tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37851674920830771582024-03-14T01:26:47.322-07:00Scared Moderate FemaleCaliGirl9http://www.blogger.com/profile/06639398512708841968noreply@blogger.comBlogger121125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3785167492083077158.post-11607030369887684222012-12-20T20:09:00.001-08:002012-12-20T20:09:21.490-08:00Be a Christmas Angel to a Homeless Companion Animal
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAzQhWN263zyM6UzWh1uBOhLpAwCYxea5QSD_qpsj5xHQswA5AsJYsgnWGnlGC81TQdXwc3lzR_mQ-eU3iQf93vdx7AOhm9ZUlCIBZ-ubQufZz3F-la0u3Y4zSmQZCyjmI5U0oAfuMW5Q/s1600/IMG_0361.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAzQhWN263zyM6UzWh1uBOhLpAwCYxea5QSD_qpsj5xHQswA5AsJYsgnWGnlGC81TQdXwc3lzR_mQ-eU3iQf93vdx7AOhm9ZUlCIBZ-ubQufZz3F-la0u3Y4zSmQZCyjmI5U0oAfuMW5Q/s320/IMG_0361.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: x-small;">My Cammi cat, December 20, 2012. We are four days from our fifth anniversary together! </span></i></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: x-small;">This is my Cammi cat, a photo fresh from the camera. She
wasn’t in the mood for flash photography. <br />
<br />
I adopted this beautiful soul on December 24, 2007. I did not “need” another
cat, and I chose to buy some cat food at Petco instead of my usual place because
I did not want to run into any cat adoption fairs. I usually donated to a pair
of rescues, nothing huge, offering to buy some cat litter or cat food. I was
still missing my 16-3/4 year old cat Elliott, who’d passed away in March due to
complications of chronic renal failure. <br />
<br />
I was surprised that there was a cat adoption fair at the Petco, on Christmas
Eve no less. They were operating abbreviated hours, from 9 a.m. to about 1
p.m., instead of the usual 9-to-5. I looked away, hurried to the rear of the store
for cat food, and while standing in line, looked over toward the people playing
with and holding cats. <br />
<br />
Cammi looked at me, and it was over. I pulled myself out of the line and asked
about her. She was very tiny, so I figured she was maybe 8 weeks old. Nope, she
was nearly 5 months old, just petite. She’d only recently made weight to be
spayed, her belly was still shaved. She was the property of a rescue, and had
never been in a pound, though her story was no less harrowing. <br />
<br />
Cammi’s momcat, a longhaired black teenager kitty the rescue named Gina, had
been trapped as a feral, and was being held in a Hav-a-Hart cage overnight
waiting for her spay the next morning. Gina had other ideas and gave birth to 6
kittens, but two did not survive. Cammi was the only tuxie and only
medium-haired one, and the runt to boot. Immediately the litter got sick, and
their foster caretakers worked overtime to save the little family. <br />
<br />
Two of her littermates had already been adopted, and only Cammi (who was Hera)
and Flower remained, along with Gina. I stupidly asked if I could hold her. She
immediately relaxed and purred. A voice inside my head said “Take this one
home, she will make a difference in your life.” The voice just got louder as I
tried harder to resist. Finally, I handed her back, told the teenager who was
holding her to call Rosi, the owner of the rescue, to get me approved. I’d
already adopted from her rescue and had been approved to adopt a kitten earlier
in the year, but I did not get to him quickly enough. Meanwhile, I’d go home
and get my soft side carrier for the little girl, and make her mine. I asked
for assurances that I would not be breaking the heart of the 11-year old girl
who had raised the little litter, nursing the kittens to health, playing with them
and socializing the kittens and their mom Gina, who went on to be a substitute
mother cat to several litters of kittens and finally finding her forever home.
(Yes I did meet Gina, she’s a tiny girl herself, just like Cammi. I also met her foster family and thanked them for raising such a special loving soul.)</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: x-small;">I have never regretted listening to that voice, nor have I
regretted taking on what was then a sixth cat. We bonded immediately, and she
quickly fit into my cat family, even winning over Ryan, who was five months
older than she. <br />
<br />
It’s recommended you not adopt a pet as a gift—unless of course that gift is
for yourself and isn’t going anywhere but your home. Christmas time is
stressful, and can be lonely. I am firmly convinced that the adoption of
companion animals between Thanksgiving and Christmas/New Year’s is a
therapeutic thing, that the bond you form with your new pet is deep and
lasting.<br />
<br />
Consider treating yourself to a new love in the coming weeks—adopt a cat. You
will transform yourself from mundane person to that kitten or cat’s guardian
angel. Throughout the years, you will be reminded of the Christmas gift that
gives back so much more than it has ever taken from you. </span></div>
<!--EndFragment-->CaliGirl9http://www.blogger.com/profile/06639398512708841968noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3785167492083077158.post-45261407804170632042012-12-18T15:50:00.001-08:002012-12-18T15:50:22.416-08:00Hiding the Aftermath of Loss...
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjVa0KO5dVsorQqzBPED0glIU_U6rur8fH-zruPDLYdYiw9Hd4P1Dp4DB4HuqfU5-Y2jd1KZPZSwG6jbYS80GHhJweSS-USVQj4KaXDzY61O6jrsESDWdWNqEESrZ0Qs1vsZCjlE34C4A/s1600/27-angels-near-sandy-hook-school-memorial-e1355778342842.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjVa0KO5dVsorQqzBPED0glIU_U6rur8fH-zruPDLYdYiw9Hd4P1Dp4DB4HuqfU5-Y2jd1KZPZSwG6jbYS80GHhJweSS-USVQj4KaXDzY61O6jrsESDWdWNqEESrZ0Qs1vsZCjlE34C4A/s320/27-angels-near-sandy-hook-school-memorial-e1355778342842.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: x-small;">Twenty-seven angels serve as a memorial to the children and adults who were gunned down at Sandy Hook School on December 14, 2012. </span></i></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: x-small;">I do some of my best thinking on my knees, in the backyard,
with dirt in my hands.<br />
<br />
Like all Americans, I wonder if events like Sandy Hook School’s tragedy can
ever be prevented. I’ve read some very eloquent articles asking for better
access to the mental health care system. I’ve read plenty of knee-jerk comments
about “banning all guns,” which is about as practical as rounding up all
illegal aliens and sending them hither and yon. I’ve read remarks blaming video
games and movies. But I’m pretty much against censorship, even
words/phrases/ideas I disagree with. (The only thing I wish would be made
criminal is filming/photographing animal abuse and calling it “art.”) </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: x-small;">Then I got to thinking about movies. Personally, I’m not
into those shoot everyone kind of movie, called “action” films. I believe the
target audience for this kind of movie is middle-class white males, ages 15
through 40, adolescents through young adulthood. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The audience enjoys guns, or martial arts, or hand-to-hand
combat, and like the adrenalin rush. In these movies, there is much carnage,
much death, much suffering. In most of these movies, we do not see the
suffering of those left behind when the bad guy dies.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: x-small;">Bear with me.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: x-small;">When I learned Osama bin Laden had been killed, I felt sad
for a few minutes. Not because his life had been lost, but that there actually
were people who loved him, children who knew him as their father. I felt the
same way when Saddam Hussein was hanged.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Someone grieved for him. <br />
<br />
Yes, both were exceptionally evil and when you live by the sword, you die by the
sword. And that is usually what happens in the movies. The good guys kill the
bad guys, sometimes the bad guy kills the good guy, but then the bad guy gets
his or there is some sort of divine redemption. Seldom in any film does one see
the aftermath of a death—a grieving wife, fatherless children. And that, in my
opinion, sanitizes the death and makes it less impactful.<br />
<br />
And if there are no consequences to a violent death in a movie, well, it must
be that way in real life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<br />
Sure, you may get a short scene of burka-clad women wailing after a terrorist
“hero” has been blown to smithereens in a war film. There may be a scene where
a family is notified of a death, and you see 15 seconds of disbelief and grief.
More frequently, you see an instant need for revenge. That’s certainly not the
way it goes in real life, is it? <br />
<br />
I’m not suggesting that every action film have a sub-story showing the wife of
the dead bad guy telling her kids that daddy's gone, or worrying how she’s going to pay bills. I’m not suggesting that
the grief of parents burying their child after a violent death be a scene in
every film. <br />
<br />
The movie “Beautiful Boy” did lead viewers through a family's grief and impact upon their lives.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A couple’s only son, Sammy, feels
isolated away at college and kills 17 students and professors, finally taking
his own life. You don’t see much of the act of killing itself, it’s about the
aftermath. The parents were clueless that Sammy was miserable, though others did see signs that things were not right. Even when Sammy calls home the night before he goes on that rampage, and though he sounds somewhat depressed and not quite right, his parents fail to pick up on it. The next day, of course, they are shocked to hear of what Sammy had done, thinking it was out of the blue or spur of the moment.<br />
<br />
Maybe a few screenwriters and motion picture studios might want to consider
producing a few action films that find a way to humanize those violent deaths. Sure,
kill the bad guy, blow him to smithereens, but find a way to show the hurt that
death caused someone. Because in real life, it does hurt someone, and it
certainly won’t hurt to remind that predominantly young male audience about
that fact. </span></div>
<!--EndFragment-->CaliGirl9http://www.blogger.com/profile/06639398512708841968noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3785167492083077158.post-47399966426658500322012-11-07T15:53:00.000-08:002012-11-07T15:53:59.758-08:00An Open Letter to the Republican Party<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: x-small;">You have failed us yet again. I’ve not been proud to cast my
vote for a Republican president since Ronald Reagan. I was okay with Ford, Bush
I, never a fan of Bush II, and was really not a fan of Republican party presidential
nominees such as Bob Dole (an admirable man, but not a president) or John
McCain (who was my choice back in 2000 and I did vote for him in the primary,
but his “maverick” stuff just made him wishy-washy to me). <br />
<br />
We are no longer the party of Ronald Reagan and we will never be, and the
sooner we face that, the better. Politically, the majority of this country are
centrists, though you hear the most squawking from the far left and the far
right. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: x-small;">The reason I still identify Republican is the party’s fiscal
stance, and the desire for smaller government. And I think that is the most
attractive thing about our party. But the rest of the stuff our party “stands
for” is what has cost us dearly.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: x-small;">True, it’s single-issue voters and un- or under-educated voters
who really mess things up. If I thought Roe v. Wade was going to be in danger
of being overturned, I’d have just not voted. If I thought Romney was going to
“go after” gays, I would have not voted. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I honestly believe he would have been too busy working on the
economic mess we are faced with.<br />
<br />
But those single-issue voters pretty much always will go Democrat because of
the perception “Democrats are for personal freedoms.” Oh will you see how
erroneous that belief is as the next four years unfold. We have a president who
doesn’t hesitate to use executive orders to get what he wants. In effect, he’s
little more than an elected dictator. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: x-small;">What does my party, the party of my father, and his father,
my grandfather and his father, have to do to be successful? It’s quite simple.
We need to butt out of people’s personal lives and work to ensure equality for
all. And by “all” I don’t just mean minorities. I mean our GLBT friends, sisters
and brothers. We need to let Roe v. Wade be the law of the land, and allow
women the freedom to choose to terminate a pregnancy in the first trimester.
Yes, many of you believe this is murder and goes against what the Bible says.
And that’s your right to believe that, and I will not try to talk you out of
it. But inflicting your belief on me is just plain wrong. And that’s what’s
wrong with our party. Out of one side of our mouths we say we are for personal
freedoms, and then out of the other side we say, “Well, except gays are evil
and an abomination, and an abortion is killing a baby. But the death penalty
for murderers and the most horrible criminals is okay.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<br />
We need to butt out. Personally, I would rather the government pay for an
abortion than 18+ years of welfare. I also believe that if the government does
pay for a woman’s abortion, that the first one is on us—the second one is cause
for a tubal ligation, period. Welfare is a way of life in some populations, and
that’s simply unacceptable, too. The only way that’s going to change is by
preventing reproduction. Some of those people don’t want to work, and think
they are due something simply for being American (or having an anchor baby who
unfortunately is “born” American). </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: x-small;">We need to allow GLBT people the exact same rights as
heterosexual people have, and let them make the same mistakes! I don’t believe
allowing gays to marry (okay I’ll let you call it a civil union as long as the
rights are identical to marriage) costs us any money, so fiscally it makes
sense. If we are lucky, couples will spend their hard-earned dollars on nice
wedding ceremonies, and they will go on to raise children. They will get
divorced and have child custody fights just like heterosexuals do. They will be
allowed to make health care and end-of-life decisions for their spouses, just
like heterosexuals. <br />
<br />
We need to be the party of budgets and fostering policies that encourage small
businesses to thrive. We need to have a strong, prepared military, and also
honor and care for our service men and women, their families, and veterans. We
need to NOT butt into other nation’s “civil wars,” and we need not be world
police anymore. We have allies, and we need to stand by them. We need to do
what we can to keep the United States what she used to be. We need secure
borders and limited immigration. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: x-small;">Really, it’s all quite simple. I don’t mind if a candidate
believes abortion is wrong, or doesn’t think gay marriage is the will of God.
But we have something called separation of church and state, and our state says
it’s legal. If he or she cannot be an advocate, just shut up and at least do
not obstruct efforts to allow for gay rights or work toward making abortions
unavailable. Let each state handle it, and stay out of it and do the job a
president is supposed to do! </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: x-small;">Yep, I’m dreaming. Rubio 2016. </span></div>
<!--EndFragment-->CaliGirl9http://www.blogger.com/profile/06639398512708841968noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3785167492083077158.post-34989938736689012302012-09-15T20:03:00.001-07:002012-09-15T20:03:30.209-07:00Can this week be over... please?
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: x-small;">This week
is one I want to purge out of my mind and pretend it never happened (except for
what happened to me on Tuesday between 1 and 3 p.m., because it’s going to be
helpful). <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: x-small;">I’m
frustrated because I don’t think I am getting better fast enough. I had a
doctor’s appointment on Monday (normal every 4 month liver functions for high
cholesterol medication) and when I stepped on the scale, I expected a decent
weight loss. I’ve not had much of an appetite since my kidney stone drama
started on June 17, and my clothing tell me I’ve lost weight, but the scale
said I’d lost only 10 pounds. There are some days I don’t eat at all because I
just am not hungry. So my body is in full famine mode, holding onto every ounce
it can. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: x-small;">My very
dear stepdad drove me to my appointment in Daly City, a 2-½ hour drive. He got
me there early, which is always good. Usually. Not that day. <br />
<br />
When Jim picked me up at 8:15 a.m. he said there had already been a couple of
car wrecks along our route, including in the Bay Area. I didn’t think they’d
have any affect on what I was going to have done, but I was wrong! The car
accidents pretty much shut down the Peninsula, and the radiology/surgery center
noted that one of the doctors was late, as were all of the early appointments.
So they were behind an hour or so. My procedure time was supposed to be noon,
but I don’t think I got into a room until 1:30 p.m. By that time I am starving.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: x-small;">The
procedure went fine. Dr. Palma does as I ask—I want enough drugs to not
remember and to have little pain. To that end, they now have a full-blown
anesthesiologist or nurse anesthetist keeping patients on the table. All I
remember was feeling slightly dizzy with the Versed, then I watched as the
milky white Diprivan went into the tubing and into my vein. I remember thinking
“Why am I not out?” and then within seconds (so it seemed) I was awake and
being asked to scoot of the table and onto a gurney. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: x-small;">This
procedure involves sticking electrodes into my back and zapping nerves that run
through the facet joints. I asked Dr. Palma to really zap them and he did. This
time I had horrible pain in the recovery room, so horrible that it took 4 mg.
of Dilaudid and a Toridol injection to get me comfortable enough for the ride
home. In a month I’ll be in great shape for winter gardening/cleanup.<br />
<br />
So I was not terribly clear in the head and it was the next day when I learned
about the going-ons of 9/11/12. Wednesday I scoured the Internet, using the
usual sources and of course some definite political ones, to learn about what
had happened. Couple that with a photo of a cat disappearing from my wall, and
I spent Wednesday crying.<br />
<br />
The “cat disappearing from my wall” was a cat in an animal shelter in Baldwin
Park. I’d been sharing his photo and pleading—go get this kitty, share this
photo. One of the shelter volunteers said his time was almost up. He was a
ringer for my little Cammi cat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So I am
assuming the worst and am still so damned sad for the loss of that sweet soul,
Bond, who just wanted a home and love of his own. I still get weepy; I look at
Cammi and see him. Why can’t people just spay or neuter and be responsible for
the cats they are responsible for bringing into the world. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: x-small;">On
Wednesday the animal shelter posted a photo of brother and sister kittens who
are ringers for my Ryan—tuxrdo, mittens in front, little streaks of white on
their foreheads. Now I am worried for them. I promised my deceased kitty
Elliott that I’d take care of tuxedo cats like he was. I have only three…
that’s not saving very many.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: x-small;">Thursday the
pain was increasing rather than decreasing. The pharmacy finally had the right
medications, so it took a few hours to get the pain under control. I was still
looking for information about 9/11/12, asking myself “how could this happen?”
