hope about this!  I love the drawers!  I love that the toilet will not longer be front and center, which I hate!

* * * * *

On another topic:  According to Blogger, this is my 600th post.  This despite sitting down every. single. time thinking, "Who cares?  Why bother?  Oh, well, it'll be fun to write, anyway."  

Thanks for reading.