Friday Fragments
- People tell me how skinny I’ve become. Interesting, because I weigh just seven pounds less than two years ago. What I’ve pieced together, based on history and what doctors told me, is that my prostrate gland had become severely enlarged. It blocked my bladder, eventually causing a medical emergency because I couldn’t void myself. My little old one- hundred ml bladder had eleven hundred ml of piss in it, according to the staff when I arrived that morning in the ER. According to my doc when he recounted it later, I was grossly distended. So, no, it wasn’t weight; I was full of piss. Once that was all relieved, and my prostate has shrunk some, my organs are no longer displaced, and no longer have an abdomen that sticks out like a car bumper.
- You can read about my 2019 troubles in Peckerville here.
- My prostate/bladder experience reaffirmed the need to not look at everyone through the same lenses. They may look overweight, but it could be something else completely.
- I’m also looking at my food differently. I used to consider sugars, fat, and content whenever I made a food selection. We’ve moved sharply toward organic and natural food in the past fifteen years. I was diagnosed with high blood pressure (hypertension) last year. I’m on meds for it. I now check sodium content in food and keep it down. I’m staggered by how much sodium is used in modern processed food. It’s eye opening, and not in a good way. The Trader Joe’s foods that I used to enjoy are completely unacceptable.
- Speaking of looking at things differently, the neighbor’s cat was almost done in by a car the other day, right before my eyes. Mimi, a gorgeous little grey and white kitty, was sitting on the curb across the street. A pedestrian was chatting with her. He later said, though, another cat was distracting Mimi. A car came rushing up the street. Mimi decided then to cross.
- Cats don’t view the world as we do. They have a harder time discerning a car forty feet away, traveling at a speed of thirty miles per hour, coming at them.
- The car brakes to a halt with a sharp screech of tires. Mimi appears safe. She streaks home. All are concerned. I knock on the neighbor’s door and tell her what happened and where Mimi went. I haven’t seen Mimi or neighbor since. It worries me, but I think if something bad happened, my neighbor would come and tell me. That’s how she is.
- We were out shopping Tuesday. Had to renew the car registration in Medford, so we thought we’d shop and gas up the car at the same time. All went well but I realized, I don’t really miss people during this pandemic/stay-at-home era. I miss my routines. Yes, I miss having beers with friends or going dancing, and traveling, but it’s not about missing the people as much as doing things other than what I’m doing. I’ve always known I’m not a social person. I don’t know how much of this to assign to what, personality wise. In other words, how much is due to my genetic makeup, and how much of it is a socialization thingy?
- We’re seriously processing moving out of state, probably heading east. Well, come on, we live in Oregon; we can’t go south to California. Going north to Washington has been addressed, but it doesn’t seem feasible.
- Looking at house photos online to fill in an idea of what housing would be like, I’m fascinated by the difference in home décor between the Pacific northwest, and Ohio/Pennsylvania, where we’re looking. We’ve always been aware of the differences in clothing fashion between different parts of the country. There are also usually differences attributable to age and economic straits. And, visiting family, yes, I’ve also noticed it when I visit their homes. So much viewing, I suppose, has driven the disparity more deeply into me.
- The other thing is about how housing styles have changed through the decades. Back in the forties, fifties, and sixties, (I don’t know about other decades, because I don’t see houses from other times), homes seemed to mostly form follow function. Small box houses. Little character is evidenced outside. The yards are large, the rooms are small, especially bathrooms.
- Later, though, the houses grow more and more about exterior style. While the boxes were efficient but less attractive, the newer houses become more inefficient in their interiors, with lots of wasted space or strange spaces. Yards are smaller, though all of the yards on the listings I check are larger than the yards out here. I have several friends who are retired or practicing architects. I’d love to talk to them about evolving house designs. One was on the forefront of tiny houses and sustainable living, so I really want to get her take.
- We have three firm rules for our new place, wherever we settle. One, no mortgages. Paying in cash limits our choices (we don’t want to sink all of our cash into a house, right?), but we don’t want a mortgage. Two, no HOAs. They’ve burned us twice; never again. I think they’re one of the more ridiculous modern contrivances. Three, we need a little space. We just don’t like living on top of other people. When we first move back, we will be renting, of course. We’ve done this before. Although we haven’t moved in fourteen years, I was in the military for twenty years, as was my father before me. I’ve moved a lot during my lifetime.
