Stopped

In all the years when I probably could have been stopped by a cop for a wee bit more alcohol in my system than should be in anyone behind a two-ton machine, it never happened.

Well once, after a very late night at a bar sometime shortly after I graduated from college, I did pull out in front of a car a bit closer than I should have. It happened to be a cop and I did get stopped. But he let me go after a quick chat. And frankly, I was more tired that intoxicated anyway, something he probably knew.

No, I tend to get pulled over for weaving when I’m perfectly sober. It’s now happened twice.

The first time was years ago when I was driving through Michigan’s upper peninsula with my mother. It was late. We were exhausted. We were coming home from Montana. I was driving my father’s boat-like Mercury Grand Marquis. I knew I was tired but was in the zone where you don’t grasp just how tired until you fly over small hill a bit too fast — like a roller coaster — and find yourself gripping the wheel as the car makes a slight screeching sound rounding a curve. Even my mother perked up to say, “Watch it.”

And then came the cop. Thank god. He surely thought I was DWI until he saw us, me worn out looking in a baseball cap with my mother beside me. “Get some coffee and some sleep,” he urged us before letting us go. And we did.

That episode came back to me in the past few days as I was ruminating about what happened last Thursday night when I was stopped on my way home from a visit to my cousin’s house.

Let’s start with the facts: I had a mild headache, I was quite tired, though not sleepy, and I was, though I admit I should not have been, chatting on my cell phone. There’s more: I was wearing my glasses (which I’m not as used to as I am my contacts) because my eye was healing from an infection. The roads were dark and it seemed I kept coming upon construction zones and orange barrels placed in ways that I found confusing in terms of which way to go around them. Plus, I was driving on a road I’m never on, even though I was by now just a few miles from my home.

Oh, yes, I’d had a couple of beers, but that was early in the evening, at least two to three hours earlier, followed by water and soda pop and about half a can of mixed nuts.

So there I am, sitting at a light, a big bright red left-turn arrow signal. I don’t see those too often so I was especially diligent to heed it. As soon as it turned green, but not too soon, I proceeded through the light to turn left and head south.

Then I saw the lights. “It can’t be me,” I thought as they continued tight behind me.

“You’re kidding,” I said, a little irritated as I pulled to the right of the southbound lane stopping as close the curb as I could. By then I’d realized it could be something as simple as my tail lights not working.

A female officer appeared at my window as I grabbed for my wallet. “Can I see your license and registration and proof of insurance please?”

“Sure,” I said, adding a bit incredulously: “Did I do something wrong?”

“I’ll tell you in a minute.”

What’s the big secret? I thought as she walked back to her car, my mind fumbling for what I’d done, thinking it can’t be the alcohol. I’m fine.

She came back to my window. “Where are you coming from?”

I told her the city where my cousin lives, probably 10 to 15 miles away.

“What’s in That City?” she said in what sounded like a mocking sing-song voice.

“My cousin,” I said flatly.

“You were weaving and then when we stopped you you nicked the curb.”

Weaving?? Where? I thought. And hitting the curb? On a dark road, with a cop tight behind me with blinding lights and no shoulder to pull onto. Are you kidding me? I nick curbs all the time, I wanted to say.

I don’t even remember if she asked if I’d been drinking but I knew that’s what she thought.

I felt mild panic as I told her I had two beers much earlier, that I’d had an eye problem and didn’t see as well with my glasses, which I was not used to wearing. Then there was all the construction, unfamiliar streets, the headache, the tiredness. I almost said: Feel free to breathalyze me. Then thought, don’t be stupid. What if…??

“Are you using eye drops?”

“Yes,” I said, wondering what that had to do with anything.

She shined a light in my eyes and asked me to follow it.

Then she asked me to recite the alphabet “without singing it.”

By now I was feeling guilty. My heart was beating a bit faster. I was even nervous about reciting the alphabet.

I think I did okay but all of a sudden after V and before W I sort of wondered if I did something wrong. I think I did okay.

“Without looking at your watch or clock can you tell me what time it is?”

I said I thought it was about 10:30/10:45.

The second she walked away, I looked at my clock: 10:30 on the dot.

She returned for more. This time asking me to step out of the car and walk back right into her bright headlights. By now I saw she was with a male partner, who was letting her run the show.

I was almost finding this comical had it not been so unnerving. Still tired and headachy and not feeling 100 percent, I was putting my energy into being as normal as possible.

“Do you have any weapons on you?”

I nearly laughed as I said, “Of course not,” as she — with the first bit of humanness I’d seen — said as she PATTED ME DOWN: “Sorry but I have to do this to everyone.”

Then she asked if I had good balance.

“Well, I do yoga…”

“Oh, then you have VERY good balance,” she interrupted, again sounding slightly mocking.

