CSI: My Morning

The first thing that hit me when I unlocked the door was the powerful smell.
Suspicious. Sickly sweet.
Stepping carefully around scattered papers, I spotted an open accordion file propped precariously on the seat of a recliner. A folder marked “Cowbee and Miss Keeeee” was empty.
The phone book was fanned out on the floor, open at the “Vacuum – Washing” pages. Upon investigation, the word “Tina” was scribbled on the right hand page.
The computer was sleeping.
I set my carrier down carefully, sensitive to the vibes of déjà vu penetrating the place.
Carrying my bag, I followed the smell into the next room. It was a shambles. Suitcases and boxes tossed on top of each other and leaning against the wall. White excelsior pellets littering the floor. A broken umbrella on the bed in a jumble of red and yellow. The file cabinet wide open, a table askew next to it.
The tile floor by the kitchen wall was wet and littered with the glittering evidence: green glass. One large piece said “Mad Dogs and Englishmen,” which explained the stink. White wine. Specifically: chardonnay.
It could have been worse.
I spotted an empty hole among the stacked storage items along the wall to the left
I moved toward it, careful to avoid the wet tile by stepping on the carpet. Suddenly, I felt something cold and wet soak my stockinged left foot.
That was when it all began flooding back. Spraying that very spot to clean up Miss Kitty’s vomitus this morning. Her second day of not keeping anything down. The panicked search for a veterinarian . The instant appointment – yikes, it’s that serious! Scrambling through storage to get the cat carrier. Grabbing the stupid umbrella my granddaughter bent out of shape the last time she stayed over. Jamming it on top of the refrigerator. Yanking a suitcase from the stack. Blinking hard to clear teary vision. Upsetting the bag of excelsior. Knocking hats off their pile. Seeing the umbrella fall out of the corner of my eye. Hearing the crash/tinkle of glass smashing. Ignoring it. Tossing cases and boxes toward the bed. Hauling the cat carrier out.
Getting Miss Kitty into it. Heading out the door. Setting her down to race back to get her papers. Searching the accordion file for her “I’ve Been Adopted!” envelope that wasn’t there. Dumping the file. Shoving the table out of the way and yanking the file cabinet open. Finding the envelope. Racing out the door to grab the carrier. Trying not to speed on the way to the vet.
Where she was diagnosed with  Bolus Gigantus Syndrome, also known as a Giant Hairball.
And it only cost $158.
Plus a bottle of wine.

What's New With Old

I feel cushioned by pronoia. That's the opposite of paranoia. It's when you feel others are saying good things about you. I haven't done anything special to make anyone do this, it's just a feeling I have. 

I used to operate on paranoia; the feeling that people were saying bad things about me. This is way better.

Feelings are based on things that can't be quantified or qualified. They just are. So whether you feel paranoia or pronoia: you will be right.

I will be officially "old" in August. Let's call it the pronoia an early birthday gift. I've reached an age where I don't care what most other folks are saying about me, thank heaven. I'm sure that contributes to the pronoia. I've developed patience that outlasts irritation and I can distract myself from getting annoyed by enjoying a warm sunbeam, long hike or the purr of my cat. 

I just spent waaaay too long obsessing over the question of how I can tell if I'm losing my mind. 

It started with a visit to my mother for her 88th birthday, not that she knew it was her birthday. Or cared. She is fading into the wallpaper, with bits of her mind wiped clean by TIAs, known as mini strokes. She told me she can feel them. Not that they hurt, but she knows when one is happening. And afterwards, she said, it's like a piece of her brain is gone.

OMG. That's exactly what is happening. And she can feel it.

So...has she put it together so that she knows she's losing her mind?

And if that's so, what keeps her from panicking? Or maybe she has. There isn't anything she can do about it, but that doesn't stop people from getting angry or terrified or acting out. I spent three days with her and we didn't connect because I brought grandkids. She does best with one or two at the most. They were wonderfully attentive to her and she connected with them so I could stand back and observe.

And panic. Was I looking at me in 20 years?

I upset them with my worry. They felt frustrated that they couldn't do anything about it or answer my questions. I promised I would see a doctor and let them know. They seemed relieved. I saw a doc, who said, "You seem fine to me." I was not relieved. We scheduled a complete check up for next week. 

I got a book from the library, The Memory Prescription (a 14 day play to sharpen your brain: repeat as needed). I had to read three chapters before I got to the memory test. I scored 100 percent. It said I might find the rest of the exercises easy.