- I’m pretty convinced we need to move. Not looking forward to it, but… But years of smoky summers and droughts, water restrictions, and wildfires have worn us down. Sad, because Ashland, Oregon, and the region are beautiful and wonderful in multiple ways. The negatives, though, have just added up. Given the trends of the previous ten years and the forecasts and models, we only see it getting worse.
Have a good day. Wear your masks, please. Be safe. Cheers
The Crashing Dreams
What does a smoking motorcycle, a Mustang without brakes, and a double-decker tour bus have in common? Well, they were all part of my dreams last night.
In the first, I stepped out of my house and walked down the street. What’s striking for me is that this is my real house and street, where I’ve lived for the last fourteen years. My neighbor, who’s resided beside me that entire time, was on his motorcycle with his girlfriend. (Said neighbor typically has six to nine motorcycles in his garage.) This one was a gray bike with a sidecar (which he does not own). I paid little mind to them other than to wave, as they, talking and on the bike, passed, heading down the hill. But I heard her say, “It’s smoking.”
Watching, I agreed; the bike was smoking. I couldn’t tell where the smoke originated.
Backward, they came back up the street. I thought he wanted to say something and prepared to tell them that they motorcycle was smoking, but after passing me going up the hill backwards, they went down back down the street trailing growing plumes of gray smoke. As they reached the bottom, the motorcycle burst into flames. The then rode back up the hill toward me.
The dream ended.
In the next one, I was at home with a female friend. We were chatting as we sat on the sofa. I asked her if she wanted something to drink. I offered cranberry juice, beer, wine, and, of course, water. Before she answered, my wife came home.
Several people, including children, were with her. One man carried a complicated toy. As this all happened, a Ford Mustang appeared. An older model, it’s on golden jacks to hold it up. Parts are strewn around it. Someone says, it’s a project car.
I played with the complicated toy. A basketball-sized light grey sphere, it had multiple buttons. Pushing some caused wings and wheels to extend or retract. Pushing another caused videos to play in a small screen.
After playing with the sphere, I checked out the Mustang. Its wheels and tires had been removed. Despite that, I got in with intention of moving it forward a few feet, as it was blocking things. I did move it by releasing the parking brake, but then discovered it wouldn’t stop. With the guy yelling, “Stop, hit the brakes,” while running behind me, I gently came up to a stop against a square metal rod that was sticking up.
“Why didn’t you stop?” he wanted to know, catching up.
“This car has no brakes,” I answered. Though it was still on jacks (how the hell it rolled forward, I have no idea), I pointed out that the brakes had been removed.
Despite that, he insisted, “It has brakes,” though I kept pointing at the empty wheel wells and telling him, “No, it doesn’t, look.”
I finally walked away from him in exasperation. My female friend was standing close by. “Oh, my God, I forgot your drink,” I said. “What would you like?”
“I’m just leaving,” she replied.
I then realized the guy and the Mustang was gone. “Where’d they go?” I asked my wife. “He doesn’t have brakes. It’s not safe. We need to stop him.”
The dream ended.
Next, I’m driving on a narrow street through a town. Though it’s two lanes, it’s extremely narrow, crooked, and uneven. A white, older van tries to pass me. He swerves dangerously close as he does. I speed up. Ahead is a double-decker tour bus. I can’t believe it’s on these streets. It’s swaying back and forth, threatening to tip over to one side or the other.
I want to pass the bus. I can’t because the white van is in the other lane. The white van turns off but the road has narrowed to one lane. I can’t pass the bus now. As I feared, it wobbles hard right. Falling against a building, it crashes to a halt, blocking the road.
The bus is leaning against the building. I stop. First, I need to see if everyone is okay. Second, I want to get pass this bus and go on.
I enter the bus. I’m on the top level. I find that it’s actually three levels. I call out, “Is anyone hurt?”
Various replies come back. Many say, “No,” but some say, “We’re alright.” Others say, “Are we there yet,” and “We’re hungry. When are we going to eat.”
I explain that I’m just checking on them, I’m not part of the company, but someone will be coming along. Meanwhile, I work my way to the front of the bus and then down the steps. Once down, I exit the bus and leave.
End of dream.
The Lawyer Dream
Dreamed I was a lawyer. But the courtroom looked like a giant, lit tic-tac-toe, noughts and crosses, or Xs and Os. Standing before the court, it towers over me and my partner, a woman (no one recognized from life) and appears about five stories high. Instead of three across, it was five across.
There’s no idea what the trials were about. I was in a dark suit and carried a brief case, and she was in a light blue skirt and jacket, also carrying a brief case. Presenting arguments meant providing cubes. I’d just put it up there and the cube would slot into place. Putting two in a row meant I’d created a strong argument and would cause those two cubes to light up. Three in a row meant I won.
