Sunday Started Way Too Early

Awake at 5 am, reluctantly out of bed at 5:50.  My insomnia program has its lapses.

Here's a book I recommend for early risers, because it's fascinating and readable.  The author is an experienced journalist, a knowledgeable Catholic who gives an unflinching portrayal of the mysterious city-state.

We were in Rome for four days in 2011, coincidentally at Easter, not the best time because of crowds and because the basilica was closed so that it could be readied for Easter services, a big disappointment. This book makes me want to go back and see more than the Vatican Museums and the Sistine Chapel. 

The really interesting stuff, though, is what tourists never see but Thavis writes about.

* * * * *

Yesterday I tried on the skirt to an expensive suit I haven't worn since 2005.  I was so far from being able to zip it up that it was laughable.  At least a two-inch gap, even when I held my breath as fiercely as I could.   Sigh.  I read last week in the New York Times that women tend to gain 10 pounds in their fifties, and there it all is: around my waist. Hell.

The suit skirt compared with waist of jeans I wear now  (stretch, of course).

But then I really don't need a black suit.  I wore that one to the opera a few times, once when we took martinis in a thermos to a bench near the Opera House in San Francisco and had a picnic dinner before the curtain.  That was more fun than the opera was (Don Giovanni).

Now that suit and a bunch of Jerry's clothes are off to the West Marin Thrift Store:

Mostly clothes Jerry had forgotten he owned, some dating from the 1970's.

* * * * *

 

Conversation over lunch a few days ago:

 

Me (lamenting sleep-flattened hair):  Do you think I should blow-dry my hair before we go out?

 

Jerry (thoughtfully, not looking up from a magazine):  Well, it doesn't cost anything.

 

It doesn't cost anything? 

 

We're talking morale here, guy, not cost effectiveness.

 

* * * * **

 

Breakfast now, or back to bed?  Breakfast, I think.  And the New York Times, starting with the real estate pages in the business section.  A house near us just sold within two weeks, cash (no "pending sign"), for probably $2 million.  The listing price was $1.65, but everything around here goes over the asking price.

 

Who out there is able to do this, and why do I feel vaguely hostile that I couldn't afford to buy a house in my own neighborhood?



 

 





Woe is Pat

Last night, honest to God, I couldn't get to sleep for worrying about Pat Nixon. 

You know that perception we all had when she was First Lady that she was terribly pent-up, always doing the right thing but in a mechanical way?   (During Watergate, I remember my friend Rob postulating that she must have had one friend who visited once a year so the two of them could go into closet and close the door so Pat could unload.  He was just about right--her name was Helene Drown.)

Turns out we were all correct.     Reading about her in "Hidden Power: Presidential Marriages that Shaped our History," by journalist Kati Marton, had me feeling sad and riled.   I don't like reading about empty marriages that eat up decades of lives.

Marton says that after Nixon's 1960 defeat, Pat had had it with politics.  Nixon lived for politics, and she wanted to stay married, so she endured both her marriage and the role she'd been thrust into.

  According to Marton,  the Nixons did nothing together, except when protocol required it. They barely spoke.  If Nixon wanted to tell her something, he'd direct aides to send a memo to her office.

 Their daughter, Julie, who wrote a biography of Pat, described her parents' relationship as "very private; they were "undemonstrative."  Marton terms their marriage after 1958 "a charade," which seems closer to the mark.

"She and her husband continued to value above all else harmony in their marriage--at almost any price," writes Marton.  And what a price.   Marton quotes Pat as saying of a trip to Hawaii  in 1952, that it was "the last carefree vacation I ever had."

The Nixons in 1952, the year of the "last carefree vacation."

Pat Nixon died in 1993.  That's forty-one years of doing the right thing even though it lacks personal meaning or the embrace of love underpinning it.

Sometimes I'm puzzled by somebody else's marriage.  I see that it's one I might not want for myself, but then I think a) you can never know what goes on in some one else's marriage, and b) they probably talk a lot when they're alone together.

Neither a) or b) worked last night when I was trying to get to sleep.

The truth is so haunting that I lose track of the fact that they were Republicans and just feel sorry for them.

Frass, etc.