Isn’t 9/11 a high alert day for Americans anyway? Why should it be any
different for Americans in Islamic countries? If anything, every day should be
high alert there.<br />
<br />
I learned that the assassinated ambassador was involved in the so-called Arab
Spring, that he loved his post and the people of Libya. I also learned he had
been sodomized before he died. Then I started tripping over stories about the
president and how he’d skipped security briefings—and yes, he’d skipped the
most recent one where 9/11/12 was discussed. I learned there was credible
information that something was up. Why weren’t embassy staffs at ALL Islamic
nations on high alert? Why weren’t there Marines crawling all over he
place—ARMED Marines who were ready, willing and able to take care of problems
should they arise!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: x-small;">Thursday
evening I was scrounging up something in the kitchen, and four-month-old tuxie
kitten Morgan was skittering at my feet. One of the dogs, the “best behaved”
one, Stoli, was in the house, too, across the room. At my feet (so at Morgan’s
feet, too) there was a rawhide chew toy neither of us noticed. Suddenly the dog
dashed across the room, teeth bared, going after the kitten and I for being
close to her chew thing. Had I not had the walker, she would have knocked me
down and no doubt harmed the kitten. I threw the walker at her to protect the
kitten and myself. The dogs are out of control, and I am pretty close to
admitting I am in over my head and rehoming both of mine. Four big dogs are too
much, and earlier in the week they broke into a neighbor’s yard, chewing up her
garden hoses and terrorized her all afternoon. All I’ll be left with are my
daughter’s two, and if she hasn’t collected them by Christmas, I’ll rehome or
PTS the black one (I cannot rehome her boyfriend’s dog).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: x-small;">So
Saturday finally arrived, and as I type this, six Americans have died as a
consequence of “unrest” in Islamic countries. Our secretary of state claims
those protests aren’t directed at Americans per se, but are a reaction to a
film produced on U.S. soil that is critical of their prophet. Please, Madame Secretary.
Stop the political correctness and see this for what it is: It was 9/11,
Islam’s new traditioinal spit on Americans day. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: x-small;">This
afternoon, one of the Facebook groups posted a photo of Black Muslims holding a
cross with a “crucified” cat on it. I could not believe what I was seeing,
shared it with an anti-Muslim extremist group, and reported the image to
Facebook, who refuses to remove the image. It is horrific, and I cried for a
good 15 minutes after seeing it. I imagine the poor cat is dead, its paws
attached to the horizontal bar of the cross, its abdomen tied to the vertical
bar. I have never felt such hate for humans or a group of humans as I did
looking at that photo.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: x-small;">This
country has had a dearth of leadership for most of my life. Presidents are
worried about being politically correct and afraid to offend any one group,
even if it is for the good of the majority of Americans. Most of my life I
worried we were going to be overrun by Mexicans. That’s no longer the case. We
are being overrun by Muslims, who take over a city, install Muslims into
city/county government, and then work to establish Sharia law. We have a
president who has published the words “I will stand with the Muslims should the political winds shift in an ugly direction.” We should all be very afraid. I believe he is doing just that.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: x-small;">If that
poor crucified cat is something acceptable to Islam (or anyone), they deserve to be wiped
off the earth. I cannot believe the cruelty, the disregard for life. I know
that there are so-called Christians just as evil, and I think they are no
better than Islamic extremists. But for now it is plain that our enemies are
Islamic nations who have zero respect for the U.S. because we have spineless
leaders (starting all the way back to Johnson) who get and keep us in wars
where there can be no winner, where the goal was impossible (in this decade, “establishing
democracy” in nations where Sharia law is what they want is as far from a
democracy as one can get). I do not want any Americans fighting a ground war in
this region. Bring our troops home, blow up a few mosques for good measure,
pull all foreign aid to Islamic-identifying nations, and protect our own
continent. Secure the southern border (I read an article that mentioned that
prayer rugs are among the litter left by border hoppers—since when did
overwhelmingly Catholic Mexicans start using prayer rugs?), deport students
from the Middle East who have overstayed their visas (What what the heck,
deport those from any country who have overstayed a student visa) and keep our
own nation secure.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: x-small;">I hope
our government learns something from the goings-on this week. I hope I soon
forget the mental and physical pain and find myself digging in the dirt,
getting my roses ready for winter, and being able to somehow learn that I
cannot save every animal. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 10pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<!--EndFragment-->CaliGirl9http://www.blogger.com/profile/06639398512708841968noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3785167492083077158.post-26812856261470059772012-06-17T22:24:00.000-07:002012-06-17T22:40:14.567-07:00Getting Older is Not for Sissies<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj29GsD-mBcQouBsTdROtXbM-lr2cnOKVNtWi6Ah2tbyt6D9F3N2SjP71GRPwNmIGtNmNxqXN9BIDgq5bN3Nl66HxF17ROLJf5wf2dhQyqYhT1lIq35s6qBpMgFj27VMpfBfNCYvOw7ytU/s1600/painscale.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="295" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj29GsD-mBcQouBsTdROtXbM-lr2cnOKVNtWi6Ah2tbyt6D9F3N2SjP71GRPwNmIGtNmNxqXN9BIDgq5bN3Nl66HxF17ROLJf5wf2dhQyqYhT1lIq35s6qBpMgFj27VMpfBfNCYvOw7ytU/s320/painscale.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<h4 style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">An example of a pain scale, from zero (no pain) to 10 (worst possible pain ever)</span></h4>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I have just re-calibrated the way I use the one-to-ten
pain scale. Prior to this afternoon, I reserved “10” for childbirth and waking
up from my back fusion surgery.<br />
<br />
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I live with what I judge is 6 to 8 pain every day, and
medicate only when the pain approaches 8. I stood for a couple of hours pitting
sour cherries yesterday, and woke up with back pain, which was expected. As the
day progressed, the pain began to radiate from my high lumbar area to around
the front—what one might call “flank pain.” <br />
<br />
Nurse Cathy did a decent job of denying how bad the pain was or what it was
likely to mean. I knew I had a kidney stone, I could not remember its size but
knew it was in my left kidney. It was diagnosed by ultrasound in January of
this year. <br />
<br />
However, when I found myself on my bathroom floor, looking for anywhere to get
comfortable, I had to accept the truth and diagnose myself with a kidney stone.
The little bugger had worked its way loose. <br />
<br />
After today I have a new pain scale and ways to relate to it. Ten is a kidney stone on the move,
period. I have never endured that kind of pain, ever. And I’ve had lots of
different kinds of pain, but this takes the cake. I would rather have another
baby, even a 100-pound baby, or have another fusion surgery than ever do this
again. Childbirth is now relegated to a 9 on the pain scale. I’m going to drop
my daily pain to a range from 5 to 7, and reserve 8 for the day after an active
day, or a day I’ve walked on concrete, or a day after I’ve overdone yard work. <br />
<br />
Unfortunately the 9-mm stone is likely too large to pass on its own, and I’m
headed for a lithotripsy or a percutaneous nephrolithotomy. It took 4 IV shots
of Dilaudid to ease the pain. I have orders to call my urologist’s office first
thing in the morning. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The only good things that happened in the ER were: (1) I
was taken care of by the daughter of an RN I used to work with at Mee Memorial
in the 1980s. KCHS peeps may remember Denise Dart from Greenfield. Her
daughter, Cassie, is her only child (Carlos Soto of Greenfield is her dad). I’ve
not seen Cassie since she was perhaps 3 years old, and my strongest memory of
her is as a preemie, just brought home from Stanford Medical Center 27 years
ago. Cassie is a most excellent RN, needing only two pokes to start an IV on me
(I have terrible veins). (2) I also got to see my step-cousin Molly, who was
working a rare day shift, and invited her to come pick some sour cherries from
my yard. (3) I semi-reluctantly went to the King City hospital, knowing there
was a real possibility that the medical staff knew my siblings and would be
eager to pre-judge me and believe I was seeking narcotics for my amusement (a
trick they did). I was examined by a doctor who has been in King City forever
(and I did used to work with him while I was on staff at Mee Memorial), and I
was worried that he would not listen to me regarding my pain (I was audibly
moaning, I could not help it!), and be reluctant to treat me with heavy-duty
narcotics because I do take daily pain medication, and ultimately discount what
I was saying about the pain. He didn’t, and Dr. Robert Hostetter I believe did
the right thing by me. Dr. Hostetter had a full head of thick, dark hair back
then. It’s thinner and gray now. <br />
<br />
I am hoping that tomorrow’s as of yet unscheduled visit to Dr. Renfer takes
care of this problem. I really
don’t like the idea of having this pain ever again. I had a final dose of
Dilaudid at around 8 p.m. on my way out of the ER, and I had better take a
Percocet for the pain that is slowly returning. <br />
<br />
Once the stone is passed/retrieved, it can be sent to pathology to see what
kind of stone it is, and what kind of dietary changes I need to make, if any. <br />
<br />
The summer of 2012 is going to be one full of doctor visits… this unexpected
kidney crap, my yet-to-be-scheduled left hip replacement, and
yet-to-be-scheduled bilateral 2-level, rhizotomies for my back. I don’t dare
ask what else can go wrong, and even with all of that, I consider my health
good. Ad yes, I am a bit delusional I suppose. </span><span style="font-family: Georgia;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
</div>CaliGirl9http://www.blogger.com/profile/06639398512708841968noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3785167492083077158.post-66311329843120933542012-05-01T21:51:00.001-07:002012-05-01T21:59:32.317-07:00Dirt Therapy<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnGOyNOxZLWOMlsuKY9tN-CjlJnOP_57wvvCDz2zUddBeVoW7cesLCbS1b-qK7SvMte6DPCehKgQ6TZRIoRB5lidFVYBBzwKcPbzn7SYbhOPEUHC6Cxw6qKNguFb05M4DEuwWhtf-Da2U/s1600/IMG_0560.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnGOyNOxZLWOMlsuKY9tN-CjlJnOP_57wvvCDz2zUddBeVoW7cesLCbS1b-qK7SvMte6DPCehKgQ6TZRIoRB5lidFVYBBzwKcPbzn7SYbhOPEUHC6Cxw6qKNguFb05M4DEuwWhtf-Da2U/s320/IMG_0560.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One of my very happy yellow roses in bloom.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1fFF2SuMm8-JVySFUimxPyb3lhnGf31rMnxEamviCRCs-OjR8Ue5H6JdQio87Qa3cS-Tbf3rboYll5YhhIEk2dFjhN_PDGS-cxJ-qKsUDH4Z8rgpSV7U_VF-7BF2V0lYGXNLVog0dU6M/s1600/IMG_0603.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1fFF2SuMm8-JVySFUimxPyb3lhnGf31rMnxEamviCRCs-OjR8Ue5H6JdQio87Qa3cS-Tbf3rboYll5YhhIEk2dFjhN_PDGS-cxJ-qKsUDH4Z8rgpSV7U_VF-7BF2V0lYGXNLVog0dU6M/s320/IMG_0603.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Apple blossom complete with bee at work!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Today was a bit of a tough day; I’m not quite sure why I’ve
been so uncomfortable—I’m probably in deep denial about needing to go to my
back doctor and get in and have my annual neurotomies, and I really should go
see a rheumatologist about the persistent ache in my hands (and hoping the pain
in the hips is related to the pain in my hands). So I wasn’t terribly
productive in the yard today, though I did cultivate some nasty baby weeds and
pick up some big mistletoe branches that fell due to the high winds.
Consequently, tonight I’m not feeling so rewarded by my lack of productivity. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">There are two things I like best about doing yard work. The
first has been the opportunity to learn how to take care of plants and
trees—thanks YouTube! To the best of my physical abilities I pruned my roses
this past fall—and pruned them properly—and I’m reaping the benefits by finally
having abundant, beautiful roses. Time will tell if the aggressive pruning I did on the grape
vines will result in edible fruit, how many blackberries I end up harvesting in
July, and if my nectarine and peach trees give lots of fruit. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">What I like best about yard work (something I call “dirt
therapy” for lack of a better term) is it gives me lots of time to think.
Sometimes thinking can be dangerous, sometimes productive. I’ve had three main
life goals I’ve been thinking about, thoughts and wishes that are motivating
me. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The first of course is the hope I can someday buy myself a
mini-horse as therapy, both mental and physical. Being involuntarily weaned from being owned by horses is
probably contributing greatly to my overall dissatisfaction with life. I accept
that I shouldn’t be riding anymore, but I miss just having a horse to brush,
care for, and talk to. But no one
can help me with that one—I have to find the money, it’s on ME.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The second goal is pulling my house and yard together to the
point where I can entertain family and people I care about. I’d love to be able
to open my front door (which needs to be replaced or refinished…) and invite
people in to a nicely furnished house, with a nice, inviting backyard and deck.
The ghetto-ness of my house starts right at the driveway with weeds and a
truckload of garbage that just doesn’t seem to get hauled off. I guess there is
hoarder’s treasure somewhere in there.
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Face it, I’m old enough that I should be hosting holiday
dinners and family get-togethers.
And someday, when this house* and yard is whipped into shape, I’d like
to have host a family reunion of sorts, a party bringing together the
descendants of James McCoey and Mary Ann Welsh, my paternal great-grandparents
on my father’s mother’s side.
James and Mary Ann (who were divorced, and it was some sort of family
scandal, because my grandmother wouldn’t talk about it at all) now have
great-great-great grandchildren, and there are actually quite a few of us still
in this area. I know I’d have a houseful, but I really want to reconnect with
those loved ones I’ve simply not seen in forever, and meet their children and
grandchildren (some of whom I’ve not met…). It’s not going to happen this
summer, because I’ve not yet figured out how to rid myself of the ghetto deck
and opossum condo that doubles as a broke-down hot tub. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The third “something” is figuring out a way to give to
people who need just a tiny bit of help to keep them going. I’m not talking
about throwing money at people—I have none (and if I did, look at the second
paragraph again to see where my money would go!). I’m talking about doing
things—a little something that might make someone’s life easier. Be it as small
as coming in and doing some light housework/yard work, I know what a difference
it would make. Wouldn’t it be nice to have a “club” (for lack of better term)
of KCHS graduates who would be willing to get together and just DO something
for someone? Put our pennies together, or our abilities, and just take on a small
project that would brighten someone’s day and maybe make their life easier? Like
a 4-H for grown-ups I guess!</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">* Whipping this house together means fresh paint outside and
inside, new carpet in two bedrooms, new flooring in two bathrooms and the
kitchen, remodel of the bathrooms [specifically new vanities], remodel of the
kitchen, a dining room set [including a sideboard for storing nice stuff] and a
television wall unit with shelving. In other words, it means pretty much a new
house and furnishings. </span><a href="http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=3785167492083077158" name="_GoBack"></a></div>CaliGirl9http://www.blogger.com/profile/06639398512708841968noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3785167492083077158.post-59847622883203206342012-04-29T20:53:00.000-07:002012-04-30T15:09:00.920-07:00I Need a Good Electrician…<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgbZxBAQhou8Vcz3kyttYnidNWkA6dX1I6r9cLK9qNx4s_3nwQc5TylilefwuxXWJGsFIYp3xVD-_MJ9DY178Gb67y3Qd9WTcjHYtWz-8op4K_N2A0tJYtgrSavNH30Jur1NwdOnWHHAA/s1600/Penny.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgbZxBAQhou8Vcz3kyttYnidNWkA6dX1I6r9cLK9qNx4s_3nwQc5TylilefwuxXWJGsFIYp3xVD-_MJ9DY178Gb67y3Qd9WTcjHYtWz-8op4K_N2A0tJYtgrSavNH30Jur1NwdOnWHHAA/s320/Penny.jpeg" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="color: purple; font-size: small;">Penny the Therapy Pony. She is therapy for me, and I want a therapy pony of my own!</span></i><br />
<br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Okay, so the title is a bit misleading. What I really need,
I suppose, is a good shrink. I need assistance in getting my brain re-wired to a more positive place.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Last weekend (from Friday, April 20 at 3 p.m. to Sunday,
April 22 at around 4:30 p.m.), I had the best weekend I’d had in over 15 years.
I admit I had concerns about
driving myself for four hours, as my usual pain limit is around an hour. And
yes, when I got out of the car in Tehachapi to refuel, those first ten steps or
so were excruciatingly painful. But any hint of pain utterly vanished as I
drove toward Bear Valley Springs and descended into the valley itself, looking
at open spaces, nice homes and horse properties complete with horses. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Normally what I would have done after a 4-hour car ride is
take something for pain. But I didn’t. I visited with my friend and within an
hour I was holding a horse in a wash rack, with horse hair flying all over, and
reveling in the smell of wet horse. We bathed three horses together, and while
Charisse and her husband Vic bathed a fourth, I sat in the sunshine with Penny
while she was drying from her bath. I should have been hurting like hell, but I
wasn’t. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was only after I took a shower, washing off horse hair
and horse smell that I figured I probably should take something for pain,
because pain just has a way of keeping me awake. I fell asleep reading horse
magazines and woke up 7 hours later, a bit stiff (normal for me), but nowhere
near in as much pain as usual. I took a pain pill, and went about the day’s
activities, which included several hours of photography, walking, bending,
kneeling—whatever it took to get the shot. I know I should have been in pain—I do these things when I
do yard work. Mind you, I am as slow as a turtle doing yard work—I require
frequent rest periods and stretches, and at times I do have to break and take
something for pain. So by no means am I fast, nor do I lift much, and it takes
me three times as long to do something when compared to an able-bodied person. <br />
<br />
That second night I noted I went 14 hours without taking any pain
medication. The next day we spent
time with the horses, and I even spent a good 15 minutes kneeling on the barn
breezeway floor, a brick surface, scratching dear Penny between her front legs
while she reciprocated and groomed the nape of my neck at the base of my
hairline. I did not want to return home, but knew my cats probably missed me
(and I them), so off I went in the
late afternoon, wishing I could bottle whatever “it” was that made the weekend
so wonderful.<br />
<br />
By the time I got back to the Salinas Valley, I noticed how much my low back
was stinging. It was close to bedtime, so I took something for pain. I was sad and my mind dwelled on how I would never have a horse property, how I would never be able to have horses or live in the country on a house that is surrounded by a few acres. I woke up
in pain four hours later, my knees just ached to the core, and I repeated my pain meds. About five hours later I awoke
again, and again took something for pain.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I tried real hard to not fall back into my pain pattern my
first day home, and I did okay. But as the week has progressed, I’m back to my
old pattern. I don’t watch the clock, but my body just tells me that my back
and knees hurt, and first thing in the morning my wrists, hands and hips hurt
so badly that I’m just one package of pain. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yesterday morning (Saturday) I woke up in horrible pain. The
first few steps I took across the hall to the bathroom were excruciating. But
I’d promised a friend I would visit her and bring her some blackberry cuttings
from my yard—I have so many blackberry plants, they are like weeds growing
everywhere! I forced my carcass to move around, eventually repeated my pain
medication (about 5 hours from the previous dose), dug up some plants, cut some
roses as a surprise to cheer my friend up, and off I went! </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I have always had physical limitations—always! When I was a
very young child my knees would just stop working—probably dislocated kneecaps,
but I was too young to remember. If I took a wrong step or if my horse took me
into a tree or a fence, and I was hit just right, I’d dislocate my kneecap, and
I was at the mercy of whomever was with me to pull my leg out straight and the
kneecap would pop back into place.