“Well, I don’t know if it’s THAT good. I don’t normally do yoga in these shoes,” I said looking at the black wedge sandals on my feet.

“You can take them off if you want.”

“No I’ll try like this first, I’m pretty comfortable in them.” I didn’t want to stand barefoot, which felt naked, on the concrete road.

I did as she told me, hands to my sides, one leg up straight in front of me several inches above the ground while counting until she told me to stop.

I got to about 19 before she said stop. I was still on one foot. Steady. I was pleased.

She wanted more. She told me to walk toe to heel for nine steps before turning around and walking back nine steps in as straight of a line as possible.

Now these things can be a challenge if you have had NOTHING to drink and feel fine, are in the comfort of your own home and have no one judging.

Go ahead. Try it. I’ll wait.

See? It’s not so easy, is it?

So there I am thinking, nothing I do is convincing her. I wished I could have been a fly on the wall to see what I was actually like.

I did the heel to toe. I thought I did fine, especially considering how I felt and now with the added stress of being treated like a criminal, out in the street with blinding lights on me.

I kept waiting for them to let me go. What more did they want? I was not drunk. I knew that. I didn’t know if I had some trace of alcohol in my system. What does .08 feel like anyway? I have no idea. I wish I knew. But I knew it couldn’t possibly be what I had in my system.

It wasn’t over.

She led me up from the curb onto the grass where her partner was standing. She put the light in my eyes again, asking me to track it. I thought I followed it fine.

“How am I doing?” I finally asked.

“We’ll let you know.”

Again, what is the big secret?

Suddenly, her partner is asking me to take a deep breath and blow though this plastic straw.

Finally, I thought. A breathalyzer. Why didn’t we just do this from the beginning? At the same time I hoped those two beers two to three hours earlier weren’t in my system more than I thought.

I finished. He looked at the instrument and said, “You’re free to go.” With that they both turned and hurried to their car.

I was a little stunned. “What was it?” I called to them as they moved away from me.

“Zero,” he called to me.

They barely turned back.

I felt vindicated as I called something to them about being sure to be careful and alert on my drive home, something I’d have expected them to offer to me. I mean, after all, here they went through all this thinking I’m intoxicated, but when I blow a zero, they just take off? Suddenly the “weaving” they saw as enough reason to stop me wasn’t worth a word of caution for any other possible reason?

At least that cop up north cautioned us to get some coffee and sleep and be careful.

I felt used.

It also left me wondering if they really did suspect I was intoxicated. Were they just cracking down on everyone? Practicing their skills?

So many questions.

At least I know one thing. I can handle a couple of drinks as long as I don’t have any more within a couple of hours of hitting the road.

And, it’s not a good idea to be chatting on your cell phone when you’re behind a two-ton machine.

And those are lessons worth knowing,

My Mom: A Guide to Happiness

I was just reading an interesting article on money and happiness. It talked about how the common wisdom has always been that money cannot buy happiness, but how now, according to a couple of researchers, that in fact, if used correctly, money can indeed buy happiness.

The main difference was this: If people buy “stuff,” from fancy cars and watches to bigger homes, ultimately they are not much if any happier. But those who give money away — to charities or to other people, or spend it on experiences, like vacations or even a bar crawl with friends — they are actually, yes, happier.

This information confirmed something I always thought — that money can contribute to happiness if it buys you experiences like education, travel, time with friends and, more powerfully, freedom, particularly from a lousy job.

It also immediately made me think of my mom.

Just the other day she was sitting on the couch watching the news when she heard that the lottery had reached $200 million. Her face always lights up at the thought of buying a ticket and actually winning.

“I’d love to win the lottery,” she said. “God, wouldn’t that be fantastic? Why don’t you buy a ticket?”

I always turn all grumbly and say, “No way. That’s just throwing your money away.”

And mostly it is a waste, considering the odds of actually winning the thing, or any portion of it. But sometimes she gives in to fantasy (although, yes, there is the minute chance she could win) and contemplates what she’d do with all that money.

“Of course, the government would take half,” she went on, deciding what she’d do with $100 million. At this point, because I’ve heard this before, I get a little annoyed because even though this money does not exist, I know what she’ll say.

“I’d love to give it away. I’d give at least million to each of my nieces and nephews and my sister. And all my charities….”

She relishes the fantasy with such enthusiasm I wonder how I can possibly be related to her. But then I’m glad to see some common sense surface: “I’d keep about $30 million. That’s all I’d need.”

At that point, I realize even $30 million is way more than she’d need, this woman who these days is so down to earth it pains her to even buy a new shirt without at least throwing one away.

But then I realize, she’s not thinking of possessions at all, or hardly. She’d probably make her home and property into a sanctuary for homeless animals, and the money would free her from the worry of food and vet bills. She could even hire workers to tend to the menagerie.