I kept winning with ease. More and more opposing lawyers rose to stop me but I kept winning. “This is ridiculous,” I told the woman accompanying me.
“I know,” she answered. “It seems like a waste of time. Do you want to go?”
“Sure.” We left.
The cube idea reminded me of how cases were argued in a 1974 novel by Lloyd Biggle, Jr., called Monument, except the cubes in my dream were much, much larger.
The Cats in the Back
The cats in the back
won’t cut me slack
with their lazy playing all day.
Eyeing the butterflies
watching the blue jays fly
they don’t care what I say.
Unless I call, “Hungry?”
Or, “Want a treat?”
Or, call another cat’s name.
Then they come runnin’
and give me some lovin’
Until I feed them or go away.
Sunday Slivers
- The skunks came back.
- I’ve installed outside lights in the front to dissuade nocturnal visitors. These lights are solar-charged batteries with motion sensors because skunks aren’t supposed to like lights. What else can be done to stop them? The web suggested mothballs. I deployed them. After doing that, I heard a noise and checked it out. The lights were on. A skunk walked up to the opening, lifted the board, and entered foundation. Damn it. Lights and mothballs had no effect.
- I escalated from mothballs to ammonia. “Put some ammonia in a bowl with a cloth to deter skunks,” several sites recommended. I did. The first skunk to show up seemed deterred. Not the second. Skirting the bowl, they headed on in, then left twelve minutes later. So…grrr.
- I know they’re different skunks by their tails and stripes. One skunk has white in the tail while the other’s tail is all black. White tail also seems smaller. White tail is the one who ignored the ammonia.
- I doused the board with ammonia and set it up again. No visits last night were recorded. I’ll refresh the ammonia tonight. I want to ensure there are no skunks (or other animals) under the house before I permanently fix the space.
- Watching television, a Ford commercial often plays. It extols Americans’ belief in speed. Yes, we believe in speed (snark). I’m not certain what they even mean. Are they defining speed as a value for our society? Sure, if you’re into fast food. Highways are limited by speed limits. Ford isn’t encouraging us to haul ass down highways over the speed limit, are they?
- That same Ford commercial tells how Americans love the great outdoors. They show a car — well, an SUV, to be technical — rumbling across the land. That’s not being outside, Ford. That’s being in a car. It’s called driving.
- Yeah, I know, splitting hairs in modern America and overthinking these things, aren’t I? I’m still simmering about how ‘literally’ is now used, along with ‘decimated’ and ‘obliterated’. They’ve all become weapons of hyperbole.
- We didn’t receive a Visa bill this month. Freak-out city. What happened? Why not? Going online to our account, I navigated to statements. No September statement. WTF? Why not? Occam’s razor: we didn’t charge anything on it. Really? But wouldn’t they/shouldn’t they send a statement to tell us they received the last payment and that we don’t owe them anything?
- When we told friends about not receiving a Visa bill, their response was astonishment. Like, “Wow, I don’t think that’s ever happened to us.” Yeah, we’re all standard American consumers. Charge it. We always pay it off, though. Every month.
- Tucker, our black and white moo-floof, has established a new routine. After using the litter box in the morning, he then steps out. Releasing a little cry, he tears through the house like the devil is after him. After going from his litter box (yeah, weirdly, in the office), to the farthest spot in the house (the master bedroom), he’ll pause for a few seconds. Then the second leg is initiated in reverse direction. Don’t know what’s behind this. I’ve talked to him about it. He says there’s nothing wrong. His urine and feces seem okay, fur and eyes look great, excellent appetite. Seems happy and healthy, and the litter box is clean. Well, you know what I mean.
- Tucker’s post-litter box sprints scares the hell out of the other cats. Our home has hardwood floors with rugs in the kitchen, halls, dining room, and foyer, carpeted in the bedrooms, office, and living room, tiled in the utility room and baths. This mixed terrain means that as Tucker takes corners and encounters the hardwood or tile, he’s sliding, scrabbling for traction, and making a lot of damn noise. The other cat’s don’t hold to see what’s going on. They react, “WTF!” and hit the pet door running. At least twice, the other two boys reached the pet door at the same time, which caused another, “Ack!” freakout moment for them.
- Cats. They are characters.
Most Disturbing
Our local disaster, the Almeda Fire of earlier this month, issues numerous disturbing points for anyone who thinks about cause, effect, and results.