What I found was that it eased my mind. The worry dropped away. I developed pronoia. Life became rosy.

The one thing I learned from all this? Don't waste time worrying, find a solution.

Or even better, invest in books, games, programs, therapies, schemes and plans devoted to telling you if you are losing your mind, and what to do about it. I am the last of the War Babies. Behind me is a tsunami of Boomers just waiting to do for The Aging Mind what they did for Botox and Real Estate: send it through the roof. They've lost the battle against losing their youth, now they'll tackle losing their minds.

My bet's on those who will advise them how not to.

In and Out Boxes

 

Photo: I love sharing cosmic laughter, it's good for the soul.

I’m analyzing the response I got from my first Annual Opt Out Email when I told everyone on my BCC Funny Forwards Email list they could opt off.

I remember being pleased with my considerate Internet Etiquette. Resolved not to clutter the in boxes of those who didn’t look forward to the occasional laugh, didn’t share my sense of fun or didn’t have the time. If they weren’t having fun, what was the point?

When I didn’t get many responses, I rethought the process. Realized those who didn’t read or deleted or put a spam label on the emails wouldn’t have read the Opt Out one either. Hummmm.

My boys told me to keep them in the group, but send anything personal or important in a direct, not batch, email. They would read, when they had time, maybe half. I thought that was diplomatic and sensitive. What surprised me was my younger son telling me emailing forwards is considered bad manners. He gave me the impression ‘no one’ does it. Yet I get them all the time (or I wouldn’t have any to pass on). And not just from old fogies like me.

Hummm.

I sent out a good news email. Not a forward, but BCC to a bunch of friends and family. Not everyone replied, although it was the kind of news you would reply to.

Hummm.

I feel like I’m in a déjà vu Christmas List where you played chicken with the names on The List. The first years when the friendship was still fresh, cards were no problem. Then came the year no card came in the mail. Those of us sentimental or paranoid enough to keep lists (and keep track of the lists) would put certain names on the cusp. One more year of no card and off the list they went, dropping out of your life like bubble gum or braces. Of course, the year you dropped them they sent you a card, leaving you to decide whether to mail a card late or just reinstate them for next year. I kept the list in pencil to accommodate the changes in names, addresses, validity.

This is all ancient history: Communication B.C. (before computers). FB and Tweets are the social way to keep in touch, your “Friends of...” is the new Christmas list. Only they don’t have to answer. You just throw out your life to whoever wants to know and check on your friends’ lives. Make a few comments, but nothing like long chatty emails (letters).

FB is the new family Christmas letter: with photos, chatty news about what’s happening, who done/won what, et. al. and no requirement to respond.

Tweets are IM fleeting thoughts.

Hummmm.

I will move Forward with my list because I feel good sharing fun with my friends and family. No more Opt Out Options. They already do that. If I want to reach somebody I don’t hear from, I’ll invite them to FB. Or send an (old fashioned) email. Even a hard copy snail mail. I can be an anachronism. I’m old enough. Heck, I have a dozen actual Christmas cards still decorating the Venitians in my office.

There are a lot of ins and outs of communication 2010. I plan to use all the In and Out Boxes (except Tweets) there are. I like keeping in touch.

Cheers

SLI

Holy Moly!

 Photo: Floating Sisters has me floating on clouds!

That Was the Week That Was (TW3) was a satirical comedy show I loved (back a few years) in the vein of Saturday Night Live, This Hour Has 22 Minutes, the Royal Canadian Air Farce and the Rick Mercer/Stephen Colbert/Jon Stewart shows. 

I just had a TW3. HooWee! To begin with, it’s been years since I knew somebody competing in athletics. I’d forgotten the thrill of feeling a connection to the glorious champions pushing themselves toward a goal. Being the Olympics, I could thrill just watching television, producing sweet maraschino moments when the local Olympians I know were competing whether they won, lost or just showed up. Vicarious, but so satisfying.