I had to stop ballet in the third grade because my knees would not
tolerate dancing en pointe. I had limitations in PE throughout junior high and
high school. So I’m used to pulling myself out of very physical activities. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But when I saw my friend for the first time since 1974—someone
who was so golden, so vivacious, so unlimited and whose body has utterly
betrayed her despite doing everything right physical activity-wise, the breath
was knocked right out of me. Her spirit is still exactly as I remember, but now
she’s got the physical limitations—multiplied twofold—that I have. Back in high school,
nothing stopped her. Immediately
my “pain,” the pain I always have, went right into the shadows and I went into
“what can I do for you?” mode. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I happily planted the infant blackberry plants I’d brought
for her. Some went into pots, and I planted five in the ground, in a strategic
location so she can easily water and ultimately harvest the berries that will
come to her in July. I walked on uneven ground, sat on the ground, kneeled, got
up, walked around, and even carried in a case of dog food for her. When she
voiced concern about my pain, I had to say “I know it’s here but it’s just not
here.” <br />
<br />
I went home expecting to “pay” for my activities. But I didn’t. I took
something for pain just before I went to sleep, and had my sleep interrupted
about 6 hours later, so repeated the medication. I putzed around the house for
a couple of hours in preparation for doing some of my own yard work. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At noon I went to the side yard to water my little bulbs who
are peeking their heads from the mulch. I watered them, and cultivated some
weeds (I’m trying to get rid of weeds before they get very big; I’m trying to
avoid having Round-Up sprayed all over the place). With 30 minutes of slow and
fairly gentle yard work, I hurt terribly. I took something for pain, and
continued cultivating the weeds in the dry, hard ground. An hour later I still hurt, so I repeated my
pain medication, and then went back outside to burn some yard waste—branches
and leaves I’ve trimmed from all over, dried weeds I pulled up several weeks
ago, and lots of mistletoe that is falling from the elm tree I’d like to cut
down. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was happily interrupted by a visit from a friend I’ve not
seen in some time. She and her family lived in the house above ours, and we grew
up running around in the hills like wild animals—we’d leave home in the
morning, maybe go home for lunch (or more often, take food with us), play in
the creek or in the hills, and go home before dark. Our parents never worried
for our safety.<br />
<br />
The only trauma from the visit was she saw my ghetto house and ghetto yard. My
house is nowhere near “house beautiful.” It’s in bad enough shape that I
generally don’t invite people in, I am so embarrassed. Two slobs live in this
house, and one of the slobs isn’t able-bodied enough to clean up after two! I’m
embarrassed she had to look at the ghetto deck and the ghetto hot tub where an opossum sleeps! But she said nothing—I think she knows and understands my
physical limitations, and of course now my financial ones. Someday I will have
the house and yard I want—no garbage strewn about, nice furniture, a comfortable
place that people want to return to, a place where I can host family
get-togethers during the holidays and not be embarrassed by piles of paper and
torn-up furniture. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Anyway, I am beginning to come to the conclusion that I have
less pain if I am doing something I love or doing for others. Now “all” I have
to figure out is where and how I can routinely apply this to my life every day.
Opportunities to “do for others” are sorely lacking in SoMoCo. I’m looking at
joining the Daughters of the American Revolution (yes I am eligible, I have TWO
relatives who served!) and I’m hoping there will be service opportunities
there. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In lieu of a mini-horse I think I will buy some chickens and
care for them—probably a temporary fix until I can afford to buy a mini-horse
and build a little turn-out pen for it in the backyard. Even though I’m not an
egg-eater (I cook with them) I know there’s nothing like fresh eggs, and I
think it will give me immense pleasure to raise chickens and collect their eggs
and give them to family and friends. Wonder if I can make a little money by
selling eggs… maybe that’s how I will be able to buy myself a mini-horse, which
is what I think will contribute greatly to keeping the pain I will always have
in check. </div>CaliGirl9http://www.blogger.com/profile/06639398512708841968noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3785167492083077158.post-37437874469525906752012-03-05T14:50:00.005-08:002012-03-05T20:15:59.589-08:00A Worthy Hero (Who No Doubt Doesn't Think of Himself that Way)<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVlhxmhFWWrtHBegVqJcACst0QEopyMr1Kq0aHcwxuDGrcYFCsTANtITzMPldR9V3QrWa5-W6ZIRhTmCLo-Zm2ont38Om4_hBDfXCL1f7udItBJaLsIEcSQZ6e2PljFWlfO_j6p_LM0DM/s1600/WesBack.jpg" style="font-style: normal; font-size: 100%; font-family: Georgia, serif; "><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 305px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVlhxmhFWWrtHBegVqJcACst0QEopyMr1Kq0aHcwxuDGrcYFCsTANtITzMPldR9V3QrWa5-W6ZIRhTmCLo-Zm2ont38Om4_hBDfXCL1f7udItBJaLsIEcSQZ6e2PljFWlfO_j6p_LM0DM/s320/WesBack.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5716549395961341138" /></a><span><i>Photo of Wesley Barrientos in Bakersfield, California. Photo by me, digital manipulation by Katie Hannan.</i></span><div style="font-style: normal; "><span><br /></span></div><div style="font-style: normal; "> <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:officedocumentsettings> <o:allowpng/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:trackmoves>false</w:TrackMoves> <w:trackformatting/> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:drawinggridhorizontalspacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridHorizontalSpacing> <w:drawinggridverticalspacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridVerticalSpacing> <w:displayhorizontaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery> <w:displayverticaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:ignoremixedcontent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:dontgrowautofit/> <w:dontautofitconstrainedtables/> <w:dontvertalignintxbx/> </w:Compatibility> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:latentstyles deflockedstate="false" latentstylecount="276"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--> <!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast; mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;} </style> <![endif]--> <!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal"><span>Now that’s I’m finally coming out of the fog of pneumonia I can reflect on the people I met while out on the road. There were several who touched me with their stories and their kindnesses but there is one who motivated me every day and who will continue to motivate me every day—and that person is Wesley Barrientos. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia; "><span>Since 1989 I’ve dealt with my back injury and its impact on my life, what it’s taken away from me. All of my life I’ve dealt with bad knees and with every step I take worry they will stay underneath me. Both have stopped me from doing so much. I wish I had been a better physical specimen, sometimes angry about what I’ve never had and what has been taken away from me.</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span><o:p><span> </span></o:p><span style="font-family: georgia; ">Until I met Wes.</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia; "><span>Wes is a year younger than my daughter but an old, wise soul. I don’t know the kind of person he was before he lost both legs to an IED in Iraq in December 2007—his third tour of duty in that God-forsaken place. I do know he is a man of action and a man who says “Why not? Let's do it!” instead of “I can’t.”</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia; "><span>Wesley volunteered for the United States Army as soon as he graduated from high school. He wanted to be infantry and insisted that be his job. He wasn’t signing up for military service to be a cook or a supply person or a paper-shuffler—he meant to fight, and fight he did.</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia; "><span>Wesley was wounded a total of three times—he is the recipient of three Purple Hearts. Seriously, in his chest beats the heart of a lion that simply doesn’t understand the words “no” and “can’t.”</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia; "><span>To listen to him talk about the act of war that took away his legs is chilling and usually brought tears to my eyes. He was near the end of tour #3 and he and his squad were heading in for the day when Wes’ vehicle found a roadside bomb. The explosion took off his left leg and right foot right off the bat. He recalls waking up several days later in Germany, with fluorescent lights on the ceiling and a pretty nurse standing over him saying “Thank God you woke up!”</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia; "><span>His reply: “Thank God I woke up!”</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia; "><span>“Do you know what happened?”</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia; "><span>Knowing that he wasn’t in Iraq anymore, and knowing what it took to get airlifted out of there, he replied, “I got blown up.”</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia; "><span>That’s Wes. Why mince words?</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia; "><span>The nurse went on to explain that he’d lost his left leg, and would probably lose more of his right leg, too.</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia; "><span>“Is that all?”</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia; "><span>She explained he also had a broken back and broken jaw.</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia; "><span>“Is that all? I expected you to tell me my guts were all hanging out and that you were waking me up to say goodbye!”</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia; "><span>When he was transferred to Walter Reed Army Hospital, the doctors there asked him his goals. Nobody told him he couldn’t walk or eventually run, so he said he’d be doing both in 6 months.</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia; "><span>The doctors tisked him and said more like 18 months, son.</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia; "><span>Wes made a liar out of those doctors and was true to his words.</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia; "><span>I watched Wes walk anyplace he wanted, places I wouldn’t go. He motored up stairs as if he were a 4-year old on two good legs. There was one day, stopped in the middle of nowhere in the Mojave Desert where he and his riding partner Jeremy Staat looked up at a rocky mountain and wished they had time to climb it. Thing is, I have no doubt Wes would have.</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia; "><span>Wes talks about the one time he parachuted from a plane and how he landed in a tree, breaking an ankle. He talks about not wanting to have it x-rayed, and how frustrated he was to have to have light duty—and in a bit of foreshadowing, how he stopped using his walking cast long before he should have. </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia; "><span>I never heard Wes complain of pain. The only time he complained was when he was hungry after a day’s ride, and he really didn’t whine a lot. He was in the process of treating some blisters that were developing on his hands where he pushes and pulls the crank that powers his bike. He wasn’t really complaining, just doing preventative maintenance. </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span> He and I had a conversation about his rehab, and how the doctors were giving him oxycontin for pain. He felt the use of oxycontin was holding him back, and he’s not one to be dependent on anything—so he quit cold turkey after taking the meds for four months. He takes no narcotics for pain today.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia; "><span>The day we visited the Nevada State Veterans Home really gave me the opportunity to see what a quality guy Wes is. There were around 30 veterans in wheelchairs, perhaps 10 ambulatory, waiting for Wes and Jeremy to come in with their bikes. While waiting, we spoke to some. I was enamored of two gentlemen right in front—a pair of WWII and Korean War Navy men.</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia; "><span>After a brief time at the podium, the riders worked the room, so to say. I watched Wes sit down with Army veterans and just listen to them—not moving his eyes off their faces, really hearing their stories, taking their words to heart. As each conversation came toward an end, he’d call me over to take photographs. He smiled, but the smile of the veteran he’d just conversed with had an even bigger smile.</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia; "><span>He later remarked how much he’d been touched by the visit. I saw that there is a bond connecting our veterans of all ages—their “wars” may have been separated by decades, but the experiences touch them the same, and remain with them forever. There are few experiences in life that do that. </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span>(A quick aside. The Nevada State Veterans’ Home is just that—a home. The staff are all mission-oriented and if I were still working as an RN I’d be proud to be working there. The mission is the care and respect due to the residents for serving this country—there are no patients there.)</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia; "><span>When the 100-day ride is over—and I have zero doubts that Wes will finish—he will come back to Bakersfield and continue the paperwork to have his “Life Over Legs” Foundation become a 501(c) charity, and begin to fight the VA for his education benefits so he can attend Bakersfield Community College and eventually finish a 4-year degree. (Yes, our veterans have to jump through hoops to get their education benefits, and the VA just loves looking for loopholes to deny those benefits. If a veteran wants to attend college, he or she must start the paperwork a semester before, and that's no guarantee the paperwork will go through or be approved. Shameful.)</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia; "><span>Wes’ goal for “Life Over Legs” is to fund visits to military hospitals, clinics and rehab facilities, to give hope and inspiration to wounded soldiers. Watching Wesley stride into any room on two titanium legs is certainly inspiring, and it is a sure thing that anyone watching Wesley, or hearing his story and seeing him today, will think “If he can, certainly I can too.” </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span>I will try to pay attention to when Life Over Legs gets its non-profit status—a donation will certainly be an investment that will pay dividends in the lives of so many of our physically and mentally-wounded soldiers returning from Iraq and Afghanistan. Wesley Barrientos is the guy who will make a difference long after every single serviceman and woman is brought home from that fleapit. </span></p> <!--EndFragment--></div>CaliGirl9http://www.blogger.com/profile/06639398512708841968noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3785167492083077158.post-86988421308568331042012-02-27T15:09:00.005-08:002012-02-27T15:21:31.326-08:00Day Six: Twentynine Palms “Day Off”<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnbPrHKLCRY0gopW5GaupERt7F-Dt4mjq3atFU-8qPKg6LxXT8_h2Cb0e_8aN09Hi6o4EqnA88ZFkuPdpWChKJ0qjLv6LQFwaLYVc5BnoqmT8GaJMTzlTQpY28aZE29wFoujnQ53rhizU/s1600/IMG_8744.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" 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name="Bibliography"> <w:lsdexception locked="false" priority="39" qformat="true" name="TOC Heading"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--> <!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-priority:99; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:Cambria; mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;} </style> <![endif]--> <!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;">Photo: Arm patch right off of an Air Force general and a Coin of Excellence from a Marine Corps major. My treasures.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;">Thus far my sore throat hasn’t progressed very much.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >Up and fully dressed by 8 a.m.—and I mean fully dressed by wearing a dress—business casual—for a pair of speaking engagements at Twentynine Palms Junior High and Twentynine Palms High School, followed by lunch at the officer’s club on base, another speaking engagement to newly-graduated from boot camp Marines, and then a “what do you want to see” tour of the base.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >Jeremy spent time on base—specifically the semi-isolated, self-contained Ft. Nelson—before he was deployed to Iraq.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"> </span></o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:georgia;">Kelly O’Sullivan, a civilian communications specialist for the base, met us in the motel parking lot. She was our personal chauffeur for the day—the base did not allow our vehicles of caravan on base, so Jeremy, Wesley, Heather and I climbed into Kelly’s borrowed mom van.</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >The first stop, at Twentynine Palms Junior High, was a group of students who were exploring the military as a career. The kids ranged from eager participants to kids who were put into the program because they’d gotten into trouble. Again the guys made their presentation, and then opened the floor for questions.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >I was genuinely surprised at the football-related questions asked by some of the boys. It was as if all they’d heard of Jeremy’s talk was “NFL.” But Jeremy’s a trooper and answered the questions—no, I don’t know that guy, yes we beat that team.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >Afterwards a line of kids asked Jeremy for his autograph, and he happily obliged.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >Next, a quick trip to a mom-and-pop taqueria for breakfast burritos for the guys. Then we were off to the junior high—a group Jeremy most enjoys, at-risk kids.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >As the kids entered the small classroom, you certainly could tell these kids needed plenty of guidance. Some of the girls dressed provocatively; the boys spoke loudly and schlepped in as if they’d rather be anyplace else.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >After the talk Jeremy remarked about one girl in the audience who wore heavy make-up and a crop top. Part of Jeremy’s talk is directed to young women—you have more power and influence than you think: get your education, go to college, be self-sufficient and rely on no man. He could tell she was not only hearing but also listening, taking his words to heart. Perhaps she will be the one kid his talk saves on this day?</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >We were then off to the Combat Center at Twentynine Palms for lunch with the second-in-command major and base sergeant major, and the communications specialist. I was astonished at how nice the officer’s club was, and how good the food was. I had spicy shrimp tacos. Yum. The conversation was great and I learned lots about the military way. I also received my second on-the-road treasure.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >When I was a kid, Ft. Hunter Liggett in south Monterey County and Ft. Ord in Marina/Seaside were both open. Both were Army bases; today Ft. Ord is a California State University location and Hunter Liggett is a minimally-active base. Located in the Santa Lucia Mountains at the edge of the Ventana Wilderness, Hunter Liggett is a dusty rural post—I don’t recall seeing the equipment being gleaming clean. At Twentynine Palms, also a dusty place, the equipment is clean—trucks, artillery, even parked tanks.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >As we drove up to the next location, we noticed a group of around 100 young soldiers sitting on the asphalt in 80 degree weather. Jeremy called the group BOOTS—an acronym for Barely Out Of Training. This talk was slightly different—the message, take your training seriously, seize the opportunity and be proud of the family you now belong to, the USMC, a very selective family with a 250-year tradition. A short question-and-answer session followed, and off we went for a base tour.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;">Jeremy wanted to visit Ft. Nelson. He remarked that it had grown quite a bit since he’d been there. It’s build to resemble a military outpost in a desert environment. I am sure he felt pride and the eagerness of a child who gets an insider look at something that was important to him. <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Once a Marine, always a Marine. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >We expected to be done early in the afternoon—best-laid plans but I wouldn’t have missed a minute. Back to uploading photos, and to bed in preparation for the 100-mile ride the next day.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <!--EndFragment-->CaliGirl9http://www.blogger.com/profile/06639398512708841968noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3785167492083077158.post-88225896619045194622012-02-27T15:04:00.002-08:002012-02-27T15:08:02.645-08:00Day Five: Barstow to Twentynine Palms<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0wgYew_3WXTmpZKMb_TyNI8zd3fHVpyq4Ld4iaqvs9oxxWsHTy89RsmOlW8uMj1fAF5M1tLg_7xXTK75-3wnC64h7Hew32vqOr62a7UIublxLyCQQbziG3bc03QXCUC8M2G4a0jKhBv4/s1600/posed.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 214px; height: 320px;" 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mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;} </style> <![endif]--> <!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal">Ei<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;">ght a.m. comes early, and off we went toward Twentynine Palms, a 100<span style="color:red"> </span>mile ride.