Life of Wry

Something I never did growing up was drive to a friend’s house for dinner via miles of this:

We LA basin folks never encountered much in the way of open space, unless you stood on the edge of the Pacific Ocean, and then you saw a lot of it.  Otherwise, it was just a lot of development–kind of everywhere.

Even after living here for 38 years, I still get a kick out of driving just minutes from our house and finding ourselves in the middle of farmland. I feel authentically local when we’re heading deep into the grid of county roads to have dinner with friends (or in this case colleagues of Jim’s). On a ranch. Amidst abundant wildlife.

Fog on the lightless county roads is pretty cool, too:

It was a three-cry day… all related to the frustration of aging bones and sucky prognoses. Don’t want to talk about it. And no pictures, because who takes pictures of their arthritic hip?

Given 1) Scandinavian heritage, 2) immense time spent on sunny beaches, on reflective tennis courts, in ozone-challenged high mountains, 3) a ridiculous number of peely burns in youth (>3? Are you kidding me?) and 4) two basal cell carcinomas already removed, with potentially numerous pre-cancers festering in the wings …. it’s safe to say I need to be vigilant and proactive on the skin cancer front.

That means Efudex.

Efudex is a topical chemo therapy that reacts to abnormal cells (cancer-ish) and then destroys their ability to reproduce. Says the literature:

Cancers form when cells within the body multiply abnormally and uncontrollably. These cells spread, destroying nearby tissues. Fluorouracil works by stopping cancerous and pre-cancerous cells from multiplying. It does this by being incorporated into the cells’ genetic material, DNA and RNA. Both DNA and RNA are needed for cells to grow, repair themselves and multiply. Fluorouracil causes problems with the production of DNA and RNA in the cancerous cells and this causes them to grow in an unbalanced way, resulting in the death of the cells.

So, you apply a thin layer of this stuff twice a day for several weeks, turn all gross and splotchy, hurt and itch, then voila, dead cancer cells.

I’m getting used to the idea that this stuff might be a regular part of a winter regimen (winter because you need to stay covered up while using it and you don’t really want to go out into public if you can avoid it).

This is my second season with it. Last season: face (ugh). This season: neck and chest. Maybe arms or legs next year… we’ll see.

If you haven’t seen much of me… that’s why.

Guess what I gave myself this morning:

This is the I-can’t-go-another-millisecond-with-this-awful-hair haircut, the do-it-yourself-in-desperation haircut, the I-can’t-even-wait-two-weeks-for-my-appointment-with-Carrie haircut.

These do-it-yourself jobs are not as easy as they would seem. As careful as I tried to be, I’m pretty certain no two hairs of equal length were cut. Maybe you can see that better in a close up:

Looks a little like Chinese-character soup.

Cut a little on this side, then a little over on that side to match it, and then, oops, back over here to even it out (that whole thing)…and, then, oh, when it swings back to its rightful location it’s now way shorter than the others. Cut. Cut.

Okay, so it’s a wee disaster. I’m okay with that; I’ve been wearing it up for weeks so the sawtooth effect hardly matters. I’m this close to lopping it ALL off anyway. For now, if it makes it easier to wash and comb out, it’s a successful cut. FTW!

My good buddy LL (known to the world as Lorilyn) and her son Quinn (Peter’s age) dropped in a couple days ago. The picture has a lot of sky because these guys are tall.

She came from Singapore, where she’s been living for a year and a half with her husband who’s been working over there for nearly three years.  Quinn came from Rhode Island, where he’s been going to school. Davis is a brief stop, but a nice one.

Got together again today with LL and our mutual friend Carrie (Carrie and I comprise 2/3s of the Kari/Carrie/Kerry gang). And now she’s off to the next stop in her whirlwind visit to California. Come next spring, she and Allen will be back stateside with more opportunities for hanging out. Not sure yet where they’ll land, but it won’t be as far away as Southeast Asia. Yay.

Davis’ monthly Second Friday ArtAbout last night. A night each month when art happens all over town, but especially in downtown. Wish we could say we are regulars, but we’re not, but when we hit it, it’s always a good time. Attended Phil Gross’ opening reception in the gallery at the Artery. Openings are fun, and especially nice when you’re friends with the artist. And friends with the artist’s many friends…then it’s a party.