For another, my recent attempts at diplomacy and networking...worked! I shouldn’t be surprised, but this is new for me. My little town has become a warm cocoon where I can reach out and find a whole host of helpful souls from tennis partners to how to get a wrong righted. I had a bunch helping me get officially listed for a substitute job I applied for in August. I fell through the cracks and it was an uphill slog calling to check, politely pointing out I was still waiting, diplomatically rechecking, then checking back. I am smart enough to know I have a temper and can wither with my words—something I picked up in childhood and have never—unfortunately—lost. To hold that in check and use sweet, or at the very least neutral, words is quite an accomplishment for me. I’m patting my back (it’s terrific exercise). The upshot is that for five months, I told friends, who suggested things which I tried; I found out what was behind the hold up; I tried end runs and passes; I kept my temper and this week I got called because I am on the list.

Old dogs: new tricks; you bet!

I also took my courage in my hand and sent off some photos to a competition I wasn’t sure I was qualified for, but did it anyway. This week I found out they bought one. Can you feel my grin?

Old dogs: new careers; absolutely!

It is sunny. I will walk downtown to pick up a book the library is holding for me. My mountain town has a Sunny Side and a Dark Side. I live on the Sunny Side. 

Lucky me.

Sunny days to you.

SLI

Party, Part Two

Photo: Yep, the peak is steep, sheer even. Fortunately, this is the front. I'm climbing the switchback trail on the back.











Perhaps a few details about the peak are in order. To start, it’s not impressively high, just 7,897 feet (2,407 m). I have climbed a 10,000 footer in Yosemite and been on top of 14ers, as the Coloradans call their impressive collection of mountains over 14,000 feet. (Full disclosure: “been on top of” is not the same as climbing. Some of Colorado’s giants have roads to the top.)
The trail is only 6 kilometres (or 3 miles in American) but the elevation is the trick. It’s a non-stop uphill slog that rises 2,457 feet (or 819 meters in Canadian). The guidebooks allow 1 to 3 hours to ascend.
Dogs are allowed.
They tell me it gets crowded on sunny days in the summer.
The local seniors hiker’s group with the terrific name the Meanderthals have a pic of them sitting on the top looking quite fit.
The other side has a sheer drop off rated at 5.10d (aka “sheer drop off”) and popular with real mountain climbers who want to tackle the longest pitch north of Mexico. I have fooled around with climbing, even climbed baby stuff or at a climbing gym, but nothing remotely like Ha Ling. I figure to watch them encouragingly from the top.
The area is lousy with rock climbing walls, pitches and cliffs. The Canadian Rockies are like baby teeth compared to those old timers further south. The Rocky Mountains are mighty but worn down from eons of erosion (and maybe rock climbers/hikers). Their flanks are rounded, their heights jut bluntedly into the sky. The sharp incisors of Canada’s much younger Rockies are half the height but replete with sheer drops and soaring peaks.
Ha Ling just juts into the sky, calling me to party at the peak.
Once up, I have been advised to also climb up Miner’s Peak to the east. The two are like a saddle, with Ha Ling the horn and Miner’s the back, so as long as I’m there, what the hay, eh? Rumor has it it is a 20 minute slog from one to the other. Any beer would be froth by the time I get to the top, so the refreshments will have to wait til we get back down...physically.
Emotionally, it will take a little longer.
But that’s what big birthdays are for, yes?
Training starts now. Everyone's invited.
SLI

A Party on the Peak

Photo: Even the universe is on board with Ha Ling Peak as a Place to Party on my 65th.


I have dropped into a trough of relatively few demands from a high that had me scatter-brained and spread in all directions like buckshot. I kept my head—mostly—by remembering that it would all pass and relative calm settle in.
And it has. ** sigh **
Time to focus on the big goal of 2010: my birthday climb of Ha Ling.
I like celebrating big birthdays with big events. The last one the boys, wives and I took on the Grand Canyon. What an unforgettable trek that was: the highlight of a very highlit year.
Ha Ling is a bald peak that towers over town. It’s impossible not to notice, and it occurred to me that I would love to see the view from the top as a place I've been. It is a suitable goal for my 65th. I would also like to join the large percentage of residents, older and younger, who have stood on the top. You can’t get lost, although some trails are better than others, and the real challenge is at the top where the scree is the old “two steps forward, one step back” slog. The trek down can be a bore on sore muscles.
The view, they tell me, is spectacular, and it seems a fitting place to raise your arms in pure joy of accomplishment.
I don’t know what the aboriginals called it, but Ha Ling was called The Beehive for much of the white man’s presence in the Bow Valley. It is possible it didn’t have a name because the natives considered the valley sacred and used it for ceremonies or quick passage.
For most of the years Canmore was used by the white man for travel, coal mining, gas station pit stops, Olympic training and tourism, it was The Beehive, which is absolutely resembles.
That changed in 1980. The story is that in 1896, some white men bet a local cook named Ha Ling that he couldn’t climb to the top in less than 10 hours. He left at 7 and was back for lunch. They wouldn’t pay because they couldn’t see the flag he'd planted and didn't believe him. So he led a party to the summit to show them his flag. He left a bigger one behind for those who declined to climb and collected his fifty bucks.
It became Chinaman’s Peak to honor his feat but the name didn’t become official until 1980. That only lasted 17 years, when it was renamed Ha Ling Peak.
His feat is way more impressive than mine since there is now a parking lot half way up and clear trails to the top. He was up and down in one day from the valley. I plan to be up and down in five hours, from half way.
I have seven months to train.
Good, the waistband on my pants has shrunk and my arms have lost their tone. I’d like to greet my 65th year in shape. I’ve invited anyone who wants to go with me for A Party on the Peak.
SLI