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>It was already no-coat weather, so there was no doubt the day would be quite warm. We drove to where we ended the ride the day before—at the top of that “We’re not going there” hill. Jeremy and Wesley got onto their respective bikes, and headed on Route 247 toward Twentynine Palms. The van and I stuck with the guys for about half of the day. Right off the bat was a climb—naturally! The combination of the heat and the gentle hills sucked the hydration right out of the riders, and I was sent ahead to get fluids as they went through their usual day’s stock.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;">I am simply amazed by the amount of wide-open spaces in this part of California. I am reminded of the rugged individualism that abounded in the early California settlers. At first blush there is really a whole lot of nothing out here: monochromatic browns, tans and dusty greens. But there is also very clean air and deafening silence.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;">For those who have never been to Twentynine Palms, the “city limits” sign is pretty far away from the actual town center—it’s a stretched-out town build on gentle hills overlooking the Marine base which is obviously the city’s main industry. We had been instructed to set up at Luckie Park and there was a speaking engagement for Jeremy and Wesley at a town center.<br /><br />Luckie Park is named for a Los Angeles physician who referred World War I veterans suffering from lung problems secondary to mustard gas exposure to the clean dry desert air. It’s a cute little place, with nice green lawns and shade trees scattered all over the park. There is a nice community swimming pool, too. We waited for a representative of the city to tell us where she wanted us to set up, but she never showed up. So the traveling circus set up, and visitors trickled by.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;">I’m not certain of the exact time, but as the agreed-upon time for the speaking engagement approached, it was clear there was no meeting hall nearby. There was a bit of a flurry and a scurry when the person who was supposed to meet us at the park came looking for us: she’d described the meeting hall as being “at the park” but the truth was it was above and across from the park—we did not see it. The guys of course knocked it out of the park, and the highlight of the event was when Jeremy shushed a man who was standing at the door and carrying on conversations during Wesley’s presentation. We later learned the shushed man was the city manager!</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;">I managed to upload some photos but it was soon off to bed for a guided tour of the Twentynine Palms Marine Base, named the Combat Center at Twentynine Palms, tomorrow, our “off” day. So much for catching up with work.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;">Worst of all, I am getting a scratchy throat, typical for me when I’m exposed to extremes in weather. <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></span><o:p></o:p></p> <!--EndFragment--> <!--EndFragment-->CaliGirl9http://www.blogger.com/profile/06639398512708841968noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3785167492083077158.post-45202836039080215742012-02-24T21:44:00.005-08:002012-02-24T21:54:45.167-08:00Day Three: Anything But a Down Day<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjByRRAqgiaE0thYtCFLCtiTb2U3yhyphenhyphen7p_-i6szwloKzZrETiXvYadh9O3g67jMg2SAFfwiVK4nLAUT-Zwoiy47gOEmY8q4KalS-O_fdrm47U4W35M7sD1j0c4pKTsFFHKzHlduin_EbR4/s1600/casa.jpg" style="font-size: 100%; font-family: Georgia, serif; "><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" 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Sweet, huh?</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span >Day three began with breakfast from Burger King—something we all really wanted to avoid. In the house the first night were two girls (Heather Haro, he operations director of the Jeremy Staat Foundation and moi) sharing a bedroom, Jason in one bedroom (single bed), Kevin (bike mechanic) in the master bedroom and Wesley on the hide-a-bed in the living room! When I went to bed I expected to have Jeremy in the master bedroom in the king-sized bed—don’t you agree that a 6’6” man deserves to be in a king-sized bed?—and I sure would have thought Wesley deserved to have a bedroom with an actual bed. But that man simply does not complain and he’s tough as nails. He’s breaking in a pair of new neoprene sleeves for his stumps, and he very matter-of-factly says breaking in new sleeves is tough, and that chafing and blistering is expected.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span ><br />The first morning I learned Jeremy had slept in the motorhome. That’s where he wanted to be, too. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span > </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span >After inhaling breakfast, we went to the staging area to set up for the day’s festivities which consisted of making Jeremy and Wesley available for passerby. Unlike the day before when the commissary was closed for Presidents’ Day, the parking lot had plenty of activity and visitors to the Jeremy Staat Foundation’s information table, a traveling veterans’ center, and Healing Horses and Armed Forces (Charisse Rudolph and Penny the mini-horse). <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span > </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span >There was work to be done though. The van has joined the caravan, and the three Foundation vehicles needed to be outfitted with CB radios. Because we had the luxury of a fully-equipped kitchen, I elected to volunteer to cook dinner and asked Wesley for his meal preference. He said he’d enjoy lasagna or spaghetti, so off I went to the commissary store to buy the ingredients for a green salad, lasagna and to bake a cake.<br /><br />While I was cooking I took advantage of Edwards Air Force Base’s excellent Internet service. I still had photos to upload and plenty of other things to get done—like check over my media list and try to get information to some television stations, newspapers and radio stations along the way. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span > </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span ><span>What I forgot to share with you all last night is that Dale left the house suddenly last night, saying he needed to check his house because a friend told him it had been broken into. He’d already claimed the sofa for sleeping, so God works in mysterious ways, giving the sofa and hide-a-bed to Wesley as his bedroom. I was not paying attention to what Dale was saying on the phone (he’d made numerous calls) and he suddenly just got up, grabbed his backpack and said “I’ll be back.”</span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span > </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span >Everyone converged on the house at about 7 p.m. Even Dale had returned. I had overestimated the eating ability of our party which consisted of the three riders, lead vehicle driver Jason, chase truck/bike mechanic Kevin, Dave the RV driver, Heather and myself. But everyone chowed down to their satisfaction and no one went to bed hungry.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span > </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span >Dale grabbed the sofa for sleep. We had a lot of work left to do; there was laundry and we needed to organize our first aid kits for each vehicle. It was a late night, and we finally went off to bed at around 11 p.m. I am pretty sure we are still running on adrenaline. </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; "><o:p></o:p></span></p> <!--EndFragment-->CaliGirl9http://www.blogger.com/profile/06639398512708841968noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3785167492083077158.post-75810852228994578972012-02-20T22:29:00.001-08:002012-02-20T22:33:23.520-08:00Day Two: Tehachapi to Edwards Air Force Base February 20, 2012<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpyv8a2Oi4Fxh29jxhAxJuiOFTw5QcrUQ5mhMLxGdiQfLcgjVJ7nmmOCjdeOuH8yuHSsp6BIeeB3kw3q4xen4YIDYQiY7U9g7Ijbsnjf8DDzelB8jZAri70TroK-qmuaD-Io2dzbKFUcI/s1600/Fire+department.jpg" style="font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-family: Georgia, serif; "><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpyv8a2Oi4Fxh29jxhAxJuiOFTw5QcrUQ5mhMLxGdiQfLcgjVJ7nmmOCjdeOuH8yuHSsp6BIeeB3kw3q4xen4YIDYQiY7U9g7Ijbsnjf8DDzelB8jZAri70TroK-qmuaD-Io2dzbKFUcI/s320/Fire+department.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5711472552336054706" /></a><br /><div style="font-size: 100%; "><span ><i>Wesley Leon-Barrientos (far left) and Jeremy Staat (far right) with the Edwards Air Force Base Fire Department, February 20, 2012.</i></span></div><div style="font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-family: Georgia, serif; "><br /></div><div style="font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-family: Georgia, serif; "><br /></div><div style="font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-family: Georgia, serif; "><br /></div><div style="font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-family: Georgia, serif; "><br /></div><div style="font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-family: Georgia, serif; "><br /></div><div style="font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-family: Georgia, serif; "><br /></div><div style="font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-family: Georgia, serif; "><br /></div><div style="font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-family: Georgia, serif; "><br /></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-family: Georgia, serif; "><span >Day Two started under gray skies but despite the early morning gloom, there was good news—after a quick breakfast at the Apple Shed (and if you ever find yourself in Tehachapi, you simply must stop there and have a meal or partake of the homemade baked goods or the bakery’s specialty fudge), Tehachapi Mayor Ed Grimes announced that $10,000 was raised for the Jeremy Staat Foundation as part of opening day’s citywide benefit events. He then presented the Keys to the City to Jeremy, Wesley and Dale, along with a special “Tehachapi” city pin. Around two hundred people were out on a gray morning to see the riders off.</span></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-family: Georgia, serif; "><p class="MsoNormal"><span ><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span >It is surprising just how cold the high desert can be. More than one Tehachapi resident remarked that had the circus come through a week earlier, it would have encountered spring-like weather instead of the brisk 40 degrees from the day before. But the cold weather did not deter the five cyclists (two civilians elected to ride with Jeremy, Wesley and Dale) from donning their cycling gear and heading east on Highway 58 toward the first stop in the town of Mojave and a drive-through the former military base. With a quick snack and replenishing of beverages, the caravan headed toward Edwards Air Force Base and the final destination of the day and a docket of activities.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span ><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small; ">Because Edwards Air Force Base is an active military base, taking photographs is highly restricted. A one-day stopover is planned, with rest and recuperation for the cyclists, setting up our radios, impromptu visits to active-duty military who work and reside on base, and a day to catch up and send out media alerts! We are housed in a very cute 3-bedroom house on base with a fully-equipped kitchen, and I’m planning on making spaghetti & meat sauce for dinner tomorrow if Jeremy lets me get groceries—why not have home cooking while we can? A nice meal of pasta before Wednesday’s 78.1 mile ride will fit the bill perfectly for the riders and road crew! </span><span style="font-size: small; "> </span></p> <!--EndFragment--></div>CaliGirl9http://www.blogger.com/profile/06639398512708841968noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3785167492083077158.post-10168511913302655492012-02-20T21:31:00.000-08:002012-02-20T21:40:08.255-08:00A Beginning Under Grey Skies—To a Brisk Sunny Afternoon Filled with Love, Patriotism and Adventure<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjj5iXWCZDj_1-FAct4g7eRNO7BCg_LOJV5uNXKS1vagVFmXBmvER3ykO0bIt4s3e83bqnsrSSnwS9Q14YEaKG_lVl8GMLCgCn7Rre7Je_lo2PhwUq4Dfu4HyGdSR55t0htO49KXJegYYI/s1600/kids.jpg" style="font-size: 100%; "><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" 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name="Bibliography"> <w:lsdexception locked="false" priority="39" qformat="true" name="TOC Heading"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--> <!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-priority:99; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:Cambria; mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;} </style> <![endif]--> <!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 100%; font-family: Georgia, serif; "><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 100%; font-family: Georgia, serif; "><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; "><span >When most Californians think of Ken County, they think of row crops, orchards, vineyards and dairies. What most Californians don’t know about Kern County is its patriotism—the majority of its residents, regardless of country of origin, age or sex is very much in love with all that is good in the United States. Even though this area has suffered greatly thanks to the ongoing water wars, the residents of Kern County are generous to a fault. And you will have to work very hard to find a more patriotic people who want to do the right thing by our military, both active duty, honorably discharged and retired. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; "><span >On a grey Sunday morning, February 19, 2012, the residents of Bakersfield, Lamont and Arvin gave Iraq war veterans Jeremy Staat and Wesley Barrientos, and Vietnam veteran Dale Porter a sendoff that is worth of their mission. The trio have accepted the challenge to ride across the southwestern and southeastern United States, passing through 13 states over a period of 100 days, with the journey culminating in Washington, D.C. on Memorial Day. The goal of the trip is to increase awareness of issues facing veterans today—the high suicide rate of troops returning from Iraq and Afghanistan; access to medical care; and assistance in seeing GI Bill education benefits.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; "><span >Appropriately, the starting point was Kern Couny’s Wall of Valor, which is located near Bakersfield’s Amtrack station. Across from the Wall of Valor was “The Wall That Heals,” a half-scale replica of the Vietnam Veterans Memorial Wall. It was right that those veterans who made the ultimate sacrifice for their country were front-and-center and on the minds of everyone in attendance. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; "><span >A bit about the main characters, though neither Jeremy, Wesley or Dale would say they are the main characters—the main characters are those veterans who have gone before them, any man or woman who fought for freedom in any of the armed forces—those who returned from their service with their lives intact, and those who lost their lives on the battlefield. Those veterans past need and deserve a voice, and this trio is speaking for those who cannot.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; "><span ><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; "><span ><span>In an article for </span><i>The Arizona Republic</i><span> on January 19, Jeremy described the Wall-to-Wall ride as a “traveling circus.” And for the first day, it certainly was. Traveling with the cyclists are a pair of chase trucks emblazoned with a special paint scheme for the trip, and a motorhome as a place of rest along the route for the riders. From the Wall of Valor on Truxton Avenue in Bakersfield to the main drag of Tehachapi, police escorts from the cities of Bakersfield, Arvin and Tehachapi, along with the California Highway Patrol, ensured the riders’ safety and made it very clear to passersby that something special was heading east on the Purple Heart Trail and south on Highway 58 toward the Ride’s first overnight stop in the small town of Tehachapi.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; "><span ><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; "><span >About 100 cyclists left the Wall of Valor alongside Jeremy, Wesley and Dale. The route through Bakersfield, Lamont and Arvin was peppered with pedestrians and families who pulled off the road and waved flags and held homemade signs—pretty impressive for a Sunday morning!</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; "><span ><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; "><span ><span style="font-family: Georgia; ">In the tiny farming town of Arvin, several hundred people converged at the city’s Veteran’s Hall to honor the riders. Jeremy and Wesley have a special affinity </span><span style="font-family: Georgia; color: rgb(34, 34, 34); background-image: initial; background-attachment: initial; background-origin: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: white; ">for schoolchildren</span><span style="font-family: Georgia; ">, and the children showed their love for the pair by holding up handmade signs; the mayor gave the riders a welcoming speech, and photo-takers abounded. After a quick refueling of Pedialyte and fruit, the cyclists approached the most challenging part of the day.</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; "><span >The first day is anticipated to be the most difficult ride-wise. Just out of Arvin is the newly-christened Purple Heart Trail, formerly known as State Route 223, complete with a seven-mile seven percent grade. From a distance the route doesn’t look terribly challenging, but there are no level spots or inclines whatsoever.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; "><span ><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; "><span >Tehachapi is a 102-year old city with a population of around 14,000 people that has not lost a bit of its small-town feel. Although the “circus” came through town on a Sunday, residents showed up by the thousands to enjoy special events sprinkled throughout the city’s main street. Three restaurants donated the day’s revenue to the Jeremy Staat Foundation, and residents eagerly purchased commemorative t–shirts and for the most part wore them immediately to show their support. People of all ages milled about waiting for the cyclists to make the last difficult uphill trek into the city.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; "><span ><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; "><span ><span>Mayor Ed Grimes and his committee vowed that the Ride’s first stop and citywide celebration would be the gold standard by which all other stops will be judged. And that certainly will be the case. The riders managed to stop by each special event, posing for photos, accepting thanks and congratulations for a job well done and a successful ride. </span><span>Jeremy, Wesley and Dale made the 50.7-mile ride from Bakersfield in about 8 hours. The only snafus, which were ever-so-minor, were rest stops (which were expected) along the Purple Heart Trail, and when a cable broke on Wesley’s hand crank. Fortunately there is a back-up hand-crank bike in the mobile bike repair shop that will shadow the riders all the way to Washington, D.C., and the bike was repaired by the next rest stop.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 100%; font-family: Georgia, serif; "><o:p></o:p></p> <!--EndFragment-->CaliGirl9http://www.blogger.com/profile/06639398512708841968noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3785167492083077158.post-21732375410972294142012-02-13T14:04:00.000-08:002012-02-13T17:41:26.819-08:00Crops Minus Water Equals No Jobs<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhW2HQn3lPk8HT9F55VmjpV3NLKA0I3FtEKd4SOrKKnwhK5YamiPcmfSe9qRdj_vyXslVG070kSMmPEjdiGzKtfd-OmhMdpRp8To3BifGC782RPs1txmuGJ2NDZtL5GxVWye5xssB2_tzY/s1600/signage+CV.jpg" style="font-style: normal; "><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 354px; height: 265px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhW2HQn3lPk8HT9F55VmjpV3NLKA0I3FtEKd4SOrKKnwhK5YamiPcmfSe9qRdj_vyXslVG070kSMmPEjdiGzKtfd-OmhMdpRp8To3BifGC782RPs1txmuGJ2NDZtL5GxVWye5xssB2_tzY/s400/signage+CV.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5708745777022823394" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcSrbHlhUFhH7LqCkGvAgwruAwdTzzLL2r80H2XzQHobG-9S9P7nLHQUldnZ8EDHzBI0VQc5r2Cqe6xS7wDPRk7VPeXWWR_ygk6L_rNJCZcV7BqWiHz2YLi02TkoitoC0rWK5QvIiYoX4/s1600/signage+2.jpg" style="font-style: normal; "><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 299px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcSrbHlhUFhH7LqCkGvAgwruAwdTzzLL2r80H2XzQHobG-9S9P7nLHQUldnZ8EDHzBI0VQc5r2Cqe6xS7wDPRk7VPeXWWR_ygk6L_rNJCZcV7BqWiHz2YLi02TkoitoC0rWK5QvIiYoX4/s400/signage+2.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5708745777028870130" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6-ddWJ2QBiOChackYpPRsFJlZM0w9leURpTWb7H9VozZuGeq77FnICkBViuSg5BpVLX6iguADJi5huySovjs2Hq8DcTxS00fu8HOQ40vKR_pKV5SHBrCwpSwEodGlTHD0VPVNOJOeCcc/s1600/sign+1.jpg" style="font-style: normal; "><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 283px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6-ddWJ2QBiOChackYpPRsFJlZM0w9leURpTWb7H9VozZuGeq77FnICkBViuSg5BpVLX6iguADJi5huySovjs2Hq8DcTxS00fu8HOQ40vKR_pKV5SHBrCwpSwEodGlTHD0VPVNOJOeCcc/s400/sign+1.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5708745773150836834" /></a><br /> <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:officedocumentsettings> <o:allowpng/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:trackmoves>false</w:TrackMoves> <w:trackformatting/> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:drawinggridhorizontalspacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridHorizontalSpacing> <w:drawinggridverticalspacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridVerticalSpacing> <w:displayhorizontaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery> <w:displayverticaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:ignoremixedcontent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:dontgrowautofit/> <w:dontautofitconstrainedtables/> <w:dontvertalignintxbx/> </w:Compatibility> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:latentstyles deflockedstate="false" latentstylecount="276"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--> <!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast; mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;} </style> <![endif]--> <!