- To summarize, ours isn’t the worst disaster of the fire season. Not the largest, nor longest burning. Fast and brutal, it destroyed a few Ashland homes (my town, about two miles from my house). Then, egged on by high winds, it went north and west and destroyed two small neighboring towns, Talent and Phoenix, and terrorized Medford. Thousands of structures were destroyed. Thousands of people are displaced.
- While the fire was being fought, water ran out. The fire hydrants literally ran out of water. Multiple and simultaneous demands killed water pressure. That lack of water pressure meant first, no more water to fight fires, and second, potentially contaminated several towns’ drinking water. Boil warnings were issued.
- We have sirens and emergency systems set up in Jackson County and Ashland. Neither were used. Why? As the fire spread, evacuation orders were issued for one neighborhood. The entire city (and the county) was put on Level 1 evacuation orders, which means, be ready to go. But the Sheriff didn’t want the emergency warnings used; he didn’t want to cause panic. So instead of using those two systems, they did nothing. We were left in an information vacuum.
- Spectrum’s internet (and cable TV and landline systems) went down. A major cable burned through. Those of us still with Internet were able to log on. Facebook, and a local community group, became the most valued source of information. This was basically done by monitoring other cities and towns’ emergency orders to pass on to Ashlanders what was happening. That group, which already did a great job, is now asking, what can we do better? Love the proactive approach.
- Cell phone capability was compromised as the fire burned down several regional cell towers.
- The unscathed rallied to help the survivors. Money, food, clothing, batteries, telephone chargers, water, etc., were donated.
- Most of the money donated through the United Way and the Red Cross remain tied up in bureaucracy. Want help? Go to them. People who’ve lost everything were being directed to go hunt down the Red Cross and United Way and apply for help.
- Red Cross did set up at the Expo Center, where other agencies were set up. Here’s a classic tale, though. A man got onto Facebook and told the Red Cross there, hey, we don’t have transportation. We can’t get to you. Their response: call the national hotline. The national hotline’s response: call your local chapter. A local Red Cross worker finally woke up and said, I’ll get you help. It shouldn’t be so damn hard, though.
- Meanwhile, FEMA has become a joke. Their guidance is to apply. Then, if you’re turned down, apply again. And if you’re turned down again, keep applying until you’re approved.
- How fucking broken is FEMA that their standard operating procedure seems to be to initially reject people but, you know, keep trying. Savage, especially for people who have lost everything, their paperwork, clothing, and the mobile and manufactured homes that they lived in. They were already just hanging on, keeping their heads high enough to avoid being sucked under, and this agency, established to help survivors after a disaster, prove to be inept and bungling. Infuriating.
- *snark alert* One noble local business, a storage place, told their renters that everyone needs to come in and clean up their space. By the way, they’re still charging the full amount for the month. Sounds like good fucking people, right?
- Should write about the animals, but don’t want to. It’s painful. Many people prize their animals above everything else. Now they’re scrambling to find them. Animals are being found, fed, treated, etc. Communities have been set up online to share photos, sightings, descriptions, etc. It’s a huge, sprawling mess, though. There must be a way to do it better. I end up getting diverted, looking through descriptions of lost pets and thinking, I saw that animal listed on another page, didn’t I? Then I go looking, usually without success.
- Some pets have been re-united, and those are noted as success. It’s also noted when animals have crossed the rainbow bridge.
- The photos of singed, burnt surviving animals rip your guts, you know?
- Think of all the services that you use. Gas, water, trash pickup, electric, banking, credit cards, phone, Internet. All needed to be called to be told, “Hello, my home burned down.” In the case of Internet, gas, and electric, they needed to be told, shut off those services and please don’t charge me. For banking and credit cards, it was sometimes, watch for fraud or send me new cards.
- A bright spot emerged from the local restaurants. Many locally owned places in Ashland said, you need a meal, come in and tell us, no charge, no questions asked. We’re here for you. A few made hundreds of meals and went off to the evacuation points and served them. Other businesses, schools, and churches set their parking lots up as socially distanced places where people can park and sleep, opening up their restrooms and showers (when available) for people to use 24/7.
There is more, but you know, that’s enough for one September Saturday. Be safe. Enjoy your day. Take care.
And please wear your damn mask.
The Puking Game
We do not know the rules.
We suspect it goes something like this.
One of the housefloofs goes and pukes quietly. Their object appears to puke somewhere where it’ll take some time to notice, and not leave any clues to the puker’s identity.