She’d probably spend some on travel and taking friends out to dinner, maybe fix her Jeep’s air conditioning or possibly even buy a new car, but nothing fancy, just something safe and sturdy to get her around if her old Jeep gives out.

I have come to realize that any slight irritation that arises within me when I hear her talk of all this sharing and giving so much away is really an awakening of my own fear of scarcity.

Though I’m far from a materialistic status seeker (thanks to my family), I admit, my first thought is not to give away to others (other than those closest to me, of course) but to hoard. To make sure I’ve always got enough money to be comfortable, to travel, to leave a bad job, to have the freedom to do what I want.

So while I’m thinking I can hold my head up and say, "See? I’m honorable, I don’t want a Gucci watch or Ferrari, a mansion or Chanel bag. I want experiences," I realize I have to take a cue from my mom and think even more of sharing the wealth.

I also realize that's something you can do right now. Not “one day” if you win the lottery. I don’t have a lot of extra money, but I bought lunch for a friend recently and it felt great.

Of course I’m still far from being where my mother is.

I used to tease her when my cousin and his wife and kids would stop by and she would offer them things as they got ready to leave. Nothing fancy, just what she had around.

“Do you want to take some bananas?” she’d say, pointing to a few sitting in a bowl. Or she might pick up a bag of chips and say, “Here, take these.”

At the time I’d think she was silly, knowing full well my cousin could easily afford to buy his own chips. But that was not the point. And now I just think she’s amazing. She just loves to give. And I know, without any doubt, I could count on her to literally give me the shirt off her back whether I needed it or not.

More important, I realize it’s a rare person who is so giving and with such enthusiasm. I’m lucky to have her as a role model.

And I didn’t really need to read that story about how money really can buy happiness. My mother already taught me.


If you want, see the story here:
http://www.boston.com/bostonglobe/ideas/articles/2009/08/23/happiness_a_buyers_guide/?page=full.

On My Mind....

New post coming... soon. Stay tuned.

Meanwhile, this is the kind of stuff that's been on my mind:

The author of the below linked article on the issue of buying kidneys (due to the crisis of too many people waiting for one while on dialysis combined with the shortage available from either deceased donors or living donors like myself) says:

"History suggests that once the rich and powerful figure out a way to exploit the poor in one way, they'll pretty quickly start pushing the envelope in related directions as well."

I say: Not all people who need a kidney are rich and powerful and plenty would do ANYTHING to raise the money to buy one, and it would be money well spent. If only they would allow the system to regulate this. Maybe instead of paying a donor the donor would get lifetime health insurance or another incentive.

My main concern would be that people taking money to donate a kidney get a very good health screening for their sake and the recipient's.

Donating a kidney to save a life is a relatively safe procedure for living donors. You can -- as many, many people do and don't even realize it -- live a full and healthy life with one kidney. The second is really like a spare.

The best solution? Have people OPT-OUT of being donors on the donor card rather than OPT-IN. It's worked wonderfully in other countries and let's face it, you aren't using it anymore at that point anyway. Plus, one person saves two lives (two kidneys).

Really folks, something must be done.

http://www.motherjones.com/kevin-drum/2009/07/selling-your-kidney

Morton's F'ing Toe

Mother F!

I stood in the crowd of people wanting my friend to shut the F up! It’s not that she was saying anything that embarrassed me so much as she was infuriating me because she might be right.

I did not want to hear it. I did not want to hear it. I did not want to hear it.

Worse, as she said it she was standing there in these stupid “sensible” shoes:

“You probably have Morton’s Neuroma. That’s what I have. I can’t wear high heels anymore.”

Shut up. Shut up. Shut the F up.

I’m usually not this bad about denial. But in contemplating my possible future with heels, I’ve taken to telling people lately that I’d rather give up drinking alcohol for the rest of my life rather than give up high heels.

I had a kind of reckoning last New Year’s Eve after my left foot was screaming in such pain it might has well have been throttling me by the neck begging for mercy. I knew then I had a bigger problem than I wanted to admit.

For days afterward my toes, specifically the middle toe and the one next to my baby toe as well as those joints below them, alternated between numbness and pain when I walked even in bare feet.

I swore off heels unless absolutely necessary. (And yes, it is necessary sometimes.)

I tried them again — a pair of boots this time — a month or two later, for just a couple of hours, and sure enough, the pain emerged. It was not so bad because I didn’t wear them too long but I could see this was not something that was going to go away nicely.

I tried again a couple of months later, after finding myself unable to resist a pair of shiny brownish-red boots on sale for like $30 (Christ, they were originally $175!). I wore them, with hopeful caution, to a birthday dinner with friends. I mean, I was in them maybe three or four hours, most of that time sitting.