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; "><span><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; "><span><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; "><span><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; "><span><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; "><span><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; "><span><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; "><span><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; "><span><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; "><span><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; "><span><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; "><span><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; "><span><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; "><span><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; "><span><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; "><span><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; "><span><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; "><span><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; "><span><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; "><span><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; "><span><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; "><span><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; "><span><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; "><span><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; "><span><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; "><span><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; "><span>It’s not like I have been too busy to blog. Just haven’t been in the mood or had much to say. I gave up the hardscrabble surrounded-by-liberals life in the SF Bay Area and returned to the Salinas Valley—not exactly heaven on earth with all of the gang activity and lack of jobs. So, I am pretty much unemployed and there’s not much market for writers/editors/PR people in this neck of the woods!</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; "><span><o:p> </o:p>Now I have something to say… I’ll be leaving on Sunday, Feb. 19 for a 100-plus day adventure with three veterans who will be riding bikes across the southern United States to bring awareness to veteran’s issues. I’ll share more in another post.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; "><span><o:p> </o:p>This post is about the utter disconnect California has between agriculture, specifically agriculture in the San Joaquin Valley south of Stockton, and the population centers that tend to vote for Democrats.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; "><span>Please people, don’t let the dems tell you they are for jobs.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; "><span><o:p> </o:p>As I was driving down the Central Valley from Coalinga this past weekend, I noticed signs about water allocations that have been cut to farmland over the past 4 years or so. In some places in the CV, growers have had up to 80 percent of their water allocations cut, and in some farming communities, acreage has been taken out of production all together because water was cut off totally. Growers won’t know how much water they will be allowed to take from the aqueduct system until just before spring—but they are being billed for a 100 percent allocation, even if they are forbidden to take a drop!</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; "><span>The consequence is farmers don’t grow produce, farmworkers don’t have work, and consumers pay more for cotton, table grapes, tomatoes, melons and other truck crops they are used to having in abundance.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; "><span>I was just sitting here thinking about the ramifications—and the lip service regarding how we need illegal immigrant labor to work farms. Wait a minute here—if there are unemployed farm workers in the Central Valley, why does the Salinas Valley and other farming regions cry “We have a labor shortage!” when there are no doubt unemployed farm workers in the Central Valley. And why don’t those unemployed farm workers move to the Salinas Valley and those regions who draw upon ground water for irrigation? The wages are proportionately higher in the Salinas Valley to help with the higher cost of living. Housing is available, too. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"> <span><br />The whole water mess trickles down to all of us, but city dwellers have NO idea of the seriousness of this “save the fish” crap that’s shut down the pumps at the Sacto Delta, sending water south to farms. There are millions of acres in the Central Valley that are lying fallow—what a waste! In the last election, the Republican senatorial candidates all understood this—and of course Barbara Boxer, with her head in the trees hugging that fish is squarely in bed with environmentalists. She doesn’t care about jobs—her answer is to increase entitlements to those unemployed farm workers. Naturally the growers who can’t farm still have to pay their taxes—so what if they have no income! Pay up or lose your land!<br /><br />Yes, all this started before Obama was crowned. But it was the Democratically-controlled Congress and Senate who did this—<i>not</i> Bush. So don't blame Bush.<br /><br />Next time you drive down I-5 to LA, look at the easy-to-read signs along the road that reveal grower had 80 percent of their water allocation cut, the following year 80 percent and in 2010, 50 percent. The signs have been up for awhile apparently—but most people driving by are utterly clueless as to what they mean. They probably think the open farmland is a wildlife preserve and that fallow farmland is a good thing! </span></p> <!--EndFragment-->CaliGirl9http://www.blogger.com/profile/06639398512708841968noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3785167492083077158.post-17783498366792093062011-08-28T01:23:00.000-07:002011-08-28T01:40:13.042-07:00Work Ethic <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:officedocumentsettings> <o:allowpng/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:trackmoves>false</w:TrackMoves> <w:trackformatting/> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:drawinggridhorizontalspacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridHorizontalSpacing> <w:drawinggridverticalspacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridVerticalSpacing> <w:displayhorizontaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery> <w:displayverticaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:ignoremixedcontent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:dontgrowautofit/> <w:dontautofitconstrainedtables/> <w:dontvertalignintxbx/> </w:Compatibility> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:latentstyles deflockedstate="false" latentstylecount="276"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--> <!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast; mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;} </style> <![endif]--> <!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span">I have been stewing about this for about 24 hours and the only way I am going to let this go is to write about it. Writing keeps me sane.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span">My daughter is embarking on a career as a paralegal. She has a challenging, good-paying job with a former professor of hers—as far as I am concerned, the ultimate complement to your worth, skills and knowledge is being hired by a former professor. Heck, I’ve been lucky to have been hired for freelance jobs one of my former professors at SJSU, and he is the current department head! He’s asked me to do research for a mass communications textbook, and to prepare a collection of papers for the department’s certification process. I’ve also worked for another of my former professors, a practicing PR professional with her own business, providing written materials if she gets too busy and bogged down with work. I guess you could say having lived it, I know how meaningful it is to have a professor’s respect.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span">So I couldn’t be any more proud of this kid—she’s overcome a learning disability and has emerged into a good writer and researcher and problem-solver. In other words, she’s inherited some of my skills. She would never in a million years acknowledge this, but she did tell me once that her friend Sara said to her “You know where those skills came from, right? Your mom.” Quite the complement. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span">Yesterday she was working on something—she maintains confidentiality as well as I did when I was working as a nurse, perhaps even better. I have no idea what kind of cases she is working on other than sometimes she will say “People are disgusting.” Whatever it was, it was making her crazy and she had a hard deadline of 7 p.m.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span">Anyway, she called her dad, or he called her, to ask if a money transfer between his bank account and hers had gone through. She jokingly said to him, “I want to retire.” </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span">His reply: “Well, I hope your work ethic is better than your mom’s.”</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span"><b>SAY WHAT???</b></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span">Okay, here is a bit of my personal and work history. I was married three months shy of being 19 years of age. No I was not pregnant, and I had finished only a couple of<span> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span">semesters at a community college, taking prerequisite classes toward applying for a nursing program. My college career was not an immediate success; as a matter of fact, I dropped out of San Jose State after about 10 weeks into my first semester a year and a half before I married. I was 17 years, 2 months of age when I started college, utterly unprepared and way too young. My grades were fine, I just was socially inept and terrified.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span">In other words, the only work I could do was in the fields (yes, farm labor) and assisting my mother with farm labor payroll. But that was in no way going to be my career, and my husband and I both knew that.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span">I hurt my left knee in November of 1976, dislocating my kneecap and eventually requiring surgery. After a couple of years (still working for my mother and working in the fields for cannery tomato harvest and chili pepper harvest in December) I was able to jump with both feet into finishing the nursing degree, driving 80-plus miles a day for classes five days a week. I finished the nursing degree in January 1982, took my boards in February, and reluctantly took a job at the local hospital in June, a dinky 42-bed place that I really did not want to work at. While going through nursing school, I worked hard to impress the staff at the hospital in Carmel, about an hour-and-fifteen-minute drive from where we lived in the hopes I’d be hired there. My left knee was slightly problematic pain-wise, so during breaks and meal breaks I’d ice the knee so I could finish the shift. The pain was not horrific and I did not need pain medication. We did not own a home, but my husband did not want to move from the city we lived in, so I compromised and worked where I did not want to work, ever.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span">I was hired as a part-time employee, because that is pretty much how they hired nearly all nurses. At times, part time meant three or four days a week, an 8-hour shift. After orientation, I found myself on the night shift, and did not adjust well. Every dime I made, we saved for a down payment on a home. Eventually we had nearly enough in savings to buy a home, and along with a gift of $8K from my parents, we found ourselves homeowners, and I was 5 months pregnant.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span">I was able to work until my 28<sup>th</sup> week of pregnancy, and was working nearly full-time hours, when I woke up one morning with a horrific headache. I was supposed to go to work that afternoon but thought I should have things checked out before I was to go to work (by then I was working the 3–11 shift, much better for me, and I really wasn’t needed on the night shift as there were some nurses who actually preferred that shift).<span> </span>Instead of reporting to work at 3 p.m. that day, I reported to the hospital as an inpatient with pre-eclampsia. No more work for me until delivery, which was accomplished at 37 weeks. I was back to work six weeks after my daughter was born.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span">For the next several years my knees got worse and I suffered a few back strain injuries, but I was one of the go-to nurses, living less than 10 minutes away from the hospital I’d frequently be called in to work different shifts if things got busy with labor and delivery patients. There are too many times to count when I’d receive a phone call at 1 a.m., be asked to come in to help out, and then be asked to stay for the day shift, or be asked to work a p.m. shift after working the 7 to 3 shift because of multiple laboring women, consequently working anywhere from 12 to 16 hours. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b><span class="Apple-style-span">Not bad for someone with no work ethic…</span></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span">Because my back and knees were getting a bit worse (at the tender age of 32), I went to work at a nursing job that was a bit more sedentary, one where I would not have to do bedside care nursing or any janitorial clean-up work (on the p.m. and night shift, because there was no janitor on duty between 10 p.m. and 5 a.m.). I’d hurt myself a couple of times slipping in amniotic fluid and lifting and moving heavy equipment.<span> </span>At my new job I had inmate workers who did patient care and custodial duties; all I had to do was vital signs twice a shift, pass medications, change dressings, and chart. Easy job, and finally a full-time job with great state benefits. Except I got hurt one night, blowing out two discs effectively ending my career in April 1989.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span">The next several years are a blur, three major spine surgeries, dealing with disability pay and eventually a permanent disability settlement, and three years driving to Seaside on nearly a daily basis to take my daughter to a private school. I did manage to get a job in nursing, sort of, as a worker’s comp case manager, which I did for about 18 months as a part-time worker, perhaps 20 hours a week. The job required lots of driving, something that irritated my back and caused much wasted time, as the bulk of my work was an hour north of where we lived. There was no talk of moving. Our daughter started club swimming after she finished at the private school, so that was a daily trip 80+ miles roundtrip every day after school for three years or so.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span">I quit the worker’s comp job around the time my father died. All of the driving was not good for my back, so I returned to my mom’s business for a couple of years doing overflow work for her until I decided I had to do something with my life, build on my education and perhaps find something new to do. I started as a full-time student in September 1997 at the same community college I’d earned my nursing degree, attending classes 5 days a week, and transferred to San Jose State in September 1999. I graduated in May 2000, taking 18 units a semester and one winter session in order to get out of college quicker, driving 100+ miles 4 days a week, and maintaining a 3.75 GPA. My degree was in PR, and there was no work in south Monterey County. I needed to move north, but again, not happening.<span> </span>I did get a part-time job editing for a transportation study department associated with the university; the job was do-able by telecommute but they were happier having me onsite. That job started the month I graduated from SJSU.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span">While I was attending SJSU, my daughter was attending community college. She was desperately unhappy at the local high school where she was getting no assistance for her learning disability and was failing from school. She was much happier being able to take only two or three classes at a time in college, though math remained a problem for her.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span">Finally in the summer of 2001, I was sick of driving several times a week to San Jose, and my daughter needed to go to school without the distraction of two hours in a car every day. I elected to move north, leaving my home, and I am sure a not real upset husband (other problems in play not worth discussing here). Ever since I moved up here, I have been looking for full-time proper work, and until the economy tanked, I was able to pick up enough work to pay rent and keep a roof over our heads and food in the ‘fridge. I returned to school in December 2003, graduating with a master’s in sport management in May 2005, that degree coming from the University of San Francisco, and again with a stellar GPA.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span"> </span></o:p>I apply for jobs at least once a week, and have applied for so many these 11 years I cannot possibly count. I do not get interviews, and the one I did get, I was passed over for a person of the correct ethnicity who could not do the job, but she was Latina, and that is what it was all about. I apply for PR jobs, writing/editing/desktop publishing jobs. Things I can do. I let my RN license lapse last year, I could not afford to pay for required fingerprints or the licensing fee. Yes, all under $200 but I did not have it to spare. <span> </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span">Meanwhile, whenever any freelance opportunity comes my way, I grab it. No job was too small, and I’d even edit grad student papers. But this spring with the budget crisis work came to a screeching halt around June.</span> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span">Not that 2010 was a great year. I earned less than $20K, supporting myself and my daughter, who was in school full-time and not employed. Her father claimed her as a deduction on his taxes. I haven’t done my taxes in several years because I can’t afford to pay anyone to do them for me. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span">I have pushed my body to do things it has no business doing, put off dealing with health problems because I cannot afford to go to the doctor even with insurance. I have gone without medication for weeks at a time—and one really should not take chances by not taking medications for asthma and high blood pressure. But I have, and I am about to do it again in a couple of weeks.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span">This year I will be lucky to earn $12 to 15K. I made it this far with help from my mom and stepdad, something I feel really guilty about. I earned enough to pay rent through July, and that’s about it. There is no work available to me until October at the earliest because of the federal and state budget crises, unless of course I manage to get another job before then. My daughter does not get her first paycheck until early October. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span">On a regular basis I go without meals. I have not bought clothing for myself, other than redeeming gift cards from my mom, since March 2008. I need new bras. I need new shoes. My cats need vet visits and dental cleanings. My car needs new tires and an oil change, which doesn’t matter, because I am not supposed to be driving a car with a clutch and I know it’s not safe for me to do so. With my daughter finally getting a job, there is hope for paying rent. In the meantime her dad has had to help, as many of the paralegal jobs are in the Bay Area, as are my daughter’s friends and her life—and he doles out the money, enough to pay rent, enough to keep us a month behind on utilities, and a food budget of $100, maybe $200 for two people. My daughter eats elsewhere, and her social life is utterly unaffected. I was able to buy groceries myself until early July.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span">I am usually hungry, in pain, perpetually looking for work and <b>I have no work ethic</b> (I was given some money to get some groceries, so I bought brain food for my daughter as she's going to be working from home for a couple of weeks). I am not looking for martyrdom, but all of a sudden he’s Mr. Perfect, the victim in all of this? I am sure he’s not missing any meals, gets his prescriptions when he needs them, and enjoys his paid vacations going gambling God-knows-where. He has sacrificed so much to get our kid through school... if he had his way she'd have struggled at Hartnell, dealing with the driving like I did, never finishing a course of study, and probably getting married to some local chump. So much easier. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span">Karma is a bitch … and I do hope I live long enough that my daughter gets what I have done for her, to ensure her success, to make sure she has a great career and a fulfilling life.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span"> </span></o:p></p> <!--EndFragment-->CaliGirl9http://www.blogger.com/profile/06639398512708841968noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3785167492083077158.post-2963811629463314952011-08-25T21:13:00.000-07:002011-08-25T21:14:29.293-07:00Exercises in Frustration <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:officedocumentsettings> <o:allowpng/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:trackmoves>false</w:TrackMoves> <w:trackformatting/> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:drawinggridhorizontalspacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridHorizontalSpacing> <w:drawinggridverticalspacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridVerticalSpacing> <w:displayhorizontaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery> <w:displayverticaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:ignoremixedcontent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:dontgrowautofit/> <w:dontautofitconstrainedtables/> <w:dontvertalignintxbx/> </w:Compatibility> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:latentstyles deflockedstate="false" latentstylecount="276"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--> <!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast; mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;} </style> <![endif]--> <!