Last week I picked a few flowers from the garden to put on the kitchen windowsill, kind of a cheery-homey thing.

Soon tiny black balls littered the windowsill.  I knew what this was:  bug poop, otherwise known as frass.  I learned this years ago from Jerry-the-entomologist. 

Note the tiny black balls

I wiped away the disgusting black balls, searched the flowers for the defecating worms, found none, and left the flowers on the windowsill.

Next day, more frass.

I complained.  Jerry examined the flowers and found a worm.  Then he explained that the reason the black balls were some distance from the vase is because the worm possesses something called an "anal comb," which enables the worm to fling frass.

Then he coaxed the worm into a vial because he's going to raise it and identify it.  He's pretty sure it's a tortricid, a group of moths he specializes in.  The frass-shooting behavior is diagnostic.

                                                                                2.



A few years ago, I took a drawing class at the local adult school.  It was a revelation.  Drawing turns out to be something you can learn.  I always thought it was something art majors were born with.

Very hard

We drew eggs, oranges, ladders (tricky).  I found it was very meditative.  It's almost as good as swimming for taking me out of my dreary, worry-obsessed self.  True, it's time-consuming, but it's also engaging, and if you can give yourself over to it, it's very relaxing.

Drawing makes me look at the world more carefully.
 

This took ages and let's face it, it's crooked.  Don't care...

                                                                               3.

Yesterday, I got into the car with my friend Anne to drive to the pool, and she told me that her nephew, in his fifties and recently diagnosed with a brain tumor, is not doing well.  He's had surgery and radiation, but the tumor is growing again.  Anne's preparing to drop everything and fly to Chicago, if necessary.

Damn it!  And an acquaintance from high school--Pat Monahan to Del Martians--just found out that the chemo she's been on for advanced breast cancer hasn't worked.  She's switching to another one, per her doctor's recommendation.  She quotes a fellow cancer patient's doctor:

"You can wake up each morning and worry about dying, or you can wake up each morning and celebrate living.  Before you know it, several years may have passed.  Do you want to waste that time with mourning, or use your time to celebrate?"

Brave, brave, brave.  She's celebrating--zip-lining, cruising, working on her bucket list--but I can't help thinking that I'd take more of a Woody Allen-depressive approach if I were in her shoes.


                                                                          3.

Also yesterday:  the pair of sisters who bail us out every two weeks by cleaning the house--God knows how much clutter would accumulate if they didn't come--appeared promptly at 1 pm.  They're always cheerful and kind.

The older one, Sonia, told me that she's 56, much older than she looks, and that she recently took a 10-1/2 hour Greyhound bus ride to Tijuana for medical treatment that she can't afford in the U.S. because she has no health insurance. She's looking forward to buying insurance under Obamacare. 

She rarely goes to the doctor, even though she has high blood pressure.

                                                                           4.

We have new neighbors, a family of five who moved here from San Francisco.  They're renting the house next door.  The boy, an eighth-grader,  is a fan of insects and spiders, and Jerry's already supplied him with a vial to collect things for identification.  The kid is very polite.

There's a spider in there from one of our new neighbors

One of his sisters plays soccer and practices in their backyard.  The other day while I was unloading groceries, a missile of some sort shot past me.  A soccer ball.  I tossed it back to the girl, who was peering over the fence and apologizing profusely.

                                                                         5.

Jerry and I watched a documentary we loved: "Undefeated" (2012 and an Oscar-winner).    It's about a poor high school in Memphis with a losing football team that's  taken under the wing of a volunteer coach, who inspires, preaches, and whips them into shape.  Even if you don't like football, it's moving and instructive.

Most of the players don't have their father in their lives and virtually all have a relative who's in or has been in prison.  College is a far-away dream, accessible only if they manage to win an athletic scholarship.

                                                                           6.

A friend wants me to talk to her  daughter today about insomnia and what I've learned about it. No reading in bed, same bedtime every night, no TV or computer within an hour of bed, limited caffeine.  It works.

Also, drawing, pool time, and walks in the Berkeley summer fog.  It's been one of those summers.

                                                                        

A Couple of Books and a Near-Bidless Quilt

Update:  Quilt bid now stands at $150.  Thank you, Suzanne!