By the end of the night, the combination of walking and toe squeezing got the best of my foot. Sitting with my legs crossed under the table, I could not believe such an isolated and specific pain in my foot would cause me to want to scream, to be incapable of focusing on anything else, to feel damn near ready to throw up.

Desperate for some relief, I bought some shoe pads at Nordstrom and proceeded wearing heels only as needed, mostly wedges, taking care to notice which shoes I could handle and which I could not.

The night my friend in her “sensible” shoes declared this to me a month or so ago, I was wearing a slightly chunkier heel of maybe three inches, a sort of rounded-toe Mary Jane wingtip-style. I think we got on the topic because she was admiring my heels. I probably brought up my foot pain obsession.

Oh, how I hated that term: Morton’s Neuroma. It sounds like cancer.

Of course, I went home that night thinking, how could she possibly know what my problem is? She probably is so mad she has it she wants everyone else to have it, too. Pick on someone else, I thought.

Then I Googled it.

My god. I could have drawn the picture with the big red blob indicating pain exactly where I felt it. And the description was right on. It’s a nerve issue.

I read that you can treat it by numbing the nerve with cortisone injections.

I later asked my dad, a doctor, if he’d heard of it.

“Morton’s Toe?” he said. Ewwww. An even grosser term, I thought. “Sure,” he said, offering up yet another treatment option. “They cut the nerve.”

I immediately wondered how much that cost.

Don’t look at me like that. I’m only five-foot-three and half.

I suppose they do that if it’s bad enough. I’ve been contemplating seeing an orthopedic surgeon or podiatrist ever since. Though I do fear they’ll look at me with disgust when they realize my reason is so I can wear heels.

What’s interesting is that, as I’ve been sharing my self-diagnosis with some friends, several seem to know what it is. “Morton’s Toe?” they say, proffering up the hated words.

Some of them have since decided they have the exact same thing.

Clearly, this is far more common that I realized.

Regardless, I have a dilemma. I still need a proper diagnosis, then have to determine what I can or can’t afford to do about it.

Now as I look with equal parts nostalgia and fear at my collection of pointy-toe stilettos and heels of four inches or more, I'm thankful for summer with its mostly open-toe wedge-style sandals and espadrilles.

For now, I am doing my best to defy Morton and his stupid Neuroma Toe.

But I’m no dummy. I always have a second pair of "sensible" shoes in my car (they’re actually kinda cute), just in case. Which, let’s face it, is what any sane podiatrist will tell women today anyway:

Wear walking shoes on the street or from the parking structure, then slip the heels on at your desk or destination. Only wear as needed.

And yes, they are needed.

Sign of the Times?

I'm a bit behind schedule in posting my next blog — I have my theme, just haven't had the time — so for now, let me share this....

I got a voice message the other day. At first I thought a friend had dialed me by mistake while in mid-conversation with someone else and I (or rather my voice mail) was there to eavesdrop — this has happened to you, right? It's an odd feeling knowing you are listening to someone who doesn't know you are listening, not that you did anything to make the situation happen.

But I digress. It was actually a telemarketer, a young unprofessional sounding woman, who did not realize the phone picked up. Clearly a sign of the times regarding the economy:

"His wife comes and goes, 'No no no, you're not ordering that magazine," she says to her co-worker. Then she sighs. "Boom! He goes, 'Oh no, I guess times are tough we're not ordering it.'" Then she laughs.

In other matters, I spend a lot of time with my dad, who does home hemodialysis. I'm his helper so am usually in the same room with him. When we are not having a conversation, he's listening to the radio or watching cable TV news.

Thank god at those time I'm usually working on my laptop.

I say thank god not because I have a problem with cable news.

I have a problem with the constant stream of Viagra, Cialis or other sexually-oriented drug or lubricant commercials.

Were I focused on the TV with him, how would I possibly react to the umteenth one about getting it on? Jesus, some of these make me blush. I've heard ads for products I didn't even know existed, most recently for women. It's like watching a X-rated soap opera for crying out loud.

I can't imagine what parents of teen children do when these ads come on. To think I used to be embarrassed by tampon commercials!

Bring it on Playtex. I'll take you any day.

The Migraine Club

I’m not much for joining clubs. I never have been.

There is nothing wrong with clubs. I like them and have been in many: my figure skating club as a youth, a sorority in college, my alumni club now (heck, I’m co-president). I’m even on my University’s alumni association board, which is kind of like a club.

So it’s not like I don’t want to do the work. And I find great value in the social aspect of being in a club. Even if I think they can be exclusionary.

Though I do wish I could be excluded from one club — one I did not choose to join. I call it the Migraine Club.

In the past year or so, I was diagnosed with migraine headaches. As I think back, I’ve had these for some time.