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >I really don’t know why I believe any economic news coming out of Washington, D.C. nowadays. All I have to do is look at my situation and I can say with all honestly I am not better off than I was in 2008, and I am probably worse off this year versus last, and last year was a real stinker! I’ve not bought groceries since just before July 4; there is no milk in the ‘fridge, and I’ve not had a loaf of bread in the apartment for three weeks now.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >I’m self-employed only because I cannot get employment from someone, anyone, other than contract work. Yes, working from home allows some flexibility but it is so full of uncertainty and frankly, at times it is just not fun working alone! There are times that I wonder if I had known the future—that I would still be under- or unemployed after earning both a bachelor’s and a master’s degree—would I have worked to get those degrees at all?</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >My answer is still yes—my brain enjoyed the challenges of college and as an older student I was eager to learn and better able to sift through the bullshit that college can be. I enjoyed being a mentor to 20-somethings and being mentored by 20-somethings. I made friends in college who remain friends today. Working with others is what I miss most about this self-employment crap.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >I am beginning to wonder though—will I, and the millions of talented under-and unemployed people over 40 who are just waiting for a chance to rock a job going to have to wait until January 2013 for the pendulum to swing back and hopefully change the job hiring climate to looking for experienced and motivated workers, and those job applicants becoming a prized commodity? </span></p> <!--EndFragment-->CaliGirl9http://www.blogger.com/profile/06639398512708841968noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3785167492083077158.post-38026004665401019962011-05-07T00:24:00.000-07:002011-05-07T00:26:09.652-07:00Growing Old is Not for Sissies!<meta name="Title" content=""> <meta name="Keywords" content=""> <meta equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"> <meta name="ProgId" content="Word.Document"> <meta name="Generator" content="Microsoft Word 2008"> <meta name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 2008"> <link rel="File-List" href="file://localhost/Users/focus/Library/Caches/TemporaryItems/msoclip/0clip_filelist.xml"> <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:officedocumentsettings> <o:allowpng/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:trackmoves>false</w:TrackMoves> <w:trackformatting/> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:drawinggridhorizontalspacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridHorizontalSpacing> <w:drawinggridverticalspacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridVerticalSpacing> <w:displayhorizontaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery> <w:displayverticaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:ignoremixedcontent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:dontgrowautofit/> <w:dontautofitconstrainedtables/> <w:dontvertalignintxbx/> </w:Compatibility> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:latentstyles deflockedstate="false" latentstylecount="276"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--> <style> <!-- /* Font Definitions */ @font-face {font-family:Cambria; panose-1:2 4 5 3 5 4 6 3 2 4; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:3 0 0 0 1 0;} @font-face {font-family:Georgia; panose-1:2 4 5 2 5 4 5 2 3 3; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:3 0 0 0 1 0;} /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin-top:0in; margin-right:0in; margin-bottom:10.0pt; margin-left:0in; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:Cambria; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi;} @page Section1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style> <!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin-top:0in; mso-para-margin-right:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:10.0pt; mso-para-margin-left:0in; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast; mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;} </style> <![endif]--> <!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >Let me preface this by saying that 54 years of age is not and should not be old! <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >But in the past several months, I have nagging little health issues that are probably a consequence of my younger days atop a horse. Specifically, I have nasty pain in both hips, pain in my right shoulder (probable rotator cuff) and female problems. Of course my back and knees are ongoing issues but I am pretty used to them.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >I have been holding myself together trying to get my daughter “raised.” And she has been getting job interviews and I am hopeful something will come to fruition—and soon. I am so tired of trying to maintain a household on my crappy income—two people living on what really isn’t adequate for one person. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >I have a perfectly good house and husband located two hours to the south of where I sit at this moment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Had I not moved up here to at least try to get good work for myself (and I define good work as work with benefits… which I have not gotten anywhere close to in 10 years of trying!) and live closer to several colleges, my daughter might well be married to some local guy, utterly dissatisfied with her life, living in a place with limited opportunities.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >If she gets a job, I think it’s just fine if I choose to move back home; the limited work I do can be dome remotely, with maybe a trip to San Jose once a month, if that. I could also start dealing with my health issues, having what little income I can earn go toward co-pays and doctor bills. At any rate, I am hoping my daughter gets a job soon … now if only I could make her understand just how bad my hip pain is, and how it’s turning me into a hermit! </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 10pt; "><o:p></o:p></span></p> <!--EndFragment-->CaliGirl9http://www.blogger.com/profile/06639398512708841968noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3785167492083077158.post-68133168657682775672011-05-01T14:07:00.000-07:002011-05-01T14:11:00.338-07:00Sleep-Deprivation and the Blessed Pope John Paul II<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFcI26QBR8W8XWZ6yle9bnQkKPC48GUQmhuq90rezVYQ7_oRDf9Diws2gXgibJq_DxkhNEClGS5skPEazXnokEi2n7INU4tmnSuEAAvBVWffERLrS1HJeBkTYQSEyxpQ6asH8TggMGN0I/s1600/Pope.John.Paul.II.2005.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFcI26QBR8W8XWZ6yle9bnQkKPC48GUQmhuq90rezVYQ7_oRDf9Diws2gXgibJq_DxkhNEClGS5skPEazXnokEi2n7INU4tmnSuEAAvBVWffERLrS1HJeBkTYQSEyxpQ6asH8TggMGN0I/s320/Pope.John.Paul.II.2005.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5601857583758845218" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" >I do need to get a good night’s sleep in the worst way! For a change it’s not pain keeping me up, but television. First I pulled a nearly all-nighter watching the wedding of Prince William and Kate Middleton early Friday morning. Just as I caught up with sleep, I remembered that this weekend was to be that of Pope John Paul II’s beatification ceremony, and tripped over a live broadcast.<br /><br />I have no doubt that John Paul was someone special and utterly worthy of sainthood. Maybe he isn’t as flashy as many of the “older” saints, but in our time, when a miracle has to be something very special to attract the Church’s attention.<br /><br />John Paul II was so charismatic, something that is impossible to see on television. No doubt that is where most have seen him. I was one of the lucky few to have breathed the same air as he, at Carmel Mission in the fall on 1987. I’d volunteered to provide emergency medical services for media covering the Pope’s visit to the Monterey Peninsula. He presided over mass at Laguna Seca raceway, and following that mass, was headed to the mission for lunch with priests, take a short nap, and then head to his next stop, which I think was San Francisco.<br /><br />The Monterey Diocese set up big-screen televisions for us to watch the mass, so we could feel closer and also know what was going on. I can’t remember the exact time John Paul II was to arrive at the mission; I believe it was noon or 1 p.m. The media room was at the back of the mission, situated in such a way that we would not be able to see him arrive or depart. Yes, all of us volunteering were disappointed we’d not see him, but there was a kind of peace in knowing we’d served him somehow…<br />As the day drew to a close, we were told that John Paul wanted to thank the volunteers who were not able to lay eyes on him. A decision was made to have him depart the mission from a different entrance/exit; he would exit into an open area, walk to his limo, and then the limo would drive on a circular path so as many of us could see him as possible.<br /><br />Watching him walk out was so unreal… John Paul II was still very active and fit, and had some sort of energy around him. I know that sounds stupid, but it was just a feeling I’d not yet ever experienced. I was far enough away I could not see facial expressions; I was standing quite far from the limo. But the Pope had decided he wanted us to be able to see him, and he wanted to thank us. He drove right by me, and though I am sure everyone felt the same, I just know he looked right at me.<br />There was a grace, a sense of peace and a sense that I was close to someone extraordinary. He did his famous wave, and kept it up until the limo was on the straight driveway and out of our sight.<br /><br />I know the moment was extraordinary, because to this day, I can close my eyes and recall a 20-second memory clip of John Paul II in the limo, driving in that circular drive, looking at me. I do not have any other memories that play in my mind’s eye that long. Yes, I have flashes of special moments, but Pope John Paul II is a full 20-second memory clip that I can recall by closing my eyes and asking for it. When John Paul II lay mortally ill, I could recall that memory and would pray for him while it was playing. When I heard he’d passed, I was at an Oakland A’s game. There was a moment of silence announced on the loudspeaker, and I closed my eyes and recalled that memory.<br /><br />Okay, so that might not be a spectacular miracle. To me it is enough to know that John Paul II did and does have God’s ear. Last night I prayed to the newly-Blessed John Paul II and congratulated him and gave thanks for him giving me the opportunity to lay eyes on him. John Paul II is no doubt the only pope I will have seen in person in my lifetime. Sure, I wish I had a photograph of John Paul II during that visit, but I think my 20-second memory clip is far more valuable. </span></span>CaliGirl9http://www.blogger.com/profile/06639398512708841968noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3785167492083077158.post-65967120762582819772011-04-15T17:46:00.000-07:002011-04-15T17:50:55.038-07:00A Cautionary "Old Age" Tale, and Some Advice for New Nurses<meta name="Title" content=""><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia; ">I’ve had a bit of a rough day today with pain and all… my back aches, my left hip </span>hurts. I’m getting my neurotomies on Tuesday so the end, for awhile at least, is on the horizon. I need to earn a little more money to see an ortho doc about my hip. I have three projects in various stages of readiness; two have tight deadlines that I won't meet if I can't sit at my desk.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >So it’s been one of those days I have been reflecting on how I got here, all beat to shit. There are two reasons why I am such a physical mess today: horses and working as a nurse. One gave me pleasure, the other money and heartache.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >I rode daily from fifth grade to my senior year in high school. I rode anything with a mane and tail that I could climb on. Several times that meant I climbed on something a bit rank and paid the price by hitting the pavement. But I wouldn’t change a thing, because horses kept me out of a lot of trouble and you truly do not know companionship with an animal until you have teamed with a horse. I miss contact with horses on a daily basis. I love my cats, I really do, but there is nothing like the challenge of an equine. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >The second reason I am paying physically is from working as an RN in a small community hospital that enjoyed being understaffed. I suffered too many back injuries to count, doing work that should have been done by housekeeping or a nurse’s aid. Might I have put up with the pain longer had I been properly “engaged” in the job? <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >I remember a pair of days when I showed up to work and the other RN was an older woman, older than I am now, who worked v-e-r-y slowly and was usually better at passing medication all day. It was all she could do to keep up with the medication needs of anywhere between 10 and 24 patients. There was everything at that hospital—med/surg, OB & newborns, pediatrics, and a 4-bed ICU/CCU. As I recall there were no critical patients in that room those days. During the day shift an RN would be called upon to stay with a patient in post-anesthesia recovery, which was the ICU. Same location, slightly different duties.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >One of us had to be charge nurse. I stepped up, but the director of nurses said “Rose is older than you, so she’s charge nurse.” So I passed pills, took care of a couple of post-op patients, and took care of a woman in labor while Rose sat on her duff and took “reports” from nurses’ aids. I did the work of two RNs that day. I didn’t even have time for lunch. Rose took hers. And both breaks.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >The way that hospital was set up, all the meds nurse did was pass pills (scheduled and as needed) and make sure she charted what she had done on the medication record. IF she had time on her hands, she could volunteer to help where needed. Because Rose was so slow, that seldom happened. Because Rose was so slow, if I had a patient who needed a pain med, I’d get the chart, find out what I could give, go to the medication cart where Rose was no doubt hanging around, ask for the narcotic key and medicate the patient myself. Rose usually made patients wait awhile, because she didn’t want to wreck her train of thought. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >Fifteen minutes before the shift was to end, there was a medical admission from the clinic next door—I believe the guy was a possible pancreatitis, because the doctor told me the patient was an alcoholic and to give him some Librium STAT to keep him in the bed. Rose should have taken that patient and prepared his nursing assessment, but she said, “I am busy charting and getting ready for report, you do it.” She wouldn’t even take the doctor’s call—I was called to the nurses’ station from another patient’s bedside to take the admission orders! Again, something Rose as charge should have done. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >So when I claimed 2 hours of overtime that day the supervisors flipped. (I did not finish my paperwork and the paperwork of the new patient until 5 p.m., shift “over” at 3:30 AND I’d had no lunch break that day, because if I didn’t do it, no one on my shift would have!) I told them Rose had been utterly useless, that I had done the bulk of the work that day (easily verified by looking at the patient charts, I was flying!) and that I would NEVER be put in that situation again. “You either work me as charge, pay me that differential and I’ll run around and do the work while Rose plugs along passing her pills, or you will not expect me to work with Rose as the charge nurse EVER again.” <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >A month later I looked on the schedule, and lo and behold, there were two RNs scheduled for one anticipated slow day—me and Rose. There was a “C” by Rose’s name, which meant she would be charge nurse. I went to my immediate supervisor (the one who made the schedule) and said, “I told you that I will NOT work in that situation, and if you don’t fix it, I won’t show up. I will NOT do the work of two nurses because one is too slow!” <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >Their excuse for doing it again: “We want to engage Rose more.”<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >Mind you, she was retirement age then. I was in my late 20s or so, and had worked as an RN for six years at that hospital. I was the nurse who never refused a shift. I was the nurse physicians inquired about regarding my availability to take care of their laboring women or women who needed elective labor inductions. I was the nurse who would come in for the night shift and stay for the day shift, or work the p.m. shift and stay into the night shift to help. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >And which nurse SHOULD they have tried harder to engage? <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >I did not work that shift. Well, I didn’t work it as it was… I was taken off the schedule for that day, but the place got busy and asked me to come into work, which I ALWAYS did. There was Rose, plugging along with her precious pill cart, where she needed to be. I delivered babies, covered ER, and had a great day with a nurse closer to my age who worked as charge twice a week.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >So what is the moral? Don’t kill yourself doing your job, because 20 years later, no one cares. You have to care for yourself, NOW. Be careful, and make smart priorities. You will thank me in the end.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" ><o:p></o:p></span></p> <!--EndFragment-->CaliGirl9http://www.blogger.com/profile/06639398512708841968noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3785167492083077158.post-37969609199246481972011-04-05T02:33:00.000-07:002011-04-05T02:38:02.426-07:00Perceptions<meta name="Title" content=""> <meta name="Keywords" content=""> <meta equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"> <meta name="ProgId" content="Word.Document"> <meta name="Generator" content="Microsoft Word 2008"> <meta name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 2008"> <link rel="File-List" href="file://localhost/Users/focus/Library/Caches/TemporaryItems/msoclip/0clip_filelist.xml"> <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:officedocumentsettings> <o:allowpng/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:trackmoves>false</w:TrackMoves> <w:trackformatting/> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:drawinggridhorizontalspacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridHorizontalSpacing> <w:drawinggridverticalspacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridVerticalSpacing> <w:displayhorizontaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery> <w:displayverticaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:ignoremixedcontent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:dontgrowautofit/> <w:dontautofitconstrainedtables/> <w:dontvertalignintxbx/> </w:Compatibility> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:latentstyles deflockedstate="false" latentstylecount="276"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--> <style> <!-- /* Font Definitions */ @font-face {font-family:Cambria; panose-1:2 4 5 3 5 4 6 3 2 4; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:3 0 0 0 1 0;} @font-face {font-family:Georgia; panose-1:2 4 5 2 5 4 5 2 3 3; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:3 0 0 0 1 0;} /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin-top:0in; margin-right:0in; margin-bottom:10.0pt; margin-left:0in; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:Cambria; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi;} @page Section1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style> <!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin-top:0in; mso-para-margin-right:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:10.0pt; mso-para-margin-left:0in; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast; mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;} </style> <![endif]--> <!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" >You never know who you will trip over using Facebook. Today I reconnected with a classmate who I thought “had it all” in high school—ran with the A-group, was popular, and got good grades effortlessly. I’d seen her name in common with other friends I’d reconnected with, but because she was part of that A-list, I figured she would not at all be interested in connecting with me. She was never really nasty toward me; we simply went in different circles. I wanted to be where she was; to the very wise movie “Romy and Michelle’s High School Reunion,” sums up high school society and pecking order well: I was not part of the A-crowd, or the B-crowd, or the jocks, or the C-crowd/dorks. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" >One of my oldest friends was part of this A-list. I’ll call her Lee because her name is very unusual and if she’d ever Google herself, this would pop up! She and I met when we were four years old; we lived about 5 miles out of town within walking distance, perhaps a half-mile from each other. I remember one of our early play dates, playing with Barbie dolls and Breyer model horses. Lee and I took dance class lessons on Saturdays; her mom drove us into town because my mom didn’t drive at the time. A few years later, Lee would walk to my house on Saturday mornings to watch “The Beatles” cartoons, because her television wouldn’t get it. This was in the days before cable, before satellites. Because we lived in a canyon, television reception was limited, and her family didn’t have access to a high enough hill to place an antenna like my father had. Consequently, our television got two stations and hers only one. Take that, kids of today with hundreds of channels! <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" >When Lee missed a month of first grade with a kidney infection, I had to face her scary teacher and get her homework every day on my way to the bus. I was released from my class five minutes early to pick up the homework, and then her mom would come over and pick it up, and give me stuff to take in the next morning. In fourth grade, when I was sick with both kinds of measles and missed the entire month of February, she did the same for me. When each of us finally got horses of our own, we rode all day every weekend, and would jump off the school bus at our respective stops, change into riding clothes, catch our horses and ride until dark. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" >But around 4<sup>th</sup> or 5<sup>th</sup> grade, Lee started hanging out exclusively with a bunch of girls who were simply the “it” crowd—wanna-be cheerleaders, girls who had high fashion clothes, girls who wore hairpieces, girls who were getting attention from the boys that you wanted to get attention from, girls who were getting breasts! We’d ride the school bus into town, and she and I would sit together several stops until one of the A-listers got on the bus. Then I had leprosy and she pretended not to know me at school at all.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" >And the people she ran with were, in hindsight, bitches. Probably the two worst were Penny and Ann. They started sprouting breasts before junior high. Penny in particular was very pretty, the youngest in her family, the treasure. And she expected to be treated like one. She was always picking verbal altercations with me, saying stuff like “So and so told me you were talking shit about me.” This continued from 4<sup>th</sup> grade all the way through high school. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" >Ann also had breasts and a waistline. In seventh grade her mother bought her a fall to wear in her hair. She wore an actual bra with cups. She and I should have been friends because we had the same knee problem—dislocating kneecaps. I remember it happening to her several times in physical education. I felt so bad for her, but she was such a bitch at other times, I stopped trying to be sympathetic or give her comfort when her kneecap dislocated.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" >There was a Cathy, like me. Her family lived down the street from my aunt, who lived in town. Her younger sister was one of my younger cousin’s best friends. No matter to Cathy, she was dismissive and treated me as a subhuman.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" >Paula was the daughter of a farmer, so because our fathers ran in the same circles, she was nicer to me. Same with Deanna; she lived on the same street as my aunt. Deanna had an older brother who was pretty cute, with longish blonde hair. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" >I’d read Deanna’s comments on friends’ Facebook pages. I knew who she was but did not reach out to her. I figured she still had the A-lister attitude toward me, though in adulthood, Stacey was nicer to me—our daughters were close in age—and Lee and I had carpooled our kids to a private school over an hour away for two years. And horrors of horrors, when I married, Ann had the guts to show up to my wedding uninvited. Her brother had been our best man, her parents were of course invited but I purposefully omitted her name on the envelope. At least she was nice to me on my wedding day, and was nice to me when her brother married a year or two later. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" >I’ve avoided class reunions because until ten years ago I did not think I measured up. I hadn’t finished a 4-year degree, and had kept in touch with few in my graduating class. I hated high school and wanted to distance myself from it. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" >I connected with Deanna today and learned that they HAD seen me throughout school, or at least she had, and remembered some specific things/incidents we had in common, most notably the recollections of a school play in 6<sup>th</sup> grade where I played the lead. Yes I was quite the actress. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" >She remembers me, as I was—a sarcastic, smart gal with strawberry blonde hair who didn’t have a boyfriend because I didn’t play stupid. And she shocked me when she told me she’d been on the periphery of that A-list, and it was only after she’d moved away to college that she realized what having a true friend was, and they apparently weren’t that. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" >Moral of this story: Isn’t it strange just how erroneous your perception of things can be?</span><span class="Apple-style-span"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <!--EndFragment-->CaliGirl9http://www.blogger.com/profile/06639398512708841968noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3785167492083077158.post-50872872652626364062011-04-01T01:36:00.000-07:002011-04-05T02:38:55.846-07:00Writing Inspiration<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4IxbisXo2eQRwl4hA3ESqMQYB347dflbcgDayz0_HfIS04g7zVPjBs-KNvYSjuCnmFpbF6ReRQJdR3ZGUzKoF-Mcn-X0TcmxWuag7IQiz_3NpreprnFAB-TJf7_lDGglg-8DxR0Oxhyo/s1600/George%252BHarrison.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4IxbisXo2eQRwl4hA3ESqMQYB347dflbcgDayz0_HfIS04g7zVPjBs-KNvYSjuCnmFpbF6ReRQJdR3ZGUzKoF-Mcn-X0TcmxWuag7IQiz_3NpreprnFAB-TJf7_lDGglg-8DxR0Oxhyo/s320/George%252BHarrison.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5590532236148330082" /></a><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span style="font-style: italic; ">George again. He was a beautiful man. What is sad about this photo is the cigarette he always had in the 1960s—that is what killed him. </span><br /><br />I’ve tripped over an excellent writing opportunity today and I need quick inspiration! It’s a pretty heavy-duty bit of writing that must be completed by May 1. So instead of staring at a blank computer screen or blank piece of paper, I decided to try an old technique from fifth grade. That was a long time ago, okay? Like 1966… so their “old stuff” works best for me, from Sgt. Pepper (summer of 1967 between fifth and sixth grade) and before that. The “new” stuff, except for a few songs, usually something by George, just wasn’t as inspirational for whatever reason. Maybe it’s because they weren’t as inspired anymore, at least until 1969’s Abbey Road, which was released when I was in 8th grade. I was old enough to be able to appreciate their music but a few years to fully participate, and by that I mean ever see them live. I have two friends who did just that, and I am so jealous, though it wasn’t about the music, hence the Beatles gave it up in August 1966, when I was still 9 years old.<br /><br />I used to get much inspiration from listening to the Beatles music. I don’t know why. It clears my mind, points me in the right direction. I sing my heart out to the music and for some reason, what I need comes to me. Perhaps it’s a case of what<br />George Harrison said about songs—they are out there, you just have to find a way to grab them.<br /><br />Tonight I found myself listening to their music but taking a conscious effort to hear George’s voice where I knew it should be, as he didn’t sing on every song. He had a distinctive nasally voice that didn’t fit every song. And yes, the inspiration came to me and I know exactly what I am going to write, but I have this overwhelming sadness remembering how I felt in late November 2001 when word got out George wasn’t doing well at all, and was about to lose his battle with cancer. And the day he died I simply could not hear any Beatles music or look at his image. Of course I bought all of the commemorative magazines but I stowed them away. It took me a good two or three years before I could hear a song with his voice somewhere in it and not get teary-eyed. And less than a month later, when my grandmother died of the same thing George did, I was still so empty over losing him that I could not properly mourn her.<br /><br />Anyway, I write these few words to thank George for sending me inspiration, like he always did. Thank you for leaving the music you left… I have my lead and the angle I am going to take on a difficult bit of writing. You always come through for me. </span>CaliGirl9http://www.blogger.com/profile/06639398512708841968noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3785167492083077158.post-36957303223663956582011-03-27T02:10:00.000-07:002011-03-27T02:15:03.659-07:00Lost Music, Sometimes Found<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsmN8kCkz2XNuNqTJL5w8JdaZy9B7o84kdzy6_sN-_oWDsy3RaIQ3wXlRcHZ1dCkzPQACwqqf4CsfHFU4agu89MyJlVYe6419a-OxDuwGJTK_kJ5Xi72Mx-xXSNsEGVHf_eWyFqthhPb0/s1600/GeorgeCorky.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 249px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsmN8kCkz2XNuNqTJL5w8JdaZy9B7o84kdzy6_sN-_oWDsy3RaIQ3wXlRcHZ1dCkzPQACwqqf4CsfHFU4agu89MyJlVYe6419a-OxDuwGJTK_kJ5Xi72Mx-xXSNsEGVHf_eWyFqthhPb0/s320/GeorgeCorky.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5588685074658776738" /></a>
<br /><meta name="Title" content=""> <meta name="Keywords" content=""> <meta equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"> <meta name="ProgId" content="Word.Document"> <meta name="Generator" content="Microsoft Word 2008"> <meta name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 2008"> <link rel="File-List" href="file://localhost/Users/focus/Library/Caches/TemporaryItems/msoclip/0clip_filelist.xml"> <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:officedocumentsettings> <o:allowpng/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:trackmoves>false</w:TrackMoves> <w:trackformatting/> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:drawinggridhorizontalspacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridHorizontalSpacing> <w:drawinggridverticalspacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridVerticalSpacing> <w:displayhorizontaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery> <w:displayverticaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:ignoremixedcontent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:dontgrowautofit/> <w:dontautofitconstrainedtables/> <w:dontvertalignintxbx/> </w:Compatibility> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:latentstyles deflockedstate="false" latentstylecount="276"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--> <style> <!-- /* Font Definitions */ @font-face {font-family:Cambria; panose-1:2 4 5 3 5 4 6 3 2 4; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:3 0 0 0 1 0;} @font-face {font-family:Georgia; panose-1:2 4 5 2 5 4 5 2 3 3; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:3 0 0 0 1 0;} /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin-top:0in; margin-right:0in; margin-bottom:10.0pt; margin-left:0in; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:Cambria; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi;} @page Section1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style> <!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin-top:0in; mso-para-margin-right:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:10.0pt; mso-para-margin-left:0in; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast; mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;} </style> <![endif]--> <!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><i>George Harrison and his Turkish Angora cat Corky</i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >
<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >
<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >
<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >It’s an early Sunday morning and I’ve just watched the movie “Now and Then” for the second time this week. For those who may not have seen it, “Now and Then” is the female version of “Stand By Me.” It is set in 1970; the main characters a year-and-a-half to two years younger than I was at the time, but there wasn’t much difference between what they did to keep themselves occupied during the long summer months. I remember the summer of 1970 very well; I’d graduated from 8<sup>th</sup> grade, and we started the summer in Lodi looking for Nazi gold (seriously! One of my father’s dearest friends from childhood felt there is Nazi gold buried on a property near Lodi, and my dad and uncle gathered the brood and we all watched and waited for a bulldozer to find it—needless to say we didn’t!), and I ended the summer with a bang by starting my period a week before reporting to high school. In between we’d ride horses during the morning and evening hours (sometimes with a transistor radio looped over the saddle horn, though the local AM station really played poppy stuff unless you requested something else), and hang out by my parent’s new pool during the heat of the day. Probably the “worst” thing to happen that summer was coming to the understanding that the Beatles had indeed broken up, the breakup having been announced that spring—and just as I was getting old enough to fully appreciate their music to the point of picking up a guitar and teaching myself to play.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >Music used to be a big part of my life. From the 5<sup>th</sup> through 7<sup>th</sup> grade I took clarinet lessons in school, so I used to be able to read music. The clarinet doesn’t really have a place in rock music though… I have always loved guitar-driven music with creative vocal harmonies and catchy lyrics—not to the point of being a fan of the really “poppy” stuff, because the guitar licks just were not there. Besides loving the Beatles’ music, I also liked Cream, and the Beatles’ protégées Badfinger, and I especially remember a song called “All Right Now” by a band named Free being all over the place that summer. Notice a trend? They are all British, and all very guitar-driven!<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >Unfortunately for me, I chose not to have a whole lot of fun in my high school classes. I’d wanted to graduate early, so I took nothing but college prep classes, which left no time for any music classes. I changed that my junior year when I finally had enough and dropped out of Spanish III to take guitar; during my senior half-year I took choir, where my voice was identified as being contralto and when I discovered that when acting I could do nearly anything, including sing, though I did my best singing when stoned on pot. Yep, I was quite the little pothead. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >I bought all of the Beatles sheet music and taught myself the rhythm parts (I had two sets of Beatles’ music books—one with rhythm guitar tabs, the second lead, which I never really got good at). I came to appreciate just how hard the guitar is to learn, and I’d chosen to learn to play on a steel-stringed Yamaha acoustic I bought for $75 with my own money. I learned to change strings, to tune by ear, and by the summer of 1972 was comfortable enough to play in front of people, to the point I traveled around Spain for 6 weeks carrying that Yamaha acoustic and jamming at night. I’d never be a George Harrison (though he was my favorite by that time, hence I’ve used this photo of him I recently tripped over—what a beautiful man he was!), but I could play and sing most of the Beatles’ songs, a couple of Badfinger’s songs, and some Neil Young stuff, too. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >Every so often I’ll hear songs from the early 1970s and remember that there was good music despite disco being shoved down everyone’s throats by the middle of the decade. I’ll wish I still had that Yamaha acoustic—my stepbrother learned to play on it and I think he sold it, which makes me very sad, that guitar had truly gone to battle! I’ll listen to certain songs that fit my vocal range and sing my heart out. Tonight’s song was from “Now and Then”—Badfinger’s “No Matter What.” That lead to a pair of Badfinger songs: “Baby Blue” and “Day After Day.” And yes, I used to be able to play those songs, and in public, too!<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >There are times I am tempted to buy another acoustic guitar—I’m betting I still can find my Beatles’ sheet music! I wonder if returning to music might be good for me …</span><span style="font-family:Georgia"> <o:p></o:p></span></p> <!--EndFragment-->CaliGirl9http://www.blogger.com/profile/06639398512708841968noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3785167492083077158.post-69028612059600894122011-03-13T05:16:00.000-07:002011-03-13T05:21:42.517-07:00Jaded? Cynical? I Guess I Am …<span class="Apple-style-span" >J<span class="Apple-style-span" >aded: 1. fatigued by overwork : EXHAUSTED 2: made dull, apathetic, or cynical by experience or by surfeit (jaded network viewers; jaded voters)<br />Cynical: 1. CAPTIOUS, PEEVISH 2: having or showing the attitude or temper of a cynic: as<br />a : contemptuously distrustful of human nature and motives (those cynical men who say that democracy cannot be honest and efficient — F. D. Roosevelt)<br />b : based on or reflecting a belief that human conduct is motivated primarily by self-interest (a cynical ploy to win votes)<br /><br />How has this bit of self-assessment come about?<br /><br />While watching coverage of the earthquake and tsunami in Japan over the past couple of days, I could not help but notice the difference in behavior between the Japanese people and how Americans behave in time of disaster. Specifically, thus far I have not seen, heard or read a thing about widespread looting and vandalism anywhere in the affected areas. I vividly remember seeing news videos during Hurricane Katrina and its aftermath, including people openly stealing from stores—and not stealing food or other things one needs to live, but stealing televisions, electronics, pretty much anything not tied down. I remember that people affected by Katrina demanded that “the government” do something for them. I remember stories about FEMA queens demanding their government assistance, receiving debit cards intended to provide assistance in acquiring food and lodging, and using those federally-acquired funds to buy flat screen televisions and designer handbags.<br /><br />I’ve not seen any of that behavior from the Japanese people. From the outside, it looks like many people heeded the tsunami warnings, and though I expect the death toll will be in the thousands, the fact that so many people did survive tells me they did not sit around waiting for the government to “do something” for them, specifically evacuation. No one expected the tsunami wave to reach 6 miles inland.<br /><br />I am glad there are United States military assets able to help in search, rescue and recovery. That’s one reason to ensure our military is always at the ready for humanitarian missions. I expect the Japanese people will rebuild their nation quickly and efficiently, and find a way to improve things. I also expect that Japan does have the economic backbone to finance rebuilding efforts themselves.<br /><br />Here comes my jaded, cynical attitude.<br /><br />Why is it in time of natural disaster it’s expected that the United States pick up the pieces for every damn country that suffers a natural disaster or war? While Japan is indeed a reliable ally today, a little thing called Pearl Harbor and World War II is still an important piece of history and there are still people alive today who vividly remember these events.<br /><br />It was the United States, or rather U.S. dollars, that rebuilt Japan. Japan’s economy is in much better shape than ours. We have millions of people who are un- or under-employed through no fault of their own, people whose unemployment “benefits” may be long gone or expiring soon. We have American citizens and families going hungry and without creature comforts that many others take for granted. But it’s not glamorous to talk about them, and it’s not glamorous to donate money or goods in our own nation. You don’t see celebrities making appeals for the regular American who may not have endured a natural disaster but who is enduring joblessness through no fault of his or her own.<br /><br />Charities are of course popping up to help Japan in this time of crisis. However, I’d think that what is really needed are goods and services, provided by human beings, not money. Japan has the money; Japan can pay for those goods and services. American farmers certainly can produce what the Japanese people need, but it’s up to Japan to ask for what they need. A story on CNN revealed that there are food shortages, specifically rice, bottled water, fresh produce and bread. I think the United States produces those things in abundance and I’m sure the U.S. will be happy to provide those goods.<br /><br />My second question is why the crappy behavior from Americans in time of disaster, a la Katrina or even times of civil unrest—why do Americans find it so easy to commit vandalism and thievery? They aren’t breaking into stores to steal food and water—they are taking physical goods. Those same Americans expect the government to “do something,” to fix whatever they think is wrong or unjust by giving them something. I’m sick of people being so non-self-efficient, and I look at how Japan is coping, and wish that Americans could be more like the Japanese.<br /><br />I also wish that people residing in the United States, citizens and those here legally—people enjoying economic success and who are in a position to help Americans less fortunate would do so—but I suppose helping American citizens simply isn’t glamorous enough.<br /><br />Why am I such a Negative Nelly? I really didn’t used to be this way. I want to believe that people are inherently good and honest, but the past ten years have taught me otherwise. Especially since late 2008, times have been very tough for others and myself. It seems that the ability to get good gainful work is a crapshoot and it’s a case of who you know and if you are lucky enough to run in a circle where cronyism is the way of doing things. It doesn’t matter if you are good at what you do, or know you could really rock a job, if given the chance. It hurts like hell to see people less qualified get that great job—and it hurts worse when racism is involved.<br /><br />I am cynical and distrustful because of the job that community college district did to me. I purposefully grossly underbid my services in the hope—and with the promise from the chancellor herself—that my thoughtfulness and lack of greed would be rewarded by hiring me for the job once the district was able to budget for the full-time position. Once she’d hired someone else for the job, she didn’t even have the decency to speak to me about why I wasn’t awarded the job after doing the job for nearly two years—and doing that job well. Or at least I was told I was doing it well. So much for kindness and trust—where does that get you? Screwed over, I guess.<br /><br />Same goes for the place I’ve provided editing services to for over ten years—I turn my work over quickly, I have not asked for a pay raise in 6 or 7 years, yet for some reason, I haven’t received any work from them since December. Why? One of my guesses is one of the usual over published, full-of-herself Ph.D.-educated authors doesn’t like for me to edit her work because I catch holes and biases in her research, so she’s made complaints and the new research director found it easier to sell me down the river as opposed to say to this researcher “Well, maybe she is right about errors in your stuff.”<br /><br />Submitting resumes is an act of futility, but I guess I enjoy self-flagellation?<br /><br />Being burned as much as I have, it’s pretty hard to see any good anywhere in humanity. Hence, I trust my cats more than pretty much any human right now!<br /><br />This doesn’t mean I won’t continue to try to deliver a random act of kindness whenever I can—but I will stop believing that I will receive any kindness or consideration from others. Today I let an elderly Japanese woman cut in line ahead of me at Costco. She had an armful of foodstuffs; I had a full cart. Why make her stand behind me, I said to myself, and motioned for her to get in front of me. She said “Really?” and I replied, “Of course, why make you stand there? You go ahead of me!” Once she was done, she turned to me and with a huge smile offered her sincere thanks.<br /><br />It’s just that easy to melt a jaded cynic’s heart, if only for a few seconds. </span></span>CaliGirl9http://www.blogger.com/profile/06639398512708841968noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3785167492083077158.post-565730441696838612011-02-17T00:58:00.000-08:002011-02-17T02:09:07.059-08:00Musing on Academic Success and Failures …<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjh2ByLWTgC09SCqHZvls0DOJFVh7DaWLj81hrC1GMpOOGehAWuFus-D1WMoRFH_EI11yTtc4qjSUd73TLrVVnjGtg2-z6KdifU6lhsxyXAAYZCMG0PR7ChGxa8_d1Sgn1G-4T4oAT85OA/s1600/4224_1071955397664_1189511735_30182696_3600376_n.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 259px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjh2ByLWTgC09SCqHZvls0DOJFVh7DaWLj81hrC1GMpOOGehAWuFus-D1WMoRFH_EI11yTtc4qjSUd73TLrVVnjGtg2-z6KdifU6lhsxyXAAYZCMG0PR7ChGxa8_d1Sgn1G-4T4oAT85OA/s320/4224_1071955397664_1189511735_30182696_3600376_n.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5574596444823348530" /></a><i><span class="Apple-style-span">Me as a hopeless 17-year old with my friend Marie Sprugasci, who was my maid-of-honor at my wedding. Marie was just so darn spunky! She's now an elementary school teacher. I'm the blonde.</span></i><div><span class="Apple-style-span">
