At a Flower Stall in Victoria Station

Two e-mails from the UK this morning.   One was from Leah, my young friend next door who just graduated from college.  The other was from my cousin, Sue, who lives outside London.

Leah was in London last week on the first leg of a six-week trip.  Sue had fabric from our aunt that she wanted to give me to incorporate into a quilt.  I was hoping they'd be able to get together for a hand-off.

 

Sue

 

 

 

Leah

 

 

They did!  They met up at the flower stall at Victoria Station, had tea/breakfast, and looked at Leah's pictures.  My two worlds met:  two of my favorite people got together thousands of miles away.  Felt bucked-up all morning.

Today I sent Sue two jpegs I thought she'd enjoy:



With Annika and Leah at a wedding, 1999

 

  

Leah's 8th birthday the same year



                                                                              2.


Yesterday Jerry had his annual check-up with the cardiologist.  All is well!  He'd had some tests, and everything looked good except his bad cholesterol, which went up 20 points.  I'm back to being a Food Nazi, and he has to take more Lipitor.

After that I had four pieces of See's candy.  Two were samples that I didn't even like.  Made no sense.

                                                                               3.



Updates on recent posts:

 

 1.  There were 30 bids on the ruin of a house Jerry and I went to see in June.  Thirty people who want to deal with this: 

 

 

Asking price:  $599,000

 

 

 

2. My friend Ellen, who moved to Connecticut because she needed to be near family when she was diagnosed with early dementia, likes where she finds herself:  a assisted living facility near her brother's house.  The food is good, she likes her apartment, the staff is kind. 

 

 

Ellen, center, moved from Oakland to Connecticut in April

 

The description of the dining room, though, made me think of traveling alone on a cruise and not knowing where to sit.  A bit clique-ish, but she likes her tablemates now.

 

I think this is the best Ellen could have hoped for.  She longs for a cat and may get one from the pound. 

 

 



 

 

 

 

 

Shopping Trip

One day last week I went shopping in Walnut Creek with two pool pals, Val and Anne.

Val wanted to go to Nordstrom and get fitted for new bras.

Anne needed a MOG (Mother of Groom) outfit because her son's getting married in September.  The search was modified to mean any sort of pulled together outfit that she felt comfortable in and could wear other times.  Her son's getting married under a big oak tree in his aunt's backyard in Berkeley.  Very casual.

                                                                          2.

Val disappeared in search of Intimate Apparel, third floor.  I'd warned her that this was going to cost her some real money based on my experience last year,  but she seemed unfazed.

                                                                           3.

Anne and I went to Talbots, a wise move because it turned out they were having a giant sale.  All the summer stuff--tops, pants, skirts, jackets--was 60% off.    The relatively conservative styles suit Anne, and she found a pair of pants, two tops, and a cardigan for $100, a coup.

At Nordstrom, we found nothing--edgier, heavier clothes at regular prices, all summer stuff gone.  If you're into aubergine, leather pants, and high heels, this is your year.

                                                                           4.

I returned a pair of shoes I'd bought on impulse a couple of weeks ago without trying them on (they were mailed to me).  I thought they would add a touch of glamour and be comfy.  When they arrived, I wore them around the house and decided they didn't fit.  Fit trumps glamour.

The salesperson who accepted the return examined the shoes very carefully, but I'd taken the precaution of running a lint remover over the soles so there was no evidence of my bad housekeeping (thread, dental floss, bits of this and that, not good).

                                    5.
                                                                     
Val met up with us, carrying a bag full of pretty bras.  The most expensive cost $88.  She still seemed unfazed.  When she heard about the sale at Talbots, she rushed off to check it out.  Anne and I persevered with her search for shoes.  Nothing worked out, but it was a good place to sit down.



                                                                            6.

"Chili" is top row, fourth from left

I  dashed off to buy a lipstick: Mac's "Chili."  It's bright red, so I always wear it with a more neutral, glossy color over it.  God knows if it makes any difference.  I'm approaching an age that ends in a "5," and this has me in a flap.

Also managed to wheedle a sample of Estee Lauder "Advanced Night Repair."  Has anyone used this?  I'm curious to see if it works, given all the hype,  but I didn't want to pay the exorbitant price. 

                                                                             7.

Reconnoitered in Women's Shoes.  Val had bought two tops at Talbots.  This was turning into a very successful expedition.  We repaired for iced coffee. 

                                                                              8.

We weren't far from Crate and Barrel, so I bought Jerry a cup and saucer. He doesn't like mugs, and the cups and saucers he's using don't work well.  The cup's too tall, and he's always knocking it over when he's sitting at his desk, getting coffee all over his papers.  Lots of swearing. 

He likes the new one, which is shorter and heavier.  The saucer has an off-center resting spot for the cup, which leaves room for a morning cookie.

Crate and Barrel's "Madison."  Made in Germany.

                                                                      

Meet Daisy

This is what I've been up to lately:

My paternal grandmother, Daisy,  as a young girl in England. 

 

 

 

 

Doesn't she look like a "Downton Abbey" servant on her day off?  She was a domestic servant in England, but this photo was taken after she'd emigrated to the United States in 1912. 

 

 

 

 

Stern stuff:  Daisy in the 1930's or '40's.  Daughter of  a fishmonger, wife of a streetcar conductor. She died seven months before I was born.

 

I've got marriage and death certificates, family albums, and print-outs from findmypast.co.uk scattered all over the floor near my computer.  So far, I've discovered that my grandfather had an earlier marriage before the one to Daisy, wife unknown.  And that Daisy knocked four years off her age on her marriage certificate. 