The Pity Me Blues

Photo: Everyone has bad days, just don't make them your life.

I love the blues. Given a choice of music, I’ll go blues, jazz, classical, depending on what I’m doing. Up here in the sublime mountains, I don’t get good reception (those peaks get in my way) but I just discovered Galaxy on my cable channels.

I’m in Heaven, a Lady Singing the Blues.

There’s one song I can sing too much, however: the Pity Me Blues.

I’m not saying the occasional breakdown isn’t warranted and even good for the soul—and tear ducks—but prolonged angst is a one-way trip down. That’s what I call the Pity Me Blues.

Take the older Safeway cashier the other day. I was headed to the self check-out when I saw him standing alone with no one in his lane. Thinking it would give him some company, something to do besides standing there bored, I plunked my basket on the conveyor belt and stepped up to the credit processing center with a smile as I got out my Safeway and credit cards.

Fixing me with an annoyed look, he barked, “So you want me to unload your basket for you?”

I was flummoxed. Defensive. Apologetic. I’m not good in accusatory situations anyway, my brain scrambling for why he was making me feel as if I’d done something wrong. Something that was Not. His. Job.

I covered my fluster by getting the cards ready as he picked my items out of the basket. He then said, “I guess I’ll have to put the basket back for you,” and brushed me back as he walked past to put the basket in the stack behind the conveyor belt.

There was still no one in his line. No one waiting. The whole store was pretty empty. I remarked about this and he said it was Monday and the storewide 10 percent off day was Tuesday. So besides making me feel like I’d demanded he do work that was not in his job description, he told me that I was either a forgetful idiot or a spendthrift.

Now I always use baskets. It’s my pathetic way of limiting what I buy to what I can carry and I have a sore elbow from lugging overloaded baskets around grocery stores. I have never been chastised for putting the basket on the belt. By anyone. At any store. Ever. Even when there are huge lines and not an empty store filled only with one disaffected clerk.

My rampageous imagination filled in his background: a former CFO either forced to work after being laid off (and who would want to lose an employee with his attitude, I wonder?) or retired and dissatisfied with his pension or working to pad his pension and fill his empty hours. Whatever his story, clearly he viewed the cashier job as a comedown, beneath him, and customers who didn’t act as he thought they should insulted him. He was singing the Pity Me Blues loudly and clearly. I never saw him again, but then I never looked. I didn’t go back to Safeway for a long time after that, preferring the friendlier store down the street.

My point, and I have one, is that everyone gets the blues, but only losers give them a permanent home. You can feel bad because you hit an unfair patch in life. Rage. Cry. Assign blame. Whine if you must.

Then get over it, get out and get on.

I can now let the tears fall, the frustration break out in sobs, the feeling of doom and gloom settle over my vision. I say “now” because I couldn’t always. I kept a rigid upper lip, a firm hand on the control knob. Now I know even cowgirls get the blues. Sometimes my energy and optimism are overwhelmed. I let them whelm until the storm is over and I can see the other side. Which is almost always another way to attack the issue, a new idea, a reset button to approach it or abandon it, whichever is better. Crying clears the brain. It’s pretty good at clearing dust from the eyes, too, so you can see that everybody faces the same fact: Life Ain’t Fair.

Singing the blues is great. I riff around the house all the time.

Just don’t let it slide into an endless Pity Me Blues loop. That’s not the blues, that’s just a bad attitude.