It's 6:10 am, and I've been awake since 4:15.  Not good.

I have myself to blame: a small dark chocolate bar at 5 pm yesterday (what was I thinking?) and a late-ish Diet Coke.  Too much caffeine, too late in the day. 

In the meantime, I've been paging through two good reads:

 

 

I love this book!  I've lent it it to many pals, and it was kicking around in my car because someone returned it.  An excellent re-read, too.

Novella Carpenter writes about a farm she created on an abandoned lot in West Oakland, deep in the ghetto, with a compelling cast of characters and eventually chickens, turkeys, ducks, bees, and two pigs.  She and her boyfriend dumpster-dive to feed her animals, even behind fancy restaurants on Fourth Street.

I just discovered that she has a blog and has open-house workday at her farm every Thursday.   My friend Anne and I are thinking of going down and helping out.

And the other book:

This is such a sweet, engaging, sad book.  The essayist Roger Rosenblatt writes of his experience of moving in with his son-in-law and three small children after his daughter dies suddenly.  He and his wife leave their home in Long Island, move to Bethesda, and take up life with a young family struggling with loss, re-weaving a life.


                                                                                * * *

And the nearly bid-free quilt:

I have one bid of $100.  Any others?  It's waiting for a home, and the Berkeley Food Pantry shelves are waiting for more food.  Supplies at the Alameda County Food Bank are running low, and that has a direct impact on what we can give away to the people who line up for food every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday.

Snapshots from the Week

I run around town in Mom jeans, a pair of sneakers, and occasionally a fanny pack--all major, major fashion faux pas--but vanity kicked in when I saw photos of myself with big brown age spots on my face.  I wanted them GONE.

I feel brave letting you see this

So yesterday I went to a very nice dermatologist who burned them away ($125, no insurance coverage),  and now I have puffy pink/purple spots all over my face.

Then I slunk around San Francisco wearing a sun visor set very low on my head (can't use sunscreen).   I caught sight of myself in the big windows of the Museum of Modern Art and thought, why is that woman wearing a sun visor in February?

Two weeks until I see positive results.

                                                                               2.

 I was in the city to see the Jay DeFeo and Jasper Johns shows at SFMOMA.  The postcard for the shows has been on my fridge for months, but I just discovered they're closing on Sunday.

I didn't know much about DeFeo, except that Squeak Carnwath, a favorite painter of mine, admired her.  And that she worked for eight years on a painting called "The Rose," which weighed over 1,000 pounds when she was finished it.

The Rose, 1958-1966, oil with wood and mica

Turns out DeFeo went to UC Berkeley,  taught at the SF Art Institute and then at Mills College, all the while making art out of a wide range of materials.  Some other pieces in the show:

Untitled, 1953,  re-purposed wood wrapped in torn fabric and coated with plaster.  Either an "unflyable kite," or homage to the floor plan of European cathedrals, which she much admired. Not a cross, per se.

Untitled, 1973, gelatin print and mixed media

She also did drawings, paintings, and collages of  things "she'd collected and held dear," including a dental bridge, cup handles, camera tripod,  and golf bag.  Her drawing, painting, and collage overlap.

Photo of Jay DeFeo working on The Rose

I wandered around the Jasper Johns show, thinking, oh, hell, I've seen his work for years, what's new?  There are some new paintings (he's 81 and still working), but I was taken with the numbers and letters and flags I learned about in art history and found them still fresh and compelling.

Light Bulb II, 1958.  Sculp-metal

Highway, 1959, oil on canvas.  Apparently, his impression of driving at night.

Flags, 1967-68.  Color lithograph

These two shows were organized by the Whitney Museum of Art and open in New York later this month.

And in the atrium of the museum, this stupendous piece by Gu Wenda:

                                                                                3.

After that, I marched up Market Street, trying to stay out of the sun.  My destination was the Vera Bradley store in San Francisco Centre.  

Not Fifth Avenue, but close

For years, I've traveled with the smaller toiletries kit below, jamming it so full it turns into a ball, which is hard to pack.  Everything that doesn't fit into it I cram into various Ziploc bags that I can never lay my hands on easily.