Friends and co-workers now tell me they remember me complaining of headaches. One co-worker several years ago scared me into seeing a doctor after I announced that I’d had a headache for about two weeks. At that time, I was not diagnosed with migraines. That would take a few years.

That I finally was diagnosed makes sense. My sister gets them. My mother says her mother got them. Both of them have had it worse than I. My sister sometimes gets so nauseated she throws up. My grandmother used to have to lie down in a dark, quiet room.

Me? I typically get a burning sensation focused right over my left eye. I liken it to looking at a bright, scorching sun, the way it almost burns a hole in you if you don’t look away. That’s how it feels to me. A semi-dull but focused pain that makes me want to close my eyes and not deal with anything too taxing.

Often it goes down into my upper jaw, above my teeth on the same side of my head. I get stuffy and sometimes sneeze, which made me think for years it was a sinus problem causing the headache. Now, my doctor tells me, the migraine causes the stuffiness.

Sometimes the migraine pain takes a trip around my head. A surprise attack, like a pinch, on the right side, or a dull pressure like a band around the front of my head.

The worst of it — before I was diagnosed — was when it would settle in the back of my neck, below the base of my skull. I didn’t know what was going on, only that I felt as if every disk, tendon and ligament was grinding together like gravel with each move.

It was after chatting with my dental hygienist a year ago about her horrors with migraines (almost unbearable, nothing like my experience thankfully) that I realized we spoke the same language.

“I felt like I had rocks in my neck,” she said. I knew immediately what she was talking about. At least I think. Pain is so hard, if not impossible, to communicate to someone.

Which is why I hoped for a while my pain was not migraine. I’ve heard nothing but horror stories of people incapable of functioning with them. As with my sister and grandmother, they can take you down. Mess with your life. Make you miserable. So far I’ve not had it that bad.

But I accept the diagnosis. The clincher? When my doctor gave me some new migraine drug samples and told me: “If they work, then it’s most likely migraine.”

Boy, do they work. Damn it.

I do not accept membership into this club lightly. I’d be happy to be kicked out. I’d love to turn in my membership card and pay a hefty fee to break the contract. But I think I’m going to have to live with it. At least for now.

And so I’m making the best of it.

And you know the best part? The people. Like any club, the people are what it’s all about. I’ve still got to deal with the migraines, about two a month. But I’ve discovered a support network, however loosely defined and occasional the meetings — via an email, a Facebook comment, a conversation or tip at a party. I discover new members all the time. We help each other. We know each other.

Some of the advice I’ve gotten through my new club: Hydrate! Take extra magnesium. Watch your diet (cheese, chocolate, caffeine, alcohol are all typical triggers). Prepare for them around your monthly cycle.

I’ve discovered the drugs that work best for me: Zomig and Maxalt, even though they make my throat feel scorched and my skin feel sunburned. There is also the fatigue that turns your limbs into lead weights.

But those symptoms are better than dealing with the pain. As anyone in my club will tell you.

It’s an equal opportunity club, too. We come in all shapes and sizes, mostly female but some men, too. You’re lucky if you’re not in it, but I bet you have your own club you never chose to join.

I don’t plan to be president, and I’ll be happy if I can leave, but while I’m in it I’ll happily support my fellow members — and I do — and I know they’ll be there to support me.

What more can you ask of a club you never wanted to join?

Stop Making Sense: Spring Cleaning and Shoulder Pads

I’m a deadline kind of girl. Give me a deadline and I’ll get it done. Be it taxes, a story or paying bills.

The problem is, spring cleaning doesn’t really have a deadline unless it’s self imposed. I’m usually pretty good at those but there are times when I let things slide. I mean, spring cleaning is a nice idea and all but it doesn’t have to be done.

And really, when I refer to spring cleaning, I’m always pretty much talking about spring purging.

Cleaning is easy when you have an absence of clutter. And me? I tend to hang onto things. Way. Too. Long.

Seriously.

I cannot totally blame this on a lack of discipline. The thing is, I get attached to my stuff. I look at it and have trouble letting go, everything from stuffed animals to books to — the worst of it — clothes.

I mean, I still had my high school graduation dress until a couple years ago. Really.

Part of this is a sense of value. Some of the clothes I’m sorting through look like new. Yes, they may be 10, 15 years old but they look good. And most still fit. How wasteful to toss them out, even to donate. I feel I should have really used up these clothes that I put my hard earned money into.

Another part of this is an emotional attachment. In some way, I feel as if my soul inhabits these things. That to give them away is to let go of a piece of my life. And not have a clue where it went or how it’s being treated.

I know. Crazy.