 

92.5 Pounds of Food

That's how much my small group of contributors donated to the Berkeley Neighborhood Food Project this month.

This morning, I drove the green bags over to the Berkeley Food Pantry, where they were unloaded from my car and weighed.  Thank you, Anne, Val, Claudia, Dee, Karen, and Ann! (Suzanne's on vacation.)   The Project is now contributing 2,000 pounds of food to the Pantry every two months.

The unloaders insisted on taking my picture with one of the bags.  I  was instructed to hold it up "like a trophy" and make sure the writing on it was displayed:




Advice from readers of yesterday's post included a)  smile more,  b) have someone else take the picture, c) don't take pictures of myself from below (mirror shot), and d)  perhaps give up on pictures altogether because they rob a person of animation.  Did two of them.

When You Don't Look Like What You Thought You Did

Has anyone else had this experience?

I've been taking some  pictures of myself because I'm letting my hair grow longer and thinking of changing my glasses.  I don't know how else to judge objectively what could use improvement. 

The mirror, it turns out, lies.  I look much worse than I thought.

By last night, I'd decided to get my eyes fixed so I don't have to wear glasses (cleverly disguised as cataract surgery so I won't have to pay).  Plus have another go at orthodontia (wore braces from 13-15 but there's been regression).

If anyone needs cataract surgery, surely she's at an age when vanity should wither away like the Communist government was supposed to do?

Apparently not.  My mother-in-law had a facelift when she was in her early seventies.  At the time, I thought it was crazy--I mean, old is old.

This morning I took another picture of myself after I'd blown dry my hair, which is very fine and therefore always flat.  Surely now I'd look like I have fluffy hair?



I played back the picture:  There was a frowzy old bag who looked like she's been in a casino all night.  My hair was not big at all and looked damaged on the ends.  I had bags under my eyes.  There was this unfortunate overall drooping. I rushed to put on some make-up and took another picture.  Still not good.

Jerry's  always critical of  photos of himself.  "It's adorable!" I say and mean it.  Here's one I took of him in London on his birthday, not my favorite, but I think it's fine.

He hates it

I'll show him pictures of myself that I hate, and he'll say, "What's wrong with that?"

Maybe it's best not to look.  Or go with what I see in the mirror.  What the hell.

Just tried it:

Better.  Still, note the drooping.

Alaska Photo Highlights (& low)

I took 400+ photos during our Alaska cruise two weeks ago, and I'm winnowing them down to no more than 200 (Jerry helpfully pointed out that I have many duplicates.) 

Here's a sampling:




Flowers at Pike Place Market, Seattle, just uphill from our hotel and the pier.

 View from our hotel room in Seattle the afternoon we arrived



The next morning:  Our ship!



Making sure it didn't get away before we got on it



The Seattle Sail-Away Party, with band (far right)

Preparing for the fire drill

The first two days, lots of scenery looked like this: anonymous islands in fog

Hike in a rain forest near Sitka

Appalling spine-y  rain forest slug

Room service dinner, perfect alternative to "no jeans in the dining room"

Ice in Tracy Arm Fjord--the azure blue and blue tint to the ice is due to lime leaching into the water

 

 

Looks soapy, but it's ice

 

 

 

Flower boxes at the Salvation Army in Wrangell

 

 

 

 

Boardwalk on a trail in Wrangell

 

 

 

...and a boatful of antlers

 

 

Reclining totem pole on Chief Shakes Island, Wrangell

 

 

 

Detail

 

Still-life with rose in Ketchikan

 

 

Ketchikan.  He did not buy it.

 

 

Or this.

 

 

The people who looked after us,  from right:  Ferdie (Philippines), Natiliya (Ukraine), and Natiliya's helper

 

 

This is the life: Prosecco on the veranda, as we floated past Vancouver Island 

 

 

 

...which is very long (290 miles)

 

 

Canada Place, Vancouver, the last port

 

 

Peril!

I feel as though the State Department has taken over where my mother left off. 

Let's all be anxious about vague, improbable things happening!  Like a terror attack anywhere in the world where Americans might be traveling on a plane, on a ship, in a subway during the month of August.  Keep your eyes and ears open (right, like that's going to work.).  That's the warning they issued today.

My parents were crazy anxious.   My mother used to stand at the end of our driveway, wringing her hands if my dad was late home from work.  Either that or stand at the sink with her lips moving silently, clearly praying for his safe return.  This was on a routine work day.

An occasion for fear

If my dad opened a can of anything--fruit, vegetable, or meat--he'd worry that it might have botulism.  What are the chances? Just about nil, but my sister and I didn't know that, and I have thrown away many a can because there was a weird air sound when I opened it (which turns out to be okay because there's some kind of vacuum effect).

It's taken years of therapy to figure out that the threats were overstated, that I don't have to be afraid of every last thing.  That the cruise ship isn't going to sink, the plane isn't going to crash, that every physical symptom Jerry or I have isn't going to be cancer, for God's sake.

Taught to be anxious, alas

Now here comes the State Department,  teaching us to be fearful about things we can't control and that are statistically improbable as far as any individual is concerned.

My sleep doctor, who practices Cognitive Behavior Therapy (Use your head!  Don't let emotions drive you!) would beat back the State Department warnings with all kinds of probabilities and statistics, until they were whimpering in a corner, tiny enough to fit into a mouse hole.  I would leave his office feeling I was taller and standing up straighter than when I walked in.

The cruise ship did not sink

The State Department needs some CBT.  Or do they know the statistics and are they just covering their asses in case something really does happen?  Can people sue the State Department?