Finally, I said, to hell with this, I'm getting a big, new, CAPACIOUS toiletries kit, and a pretty one, not the REI-variety, which Jerry favors.   I researched online and found one made by Vera Bradley.   So yesterday, as a treat after inflicting purple spots all over my face, I went to buy one.

The mother ship and the rowboat?

Then I found the item below, which is a "jewelry folio."  I had a flash:  maybe I could fit all the chargers and USB wires for camera, MP3 player, computer, and phone into this thing.

Folded up

I took a chance and bought it.  At home, I filled the plastic pockets with cords and chargers, and it worked! No more tangle of stuff in Ziploc bags that slide around in my luggage!



Jewelry folio turns tech-tote

                                                                                4.

Sometimes I read memoirs, because they tend to lull me to sleep quicker than fiction does.  I just finished two that make me want to send notes to the writers, saying,  "the story is not what you think it is." 

To Stephanie Madoff Mack, one of Bernard Madoff's daughters-in-law, I wanted to say: "Yes, your father-in-law was very bad, no question about it, but, honestly, he's not to blame for everything in your life...and by the way, you're still awfully privileged."

And to Leslie Maitland, a former New York Times investigative reporter who wrote about her mother's family's escape from Germany, I'd say, "This story is not about your mother's teenage sweetheart whom she left behind in France and reconciled with 50+ years later, but how Hitler chipped away at the rights of Jews in Germany through the 1930's and your family's brave and incremental escape from Germany, through France, then Cuba, finally landing in the U.S."

Someone sold Maitland on the romantic angle as most marketable, I think, but the back story of her family was much more compelling to me.  She's done a lot of research on the social history of the times.


                                                                                      5.

Dept. of Audio update:  Yesterday Audible.com sent an e-mail saying that,  "After further review, 'Excellent Women by Barbara Pym' is currently unavailable in a digital audio download format for the US region."

The "US region."  That would be a country.

I may cancel.  Readers sent numerous suggestions for downloading free podcasts from the BBC and NPR, including "This American Life," which I love, and that may do it for me.

Love Ira (even if he's blurry).  And did you hear the one about his crazy dog?

Awake & Stressed: Why Not?

Last night, after rummaging around on the internet for travel supplies (just a plug adaptor and a toiletries kit, for God's sake), I couldn't get to sleep.  I was awake until 4 am.

Wide awake.  I got up twice, per the sleep therapist's advice.  I read a cookbook, which I usually find very soothing.  I took some Benadryl,  which I'm trying not to do.  It was all related to the plug adaptor and the toiletries kit, I knew it.  Travel makes me anxious, vigilant,  mildly wacko.

This morning I resolved to never, ever do anything related to travel planning after 12 noon, the same cut-off I have for drinking caffeine.

But then...lurking in the back of my brain was this idea that I should check our reservations for a flight to Boston in May.   So I did.   The airline had switched planes for that flight and moved us to the back of the plane to very bad seats.  From Row 7 to Row 24.

Lamaze breathing.  Dash to the phone.  I yanked the cord out of  the wall to cut off a  incoming reminder call from  CVS Pharmacy. Then I plugged  the cord  back in and called United Airlines.  An unapologetic but pleasant man switched us back to Economy Plus in reasonable seats--that is to say, you don't need to be a double-amputee to sit in them.

Now what?  I'm trying to be low-key about upcoming trips, but at this point we have seven plane reservations.  Do I check them all weekly to make sure the airline hasn't moved us to seats that will make me feel claustrophobic and as though I need a hip replacement after hours of writhing?  Do I worry only in the morning, per sleep therapist, about travel arrangements?

For the first time in a month, I swiped a brownie from the Starbuck's haul Jerry picked up for the Food Pantry this morning.  Me, Mrs. Virtuous-on-a-Diet.  (There are fewer calories if you cut it into quarters.)

Blame United

Please, Not the Emergency Room

The Tide stain remover pen was not up to the gore

 

So at 4:15 this morning, I'm sitting on the edge of the bathtub in Jerry's bathroom, typing in "How to Stop a Nosebleed" on my laptop, which is balanced on top of the laundry hamper.