We saw so many folks, including two of our therapists–one former and one current. Conversations with both of them. Gotta love a small town?

Here’s the artist himself, Phil Gross, talking with Terry, the daughter of my old buddy (RIP) Jean Kauffmann (whose paintings I have a couple of) Terry’s husband Jay, and Jean’s son Doug.  Great conversations with all.

Here is some of Phil’s work. OMG, I’m a huge fan.

I knew that Phil’s been an artist a large percentage of his life (ceramic, music, dance) but that painting was something he took up fairly late in life, but got full the story of what brought him to painting from Phil’s old girlfriend Victoria last night. In short, one day Phil was looking at a painting of an onion in Victoria’s house and, scoffing, proclaimed that he could paint a better onion. She challenged him to do so. He did not paint a better onion, but, being the competitive guy he is, kept at it until he could, got the bug, and has been painting ever since. Only 17 years ago. I remember when he started, and am lucky to have gotten many of his earlier pieces. Way out of my range now.

Oh, also? He painted these with his left hand (non-dominant) because he’s getting the shakes in his right hand.

I know. Crazy.

There was great music, of course. Here’s Heidi Bekebrede singing, standing in front of the Artery’s regular collection of Phil Grosses:

And Ken Kemmerling, who was part of the Ken Kemmerling-Julie Partansky duo who played at our wedding about 18 1/2 years ago (not sure who the drummer is):

Another favorite artist pair in town are Sara and Tom Post, whose ceramic tiles I am seriously, deeply in love with. We have a collection of their work–bowls, ramekins, candle holders, a platter, and a couple of single, small tiles–and wish I had a huge hunk of their tile on the wall… if I had a big expanse of blank wall, which I don’t, and if I could afford one, which I can’t. Most of the pieces we have are seconds, purchased at their studio long ago, which’ll have to do.

Here are my dates for the evening… Darlene and Jim:

Here are some facts about my not crazy life:

It has been an intentional work in progress for some years now.

I wanted to clean, declutter and organize my house–both literally and figuratively. I did that. Every room, every closet, every drawer. I wanted to take care of long-lingering business. I did that. But I also wanted to consider, contemplate and prioritize the key aspects of my life–family, friends, growth, health, fun, work, community, spirituality. Of course that’s a major work in progress, but accomplishing the one has given me space and time for the other. I like that. And OCD me needed that. Apparently.

I like the quiet, and a peaceful mind.

It’s both wonderful and a bit surprisingly disorienting. But I like that, too (mostly). I think there is discovery in the discomfort. Trusting the process.

I hope and expect to find some there there.

Call me crazy.

It all started about five weeks ago when, due to a muscle tear or some such horribly painful thing, I became impaired and unable to bend down to tie my shoes. It actually feels like my muscle is ripping away from the bone and pretty soon my leg is just going to dangle and waggle from my hip. It’s bad. All I’ve been able to manage shoe-wise are clogs and flip flops (grateful for all this spring-like weather). But then my trusty Dansko clogs totally fell apart–disintegrated really–and I decided I’d go down to that shoe store by the train station and get some new ones.

I guess it’s been awhile since I’ve bought shoes.

Somebody’s invented the coolest gadget for very precisely measuring not only the length and width of your foot, but also the pressure you apply to various parts of your sole. Like hot spots, which tell them things I cannot even imagine.

Here’s what you stand on:

And here’s the report:

Neato, huh?

She said it was far more accurate than measuring the old fashioned way. I’m dubious, but whatever. I liked the pressure thing, but of what value that is I’m uncertain. She did tell me I was double to triple E; I enjoyed that.

In the end, they didn’t have the clogs I wanted so I ended up ordering Swedish-made clogs directly from a shop in England (for some reason). I’m hoping they’re just like ones I used to wear there.. I really miss that style (which is to say no style at all: wood base, leather top, that’s it). Will post.