I’ve even gone through these items over the years and, yes, decided it was not time to let them go, hung them back in a closet I never use or in boxes I rarely touch. Either they still had meaning or — foolishly — I imagined I’d wear them again because they were so fabulous once, of course they will come back in style.

Right.

What I don’t do often enough is actually try these clothes on. I’ve found that to be helpful this year.

It’s also helped that I have a deadline: the National Kidney Foundation was in my area and announced a pick-up of just about anything in decent condition, including household “bric-a-brac,” whatever that is. All I had to do was set it out by the curb.

I’d dug through a bunch of stuff just a few months ago for the 2008 tax donation deduction so had already been kind of on a roll.

So I found myself the last several days unloading the upstairs closet — four sets of hanging clothes, jackets, blouses, shirts — and putting them on. As I removed each item from its hanger, I’d relive the times I wore it as if I was in some movie watching that sappy montage sequence of happier times. Oh the great times I had and how terrific I thought I looked.

But that was then.

Then reality.

Gasp! Did I actually wear this with these huge David-Byrne-Stop-Making-Sense shoulder pads?

Or those silky blouses I wore so often a decade ago but now look shapeless? I can see how I liked them at the time because that was in fashion. But now? Everything is so much more… fitted.

I still had an ensemble, which I finally donated this time — with only a slight amount of donator’s remorse — a fabulous pale yellow linen sundress and jacket which for years I could rely on to look smashing in whatever the event, be it a fashion show or wedding.

In fact, a couple of years ago I had to go to an event and thought it would be perfect. Then I saw myself in the mirror. I couldn’t believe the hemline was as short as it was or the shoulders so wide. I simply could not wear it.

It was clear, no matter how wonderful it was, it was time to part. Don’t ask why I still had it. Either I decided to keep it in the last round of purges, hopeful something would change, or I hung it up and forgot about it.

The thing is, while some of these items are a little out of style, someone who needs clothing will be happy to have them. And how many sweatshirts and T-shirts can I possibly have? I can only wear so many, even though some I wore maybe once.

It’s a good lesson: Think twice next time before I buy. Ask: Do I need it? Will I wear it? Don’t I have enough?

There is also the lesson to share the usefulness. They are useless in my closet or in boxes.

I actually began to feel motivated knowing these nice pieces will look just fine on someone else. Maybe they won’t even care how they look. Maybe they just need something. Period.

Meanwhile, that upstairs closet space can be put to better use than warehousing memories.

Although I must confess. As I filled the garbage bags the other night to set out by the curb, I was stung with occasional feelings of remorse — that T-shirt from Bermuda, the sweatshirt from Australia, that oh-so-perfect-shade-of-pink silky blouse that still looks like new — and put them in another bag. By the end of the night, it was a whole damn bag.

I told myself, I can still give it away later. I even thought if the truck didn’t come first thing in the morning, I’d sneak more items out. Alas, the guy came by too early.

Now I have a giant bag of stuff I never wear. Sitting there.

That’s okay. I can still give it away. I’ll decide later.

I just hope it’s not in 10 years.

My Facebook (So-Called) Friends

I have been on FB since before it exploded among “regular” people. And I must say it’s interesting to see its evolution.

I first registered on the site I when one of my editors realized we needed to reach some students for a story we were working on. For those on FB, you could only contact them through FB if you were a member. Problem was, I was not a student. I had to contact my alumni office for a valid school email address.

I didn’t spend a lot of time stalking students for quotes. But I had a space. I was sort of parked there.

Soon, I was friended by someone I used to work with. They hardly needed an introduction. This person is a friend. One I know well. Then there was another and another and another. The friend requests came like a barrage and I began friending people like mad myself.

Most of my early FB friends were people I used to work with, all highly adept at digital technology and, hence, early adopters of the online social network. And for a good year or so most of my friends were in the digital business, people who are online a lot, use the internet for work or are just young.

I’ve even friended some people I have never met but had a connection with, either through mutual friends or business.

I will say that for every one of those people — those I’ve never met or who do not know me — I have always — repeat, always — sent them a message of introduction or explanation of why I was friending them. That just makes sense to me.

So what I find odd — and I’ll admit, a little annoying — is that I’ve been getting friend requests from more and more people I sort of know, or used to know, or met once, or knew in grade school or college and never ever speak to or have not spoken to for years and barely recognize their name.

And they put no note. Nothing. Not even a: “Hi, did used to go to XYZ school? I recognized your name…” or “Hi, I found you on FB and would love to keep in touch – my name is now XYZ but you remember me as ABC. How are you???”

Nothing.

I find this odd. It annoys me, as I already said. I mean, one childhood friend added me recently, which I guess was her way of saying “Hello.” Maybe I need to just lighten up here but she didn’t put so much as a, “Hi, what are you doing and where do you live?” even after I accepted her friend request and wrote a quick hello on her Wall saying she needs to fill me in on her life. I’ve still never heard from her. That must have been two or three weeks ago.