Jerry's perched on the toilet, holding toilet paper to his nose.  There's blood all over the place. It could be only several teaspoonfuls, but a little blood goes a long way. 

"Do not tilt head back," I read.  "Lean forward and pinch nose where the bone meets the cartilage.  Breathe through your mouth."

He complies.

"Do this for 15 to 20 minutes," I went on.  "Do not stop to check."

He stops to check.

"It's still bleeding," he says.

I bring a clock into the bathroom.  After 20 minutes, he stops the pinching.  Still bleeding.  Another round of pinching, another check: Still bleeding, though not as heavily.  At the beginning of the third round, I say to hell with it  and call the Anthem Blue Cross advice nurse.

Could I please put Jerry on the phone so he can give permission for her to talk to me? she says.

"It's okay," he mumbles into the phone, through a wad of tissue.

The nurse asks me several questions and decides we should go to the ER. 

I report back to Jerry.

"No," he says.   "We'll have to wait forever."

By now it's 5:20 am.  I decide to call his doctor for a second opinion.   A colleague of hers calls back.  She says we need to go to the ER.

"It's a slow time right now," she adds helpfully.

"She says you have to go," I tell Jerry.

"It's a waste of time," he says.  But he stops pinching, stuffs  tissue into his nostril,  and gets dressed.

I  throw on some clothes,  coughing because I'm still sick.

He sits to put his socks on.  Then he checks.  The nosebleed has stopped.

"I don't need to go," he says firmly.

I throw his pajamas, bathroom rug, and assorted towels into the bathtub to soak.  Then I strip and re-make the bed, put on my jammies, and get into it--at 7 am,  exactly the time the sleep therapist says to get out.  I sleep until 11.

In the meantime, Jerry falls asleep sitting at his desk and somehow prints three pages of the same phrase.

By four this afternoon, The Consumptive (still coughing) and The Former  Bleeder managed to round up some much-needed groceries at Berkeley Bowl.

Insomnia Program: The Visual

 

 A fairly accurate portrayal of mornings around here these days: 



 

 

*Thanks to "Proof of Evolution: The Theory That Mankind Evolved from Other Species Can Be Observed Daily," Funny Times, December 2008  (Bannerman)

Getting Some Zzzzzz's

People have been asking about my sleep and whether it's improving  now that I'm going to a sleep therapist.

Thanks for asking, and yes, it's improving.  I'm doing everything the sleep therapist suggests, including increasing "sleep pressure"  by lopping 2-1/2 hours off my time in bed, which means getting up at 6 am instead of my usual 8:30.

It's awful.  I'm so sleepy during my quiet hour before bedtime that I have to fight to keep my eyes open, but when I get into bed, I go to sleep right away.  No lying awake worrying.  When the alarm goes off, I drag myself out and sit in the living room, zomboid, for an hour before I rally and begin drinking hot tea.  Before I started this therapy, I had nights when I tossed and turned until 5 am. 

I've cheated once each week, sleeping an hour or two later in the morning because I'm exhausted, can't concentrate, have something going on the next day that requires some sharpness.  But then  I have to come clean to the sleep therapist.  He's not entirely happy.  We spar.

I'm tired!  I can't think straight!  I have things to do that require concentration! 

He blocks every exit.  Plenty of people are underslept (long-haul truckers, for example),  he says, and life goes on.  New parents are chronically under-slept and cope. Surgeons are exhausted, and what about pilots?  This is an investment in my future quality of life (even though I feel like hell now).   We're "re-regulating" my sleep.

This week I may not even bother to cheat, because I'm too tired to explain myself.

Three more weeks.  In the meantime: no naps, no TV or computer before bed, no reading in bed, no excuses.  I think it's working.  If only I weren't so damned tired.

Underslept

Yesterday was a revelation.  If you get up at 5:20 am,  you have so much more  time.

I felt energized and just about fatigue-free.   It was a miracle!  I did a ton,  including cleaning out my car AND the refrigerator.  Two supermarkets.  Etc.  Long list. That sleep therapist was on to something!

Today, I am catatonic.  I can't think.  Noise makes me crazy.  I look haggard. And I have five more days of this.