We’ve found three such pukes over the last three days. “Someone puked in the living room,” my wife announces.
I check it out, like I’m doubting her report, right? No, I want to conduct forensics, clues like hairballs. But there’s nothing distinguishing about this puddle of upchucked kibble.
“I didn’t hear anything,” I say. Everyone who has an animal knows that each pet has signature sounds associated with their puking. They usually have a preferred place, too. This doesn’t fit any of our animals.
Did our animals bring in a guest floof to puke, to mess with our heads?
“I didn’t hear anything, either,” my wife said.
Of overriding concern when you have a puker is the source’s health. Is this the first sign of serious trouble or a one-time gack attack?
The second day was more concerning. One day is an incident; two days are a worrying coincidence. “Someone puked again,” my wife called out. “On my rug again. Why do they have to puke on my rug?”
“Maybe they’re sending you a message.” I checked out the vomitus. It was as undistinguishing as the first. Again, I’d heard nothing.
I looked around. The three cats were sitting there, watching, like spectators, you know?
Two of them appeared to be smirking.
Now there’s a third puke, except…
Hearing the noise, I rolled out of bed and stumble through the gray drizzle of six AM autumn light. I already guessed (because I saw Boo back in the bedroom and Papi sitting outside on the patio as I oriented myself and ordered, “Left foot, right foot, go forward,”) that it was Tucker, caught it in act.
Yes, indeed. This was a standard hairball.
Was it part of the game, or genuine illness?
Seeing me, he hurried over. “Meow?”
“I’m not feeding anyone,” I answered, guessing that’s what he asked. It was still just after six. I’d stayed up late writing, and I was going back to bed. As I climbed back between the sheets, I saw Boo, Papi, and Tucker watching me. Round one was over.
I wonder who won.
The Date
It’d been three years since her husband had passed away.
Amanda decided it was time to put herself back out there. She rationalized (without hard thinking) that her husband’s slow demise (three years of fighting lymphoma and brain tumors before his death) had left her long enough without male companionship. (She didn’t define herself that way, but she liked having a masculine presence in her life.) As she’d heard good things about it, she decided to give Silver Singles a try.
In her early sixties and a successful business woman with two grown children, she thought she’d have no problems. She was right. Within days, she had a first date.
He was as described, six four, two hundred forty pounds, mostly muscle, not bad for sixty-five. Lunch was scheduled. They hit it off well. This being Sunday, he said, “Shall we go back to my place to watch some football.”
“Sure,” she replied. “I have nothing better planned.”
Off they went! After a short period, she excused herself to use his bathroom. When she left the bathroom, he was standing nearby with a small smile. Apparently, he’d assumed (she assumed) that her going to the bathroom was to freshen her lady bits for him, as he said (with a suggestive smirk), “Shall we adjourn to the bedroom?”
“No,” she replied.
“Well, can I touch your breasts?”
“No.”
“Will you show me your breasts?”
“No!”
“You want to make out on the couch?”
“Nooo.”
“Well, you wanna see my bits?”
“I think it’s time to go.”
*True story. Only the name was changed.
The Fingerprints Dream
I was working for a company whose mission seemed to be tracking fingerprints on the Internet. A young and brilliant bearded guy was our leader. Many young people worked there.
I’m not certain of my responsibilities with this company. I also had a second job with the NSA. When I came into work at the company, they told me, “We can’t find any traces of you on the Internet. Your fingerprints are completely missing.” They took some time to explain that was very unusual.
I resumed working but kept thinking about what they were saying. I knew that the NSA was always covering my tracks and hiding my fingerprints. I suspected something they were doing was spreading to other activities.
I took my suspicions to the CEO and engineering time. They didn’t know I was working for the NSA but thought that what I was suggesting was possible.
It was time to party. The company was celebrating a milestone. As part of that, they were re-creating early scenes from the company. Everyone but me was involved. I hadn’t been there, so I stayed back to watch. It mostly involved people singing, dancing, and laughing.
The CEO visited with me. “Do you want some tea?”
“Sure,” I said.
We were both lying down, which is how we worked there. He turned. Behind his back was a small white tray with two tiny white cups and a small and delicate teapot and creamer.
He handed me a thimble-sized cup. I reached for the pot to fill it but discovered it already full.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Wheatberry.”
I drank it down. It scalded my throat but tasted fantastic.
“Wow,” I said. “That’s amazing. I feel like it’s a shot of energy.”
Nodding, the CEO answered, I”It is,” and walked away.
The dream ended.