Odd.

So what do I do with these people? I am not sure I really even care to have them back in my life. I’ve done just fine without them. Not that there is anything wrong with them. Maybe I’m just in a different place.

Maybe I need a reason to re-connect. Maybe we need a kind of FB date. A little back and forth to stimulate my interest beyond the kind of connection you make at a school reunion. When you are happy to see the person, get caught up and then go on about your life and do not see them again until the next reunion. Or ever.

I guess I have only so much energy for my friends, FB included.

I certainly have no time for someone who doesn’t even make a tiny effort to communicate once we are “friends.” Again, I'm referring to people I barely know now. And have no professional connection with. They are simply someone from my past. I expect a little something from someone I once knew relatively well.

I’m not planning to delete these people but I do feel slightly exposed. So what I do is engage my privacy preferences. At least until they show me a little of themselves. I mean, so what if we hung out in grade school. I really have no idea who you are today. You know?

So my attitude is this: If you want to eavesdrop on my life, please, just drop me a line.

Some have. I do not need to talk to them all the time. For them I say: Feel free to hang out. Say or post something interesting, I might pipe in. I appreciate being in on the conversation.

That’s what is nice about FB. Connecting.

Why don’t some people get that?

My Mom: The Neo-Luddite

My mother is a Luddite. A neo-Luddite to be exact.

If they had a club, she’d be a proud card carrying member.

For those unfamiliar with the term, Luddites were a group who opposed technological and scientific innovations during the Industrial Revolution. These early 19th century English workmen went so far as to destroy laborsaving machinery as a protest.

Now it’s not that my mother is really opposed to progress. She’s not. She likes her electric garage door opener and knows how to set the home security system. And while her car has no CD player or cruise control or electric seats, that's more because she’s frugal. She enjoys things like cable channels and even owns a cell phone and uses the microwave oven.

No, I think my mom’s real issue is fear of technology, which translates into her being rather angry about technology.

After all, she is a bright woman — one who holds a master's degree in social work and nearly finished a second master's degree in fine art. She's just not tech smart.

Let me share some examples:

She has learned to use the universal remote on the TV, which is kind of unbelievable as sometimes I can’t even figure it out. But she’s really just learned the process of “always push this then that” without understanding what she’s doing. Hence, if something is awry, she’s clueless. That’s when she calls to my dad:

“I’m just pushing buttons. Just pushing buttons,” she’ll say loudly, the remote in her one hand as the other dramatically taps away at one button after the other until my father comes running in, aghast and frustrated: “What are you doing? Give me that.”

Of course, she’s a smart woman. He does it for her, which is what she wanted in the first place.

But then begins the explanation of the remote. It’s an act of futility. I can literally see her eyes glazing over as my father or I try to get her to understand the way it works.

“See, you have to turn the cable on first. You hit the cable button, then power, then you hit the TV then power, then go back to cable to be in that mode…”

“But I don’t want to watch cable,” she’ll say. In a twisted way, she makes sense. She wants to watch the network news.

“But mom, it’s all cable, the networks come through the cable.”

I can totally tell she’s not getting it. She doesn’t care. She just wants to watch the damn news. Sometimes it’s just easier for us to do it for her.

Oh, there are many examples like this. She pretty much treats the microwave the same way, pushing buttons, rather clueless to how it works but somehow getting things heated. It drives my dad crazy.

Then there is the issue of the computer and email. She gives people my dad’s email address so they can contact her. She has no idea of how to work the computer or access email. So he has to set it up for her and tell her to sit down, showing her each time how to go from one email to another.

And then of course, rather than compose a Letter to the Editor or other correspondence on the computer, she writes things up long hand. I’ll usually end up retyping it for her.

Then there is the mystery of digital photography, which she cannot seem to grasp. She is an artist accustomed to submitting her work for juried exhibitions on slides. Now that more and more shows are requesting CDs with jpeg files, she’s practically considering giving up showing.

“Can you make a jpeg?” she’ll ask me.

“Yes, I have a digital camera. I can take them and send them via email or put them on a disc.”

“Okay, let me know and I’ll pay for the film,” she says. I don’t even know how to begin the explanation that there is no film, but I tell her that anyway.

Now most of the time these instances are not a terrible problem — just sometimes a little frustrating.

But it can be problematic. I mean, I’d laugh if the ramifications were not so serious sometimes. For instance, she was put on a drug called Coumadin, a blood thinner. It can be a dangerous drug. People take it to avoid forming life-threatening clots. If you take too much, you could bleed to death from a fall or have numerous complications from internal bleeding.