All I can do is to check e-mail (same old notice from Netflix), Facebook (politics; tired of it) and Google News.  I just found an article there called "The Sex Life of Conjoined Twins."  I'm so thrashed, I'm not even interested.  If you are, it's in The Atlantic.

Attempt to rev up.  Didn't work.

The Crack of Dawn

This was the view from our deck at 7:10 am today, just after dawn.  The tiny light in the distance is a window in our neighbor's house.  At this point, I'd been up for an hour and 50 minutes.

That's right.  I got up at 5:20 am today, and I have to do this for a week.

This is the instruction of the sleep therapist.  I must decrease my "sleep window," to increase "sleep pressure."  In other words,  I will be so deprived of sleep that when I get into bed I will actually sleep.

For the first hour, I thought I might be dead.  I slumped in a chair and listened to NPR. 

Now I'm waiting for Donald Trump's announcement about Barack Obama that's supposed to be an election-changer.  Although Robert Simon of Politico says, "...Donald Trump couldn't be dumber if you cut his head off."

Snapshots from the Week

                                                                            1.

Still battling insomnia,  I've signed up for six sessions with a sleep therapist.  I'm afraid he's young enough to be my son, but he's very pleasant and knows a lot.  As of this week, I have reading assignments, and I have to keep a log of my sleep each night.

The therapist's office is near Diesel Books and Bittersweet on College Avenue in north Oakland.  I never come home without a new book or some chocolate (each of which can lead to insomnia).

                                                                         2.

 

On Tuesday, my friend Valerie and I took her sister-in-law and my friend Ellen to the Lake Chalet restaurant on Lake Merritt in Oakland  for her birthday.  Delicious food, eaten indoors or out.  Here's a picture of Ellen blowing out a candle on her tiny cheesecake.

 

                                                                              3.

A not-so-good photo of a dish that's become a go-to around here:  Pesto Roma Tomato Boboli.  People have told me about simple pizzas you can make with Boboli crust, but only my friend Lin had dictated the recipe.  Hurray! I use artichoke pesto instead of basil and sprinkle some sliced black olives on top:

Buy a prepared Boboli crust (I use whole wheat)
Spread pesto sauce over it
Cut up Roma tomatoes and lay on top (I use 2)
Sprinkle a package of shredded mozzarella cheese (I use half a package and add cheddar, too)

Cook according to directions on Boboli package.

                                                                               4.

                                                            
A harrowing but addictive read: "Unorthodox: The Scandalous Rejection of My Hasidic Roots."  The portrayal of a woman growing up in a strictly religious sect of orthodox Judiasm who finally breaks free.  I recommend it but not for bedtime reading.

                                                                                   5.

Taking a break from British television crime shows, we watched and enjoyed these two documentaries this week:

"How to Live Forever," an investigation of how people live to be 100.  Funny, sad, and occasionally hilarious, such as when filmmaker Mark Wexler interviews a Japanese man who stars in "elder porn" movies, very popular in Japan.  This film ultimately validated my contention that there's no point in seeking immortality and why make an ass of yourself trying?

"All in This Tea"  follows a West Marin tea specialist, David Lee Hoffman, who treks around China seeking "handcrafted" teas, which seems to mean organic and made by small farmers.  He sells his  tea at Peet's and online at Phoenix teas.  He's indefatigible and something of a crank who's made a pest of himself to his neighbors in Lagunitas (this I found out during  follow-up reading online).

                                  

                                                                              6.

I'm still pretty tense about the election and didn't watch the second debate. I  found this Immigration Kit at Bittersweet in north Oakland, if worse comes to worst:                                                                     

 

 

 

                          A selection of chocolates,  a Canadian Immigration Form. While supplies last.

 

 

Also featured: The Obama blend of coffee.  Note the countries contributing beans.

 

 

 



 

7.

 

 

 

Quilt by Jessica Ogden (about $630; made in India)

 

 At first glance, I thought there was a screen in the background, but it's a quilt.  The photo is from The New York Times Magazine, which featured a page of photos of Tina Seidenfaden Busck's gallery in Copenhagen.  Gave me ideas.