**  The science of sizing  

Maybe it was my blonde hair. Or blue eyes. Or baby blue fleece top. Or…..maybe it was my gender??

I haven’t been the recipient of that level of sexism in I can’t remember when… and while I’m sure I have been on the female end of sexism plenty of times in my life, was it ever that blatant?  Really, can’t remember a time, at least not in the last, say, two or three decades.

Here’s what happened. I went to pick up my car yesterday after having the tires replaced. Four new tires, an alignment, pressure readings.. all that normal stuff. Nice guy, the proprietor everybody in town seems to know–won’t name names–greats me utterly pleasantly. We exchange a couple of small town niceties then he presents me with my bill and this before-and-after tire pressure chart:

Before I say anything, he dismisses the chart as something I will not understand, “But Jim will,” he said, “he can explain it to you.”

I could hardly contain a smile (one of those subtle, slightly processing, did-he-just-say-what-I-think-he-said kind of smiles) and said, “I’m sure I can figure it out.” I quickly glanced at the chart, added it to my copy of the invoice, folded them both and put them in my purse. “Key’s in the car,” he said perkily, as if no insult had passed his lips.

We exchanged a round of thank yous and goodbyes and I took off.

Now, I know what you’re thinking. I SHOULDA RIPPED HIM A NEW ONE.

But really? I was more amused than insulted. Admittedly, I was a little caught off-guard and not fully about my wits, but seriously, I was amused. There is absolutely no excuse for that comment (except maybe he’s been looking at that term thrust angle for far too many years). That he should know better is a ridiculous understatement. I mean, when was the last time a long-time Davis man, especially one in the service sector, said something like this to a Davis woman? Davis. Educated, evolved, modern, right?

Never mind the irony of a kinda smelly (in the way of tire mechanics), fairly unkempt guy with dirty fingernails, sitting behind the grimy counter of a tire shop telling an educated, retired executive that she might not understand a simple graphic.

He’d have probably received well some friendly feedback as to how women might find that comment offensive, because he seemed an affable, harmless guy. I probably owed it to him to point this out. I certainly owed it to my sistas, our community… indeed the world and the greater good. But it honestly crossed my mind that coming down on him would be cruel. It was so colossally ignorant a comment, and he was so guileless, he just seemed too easy a target. Fish, barrel, that whole thing. We felt a little mismatched; I didn’t want to be a bully. The comment was so out of line, I didn’t want him to feel badly for having been so clueless.

It seems perverse, but kindness seemed to dictate that I just let it go.

Because you know?, I’m not so strident these days. I am not easily insulted, I have nothing to defend or prove, I have zero need to put a guy like that in his place. Had I been just a little more present, I may have seized upon this as a teaching moment and offered up an instructive friendly amendment… but I was already walking to my car when the retorts began to form in my little blonde head.

So pretty much I just drove off.  And laughed about it for the rest of the day.

Part of a dilapidated gate at the abandon ruins of the ancient Colher de Pau Muito Nojentoa?

Nope. This is Jim’s beloved wooden spatula, which succumbed last night after I don’t know how many years, but something well north of two decades. It made many a revolution around the pots of our kitchen; it scrambled and mixed and moved stuff from one side to the other of a lot of pans. It stirred and stirred and stirred. But no more. It finally broke, a victim of its own disgusting grossness:

Jim loved this spatula. He actually prepared most of our stove-top meals using it. Despite the fact he had a lot of excellent, some even high-tech, alternatives.

My problem with Jim’s most favorite spatula, and I’m sure I am not being unreasonable here, was that food would lodge stubbornly in its deepest recesses, as you can probably see. I’d have to use a sharp knife or toothpick..or even floss.. to dredge the remains of chicken, oil, herbs, gravy-like stuff—whatever he’d stirred, sauteed, crisped, reduced–from deep within. It was beyond gross. But I still did it.. always rationalizing that the heat from whatever he was cooking would probably kill whatever was growing in the cracks and crevices.  And then tried not to think about it.  As far as I know, we never got food poisoning from tainted spatula gunk.

So, buh bye beloved spatch.  We’ll stir love you after you’ve gone.