Basically, people get a loading dose followed by a smaller daily dose that gets altered weekly depending on how much of the drug is in your system, which is monitored via weekly blood draws. You need to be in a therapeutic range. Not too high, not too low. Too low means you are not protected and there is no sense even being on the drug.

When my mom's cardiologist suggested she go on this drug recently, my dad decided against it, agreeing with a couple of her other doctors that it was not worth the risk. But my mother got concerned and decided to go ahead and get the prescription and take it.

So I asked her the other night: “How much did you take today?”

“I took half a pill. Dad didn’t want me on it so I thought I’d just take half.”

“Mom, what is your prescription? What does the bottle say?”

“One pill a day.”

“Mom, you have to follow the prescription. It doesn’t work like that….”

I tried to explain how it works. I could see her eyes glazing over soon into the explanation. I chose to see it as a challenge and continued a good five to ten minutes, using analogies and making hand gestures to portray a range as if on a chart, thinking: “I can win her over, I just know it.”

A few days later she informed she’d taken half a pill “because dad doesn’t want me on it.”

I guess it’s better than her taking too much. And she’s too smart to do that.

The other big problem is her cell phone. Oh, this makes my father and I crazy. Insane.

She has no idea how to access her voice mail, use her address book, change her ring style or adjust the volume. None of that. It’s all too complicated.

In her defense, there is way more stuff on these phones than most of us need or even use. Even I have to read the book sometimes. But as a regular technology user, I have a basic understanding she doesn’t possess.

So I’ll call her and she’ll pick up, then immediately hang up. This happens so often I’ve asked what she is doing.

“There’s something wrong with this phone,” she insists.

“Mom, nothing is wrong with the phone. You’re doing something.”

“No, there’s something wrong with this phone,” she insists again. "This phone is crazy."

I think I figured it out once in the car with her when she got a call. That she has it set to answer on open, and hang up on close, and when she’s driving and fumbles the phone she hangs up inadvertently. Or something like that.

More maddening, she somehow manages to turn her phone onto silent without realizing it and, thus, has no clue you are trying to reach her. This is a real problem if we don’t know where she is and are worried, or need to reach her for something important.

Other times the volume mysteriously goes down. If I call, she will yell:

"What? I can't hear you."

Then I scream into the phone: "Turn the volume up."

"What?" she'll yell back, even though I can hear her fine.

"Your volume. Turn it up."

Then, just as I feel thankful that I got her to answer her phone, she'll say, "I'm in traffic. I can't hear you. I'll call you back."

Click.

So far, thankfully, nothing horrible has happened through all this. And while I do think my mother would be happy if she easily grasped all of these gadgets and technology, it never was her way of thinking anyway.

And deep down — and this is why I call her a Luddite — I think she likes it this way.

I mean, I feel enslaved by technology sometimes. It would be nice to opt out now and then. Not have to read a manual for everything. Turn off the email and cell phone. Just have a few TV channels. Life might be simpler.

But, mom. Pick up the phone now and then, would you?

Not Quite the End

It was New Year’s Eve when I realized it might finally be over. You let me down. I burned with pain. But I endured the night with a smile. I wouldn’t let anyone know that I couldn’t take it any more.

I didn’t want it to end. But I needed a break.

For so many years you lifted me up. Literally. You made me feel tall, beautiful, confident. So grown up. So fabulous.

You in all your incarnations through every season, always there to raise me up when I needed it.

But the punishment took its toll.

I spent too many years ignoring this hurt and that. Not wanting to give you up. Not wanting to admit that you were simply not good for me.

I’d see all those other women, so happy. If they could have that, why not me?

So I didn’t want to admit it just might not be working out. I still don’t want to admit it. I don’t want it to be over. I would do anything to keep you in my life.

I remember being too young for you, dreaming of the day I could finally have you. We’ve had many blissful years since. Sure, I've felt pain now and then. But the pain never lasted too long. I always got through it.

Now, though, it’s gotten to be too much. Dare I say — and I don’t want to say it — you scare me. I’m a little afraid of you. And that’s the hardest thing of all to admit.

I just knew if didn’t make a break, something terrible and irreversible might happen.

So there we are. I miss you, terribly. So many reminders of you everywhere only makes it harder.

Quite simply, I can't imagine life without you. I don't think I could take that. I refuse to accept it.

But the break has been good. I'm taking care of myself and the pain has subsided.

I now feel ready to try again, just baby steps, to see if we can make another go of it.

Last night was wonderful. If only for a few hours. Oh I felt a little sting now and then but you were pretty good to me.

I will see you again. I just know it.

Because I cannot imagine life without you.

(Well, maybe I could live without you four-inch heels.)


(By the way: That gorgeous illustration above is available here: https://www.allposters.com/-sp/Highheels-Obsession-Posters_i1665533_.htm)