<br /></span></div><div><meta name="Title" content=""> <meta name="Keywords" content=""> <meta equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"> <meta name="ProgId" content="Word.Document"> <meta name="Generator" content="Microsoft Word 2008"> <meta name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 2008"> <link rel="File-List" href="file://localhost/Users/focus/Library/Caches/TemporaryItems/msoclip/0clip_filelist.xml"> <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:officedocumentsettings> <o:allowpng/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:trackmoves>false</w:TrackMoves> <w:trackformatting/> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:drawinggridhorizontalspacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridHorizontalSpacing> <w:drawinggridverticalspacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridVerticalSpacing> <w:displayhorizontaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery> <w:displayverticaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:ignoremixedcontent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:dontgrowautofit/> <w:dontautofitconstrainedtables/> <w:dontvertalignintxbx/> </w:Compatibility> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:latentstyles deflockedstate="false" latentstylecount="276"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--> <style> <!-- /* Font Definitions */ @font-face {font-family:Cambria; panose-1:2 4 5 3 5 4 6 3 2 4; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:3 0 0 0 1 0;} /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin-top:0in; margin-right:0in; margin-bottom:10.0pt; margin-left:0in; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:Cambria; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi;} @page Section1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style> <!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin-top:0in; mso-para-margin-right:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:10.0pt; mso-para-margin-left:0in; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast; mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;} </style> <![endif]--> <!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span">I don’t romanticize my academic career prior to working toward my B.S. and M.A. I seriously hated high school, except for a few teachers and classes. I was not popular, and never really found my niche. Some teachers accused me of being lazy. In hindsight, I probably had a learning disability that affected me ability to grasp the abstract thinking required in algebra. But because I was supposed to be “bright,” any problems I had in algebra were of my doing, out of laziness or spite. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span">Thing is, I really didn’t have a problem with math until 6<sup>th</sup> grade. My teacher, a fine instructor named John Andes, took a group of his brighter kids, including me, and wanted to “introduce” us to some higher-thinking math. It had to do with thinking of math systems in different “bases.” The “base” we work in is base 10, in other words, numerals are grouped by tens. That’s really as much as I got out of it. By the time the school year was done, I was hopelessly confused. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span">Then came junior high, switching teachers and subjects throughout the day for the first time. I found myself in “A” rail everything except for math, which was “C” rail. My math teacher was a man Mr. Yeager. We called him “Bird” because he had severe, sharp features like a bird and wore his hair in a crew cut. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span">He was the first teacher I had that I hated. I was so confused in his math class, confused to the point that I didn’t even know how to ask questions. I received my first D from him—up until then my lowest grade had been a C in penmanship in 4<sup>th</sup> grade! </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span">My lot got no better in 8<sup>th</sup> grade. I was still C rail math because I was too smart for D rail. I was again stuck with Yeager. And again I learned nothing. Adding to my problem was my English teacher, Mrs. Grote. She too looked like a bird, except she was small and skinny, and an even worse teacher than Yeager. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span">I received my first F from her, in English, a subject I’d always excelled. My mother came in and had conferences with Mrs. Grote and Mr. Yeager. To this day I think the only problem I had in English with Mrs. Grote was I didn’t understand any of the directions she’d given—ever. The math problems were chalked up to laziness. I was getting high marks in social studies, science, and Spanish. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span">Things did not look much better for me going into high school. Because of my crappy grades in math and English, I was going to be put on the “career” track; in other words, enrolled in office classes in the hopes I could work as a secretary. At the time I had aspirations to be a veternarian, but the high school counselor, Mrs. Olsen, suggested I not think about pursuing that as a career. It was only at the cajoling of my mother that I was put into the “college prep” path, and put into one of the higher-functioing English classes, because by that time it had been determined I was simply bored with whatever it was Mrs. Grote had tried to teach me. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span">I was lucky that I ended up in the classroom of Dan Hoffman. Sure he frustrated me (Can anyone remember diagramming sentences? I thought “How useless,” but I confess that I use those skills whenever I am editing a poorly-written academic study.), but I learned from that man. I went on to take drama and journalism classes from him, and in a large part, he gave me the confidence and knowledge to craft powerful words. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span">Of course there is also the bad, and he came in the form of Mr. Quatre. He was the algebra teacher, and because algebra was required for college, I was put into a 2-year Algebra I class—designed to cover the subject a bit slower for students who struggled.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span">I never made it past the first year of that two-year course. I re-took the class my sophomore year with the same results—Ds and Fs. The only time I got an acceptable grade was the semester we did word problems. To this day I can set up word problems, but the operations just confuse me. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span">The traumas I endured in algebra stuck with me well into my 40s. I was math-stupid, and pretty much any and all four-year degrees required some sort of math. Even while earning my AA which allowed me to write the RN boards, I avoided taking pre-algebra. In order to graduate, I had to take a basic math test and pass with a 75. I waited until a week before my coursework was done, and passed with a 76. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span">In my early 20s I again tried algebra at the college level, at a night class. I cannot remember the teacher’s name, but I know I worked my butt off doing homework, which I earned As. However, at testing time, I’d go blank, and was grateful for a C. Going into the final I had a B based on my homework—I didn’t show up for the final, knowing I’d tank. The teacher offered for me to make up the final or accept a C in the class.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span">I was no dummy—I took the C! </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span">A good 15 years later, I decided I really wanted a 4-year degree. By this time, the math required for a PR major was statistics. The prereq for statistics was intermediate algebra. I was still math-phobic, and spoke to a counselor at Hartnell College (the community college closest to me) who told me they had teacher on staff named Ken Rand who had a way with math-stupid people. I was lucky to be able to get into his class.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span">I worked harder for those 4 units than I have in any other class before or since—including nursing classes, science classes, and anything at San José State or the University of San Francisco. Mr. Rand gave his students the opportunity to have a signed “contract”—a promise from the student that he/she would ask questions in class, would do all homework, attend all classes, and participate in class. If you did all to his satisfaction, the lowest grade you’d get was a B. But it was no cakewalk. I spend at least two afternoons a week in his office, learning about quadratic equations. I also spend 4 to 6 hours a week in the special math lab Mr. Rand has sent up. He’d also give us a practice exam the night before an exam—and that practice exam consisted of the kind of questions we’d be asked on the real exam. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span">I earned an A from Mr. Rand. To this day, I give him full credit for my academic success. I was able to take statistics the following semester, and although I liked the class, my math anxiety came back in full force. I’d get As on my homework, earned an A+ on my class project, but when it came to exams, I’d look at the questions and ask “When did I learn this?” </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span">I am done with math, period. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span">To end this entry, I’ve made a list of my favorite, and least favorite, teachers or professors I have had the pleasure or mispleasure to know. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span">Elementary School Favorites: <b>Miss Dvorak</b> (2<sup>nd</sup> grade); <b>Mr. Andes</b> (6<sup>th</sup> grade)</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span">Least Favorites: Mrs. Bryan (4<sup>th</sup> grade, she just scared me, she was so strict!); Mrs. Nunley (5<sup>th</sup> grade, a waste of a year. She was very discouraging toward my creative writing attempts. I had a thing for science fiction…); Mrs. Pitcher (physical education; she did not believe I had knee problems…)</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span">Junior High Favorites: <b>Raymond</b><b> Miller</b> (social studies, 7<sup>th</sup> and 8<sup>th</sup> grade). LOVED his class and his way of engaging students. He’d have a weekly current events “college bowl” quiz and I’d usually end up on the winning team.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span">Least Favorites: Mr. Yeager (7<sup>th</sup> and 8<sup>th</sup> grade math); Mrs. Grote (8<sup>th</sup> grade English)</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span">High School Favorites: <b>Dan Hoffman</b> (9<sup>th</sup> grade English, drama 10th through 12<sup>th</sup> grades, journalism 11<sup>th</sup> and 12<sup>th</sup> grade); <b>Larry Sonniksen</b> (Agriculture 9<sup>th</sup> and 10<sup>th</sup> grade). Yes I was an aggie, in FFA and all that; <b>Stephen Highfill</b>, 9<sup>th</sup> and 11<sup>th</sup> grade Spanish. My Spanish used to be good enough that was a teacher’s assistant for Mr. Highfill in 11<sup>th</sup> and 12<sup>th</sup> grades.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span">Least favorite, and the one who had the most negative effect on my life: Ed Quatre, 9<sup>th</sup> and 10<sup>th</sup> grade Algebra I; Mr. Campbell, 10<sup>th</sup> grade science—KILLED my interest in science until I had to take biology classes for nursing school. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span">College/University Favorites: <b>Ken Rand</b>, Hartnell College. The MOST influential teacher I have ever had;<b> Dr. Lucindi Mooney</b>, English 1B and Literature. Ultra-picky when grading my writing, which in the long-term has been very helpful to me. <b>Debby Figurski</b>, RN program at Hartnell College; threatened to fail me when I did not thrive in my ICU rotation, she made me get off my butt and want it more. <b>Judy Duffy</b>, RN program. Taught OB nursing, which ended up being my favorite area of practice; <b>Connie Powell</b>, RN program, taught pediatric nursing, which I hated, but she so obviously loved it she could not help make you care more about it.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span"><b>Chris DiSalvo</b>, San José State University, public relations instructor; Dr. Bill Briggs, SJSU, mass communications instructor. Sad thing about Dr. Briggs is I did not appreciate how brilliant he is until he was no longer my professor. <b>Dr. Dennis Wilcox</b>, SJSU, public relations professor. Dr. Wilcox is another of those brilliant, but I got it too late types… <b>Dr. Kathleen Martinelli</b>, SJSU public relations professor. Just makes it look so easy … <b>Dr. Dan Rascher</b>, University of San Francisco, master’s program sport management—made economics fun. <b>Dr. Maria Veri</b>, USF. Reminded me of the importance of accepting and embracing cultural differences. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span">Least Favorite:</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span">Ms. Brown, SJSU, marketing professor. I HATED her class, 120 bodies and most were in the class because it was required of their major. I still don’t really get the point of her class—and didn’t until grad school.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span">A pair of female professors at USF, I have conveniently forgotten their names. One was a marketing teacher who did not understand the NHL or how inept it can be; the second was the sport law professor who was confused by my research paper about civil RICOs and the Alan Eagleson mess with the NHL Player’s Association in the 1970s. My lowest grades in grad school from the two—a pair of B+, messing up my grade point averages. Hags. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span"> </span></o:p></p> <!--EndFragment--></div>CaliGirl9http://www.blogger.com/profile/06639398512708841968noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3785167492083077158.post-21381299168775790332011-02-12T14:12:00.000-08:002011-02-12T14:25:09.965-08:00My Last Word (maybe) on the Michael Jackson Stuff<span class="Apple-style-span" ><span style="font-style:italic;" >Thanks to my conspiracy theory friends for contributing to this entry. You know who you are!</span><br /><br />Let me remind anyone tripping over this that I am not a fan of Michael Jackson, the Jackson 5, or that genre of music. So when I heard that Jackson had died in June 2009, I thought, “How sad for those kids,” but not “Oh my God, the world has lost a living saint!” as it seems so many people think or feel. They argue, “Look at his humanitarian efforts, look at how much money he donated to causes for children! He cared about the earth!”<br /><br />Well that’s all fine and dandy. No one really knows where Jackson’s heart was on those issues. Was his “famous” generosity actually a way to pay less in taxes? Was it his way of atoning for possible questionable behavior around pre-pubescent boys?<br /><br />I’ve written it before and I’ll write it again: At worst he was a pedophile, at the minimum he exhibited some confusing behaviors around elementary/junior high-aged boys (never girls). At best he was a very talented entertainer, at worst someone who came along at the right place at the right time and was discovered. What I can write with certainty is he was a human being full of self-loathing because of what his father did to him. And that’s a fact—how many people go through so much effort to distance themselves from their father by subjecting themselves to plastic surgery to look less like him (and ultimately look like an alien, related to no one on earth, except for his sister LaToya)?<br /><br />My friend Sprocket at her blog <a href="http://sprocket-trials.blogspot.com/">Trials and Tribulations</a> attended the hearing for Conrad Murray, the physician responsible for Jackson’s death by abandoning his heavily sedated patient. Her blog entries brought out the best and worst in Jackson fans. I believe it is possible to be a fan and be able to understand that Jackson’s death was utterly avoidable, that Jackson’s behavior in seeking a doctor to put him to sleep using a drug that is NOT approved in any way, shape or form for insomnia, and that he has left a legacy of music that many people love.<br /><br />Said rabid fans are also convinced that Murray is being undercharged, no matter how concisely it is explained to them that the law, currently as written, does not allow for anything other than involuntary manslaughter at the time of Jackson’s death or today. In other words, if the same thing happened today to a person as famous as Jackson, or a nobody like me, the worst that could be charged is involuntary manslaughter, unless there is malice. (“I want that person dead, so I’m going to do it with propofol.” That’s malice.)<br /><br />But oh boy, the conspiracy theories surrounding this death are friggin’ hysterical. I refuse to “visit” any links sent to T & T proving those conspiracy theories. AEG did it, Sony did it, I am sure there are more but I refuse to investigate. I think for shits and giggles I will share some of my own, along with theories brought by friends.<br /><br />1. The “this case is just like a repeat offender drunk driver running over someone and killing them while drunk, hence malice, hence second degree murder” argument. Proof: Conrad Murray delayed calling 911 and then made himself unavailable immediately after Jackson was pronounced dead 'cause he was chemically impaired on whatever.<br /><br />2. The “This is a federal case and the FBI should be involved ‘cause Murray was on the phone to someone in Texas when Jackson stopped breathing in California” argument. Only problem is Murray wasn’t doing anything illegal by flirting with a girlfriend in Texas, unless he was trying to sell her something stolen or illegal.<br /><br />3. The “Jackson died of sleep deprivation” argument. So to best buy into that one, you must embrace what you remember (erroneously) of your high school biology and assume that Jackson’s sleep deprivation caused hallucinations. The ensuing stress response caused kidney failure and cardiac stress. The chest pain, renal failure, and hallucinations drove MJ to recklessly climb onto the roof of the rented mansion, seeking relief from insomnia, whereupon he slipped and fell, impaling himself on a large syringe of propofol held innocently by Conrad Murray who was busy making dates. Sadly, AEG had not anticipated this situation, thus no insurance coverage. The beneficiaries of this conspiracy were Tito and LaToya, who placed the banana peel on the roof, in the hopes MJ would just accidentally fall to his death and allow them to take over MJ’s bankrupt empire. <br /><br />4. (This goes with the above) Jackson was being held by AEG and was tortured and deprived of sleep to get him to comply with showing up to rehearsal. MJ was being a bad boy and not practicing, so they had Dr. Murray take care of the problem.<br /><br />5. G.W. Bush did it.<br /><br />6. Dick Cheney did it, and waterboarded poor MJ, too.<br /><br />7. Bush, Cheney, Obama, bin Laden, Kadaffi, and Kim Jong Il did it. It was the one thing they were able to agree upon.<br /><br />8. It was Kim Il sung, who ordered the hit from his deathbed. (In 1994.) MJ's music has always threatened stability in that region. Kim Il Sung was a huge MJ opponent, and feared MJ's music would drive the North Korean empire into ruin.<br /><br />9. PepsiCo did it. They meant for him to burn alive when he had his little "accident" that got him hooked on drugs. They didn't mean for him to live long enough to do that. Joe Jackson told them to do it!<br /><br />10. There is also a distant association between the Jackson family and JFK’s extended family (former California Gov. Arnold Schwarzenegger, married to JFK’s niece Maria Shriver), which had something to do with the conspiracy faking the lunar landing. Jackson knew the lunar landing was fake, and his dance step, the moonwalk, was a secret code in acknowledgment. Both MJ and JFK (both of whom have "J" in their names) are now dead. That is no accident. <br /><br />11. A pentagram has 5 points—and the Jackson 5 had five members. The “hit” on MJ was ordered by the devil!<br /><br />12. Conrad Murray was born in Grenada. Grenada contains the letters A, E, and G. Murray was chose for that reason—AEG knew he would comply because they shared letters of the alphabet! <br /><br />13. The Vatican is involved, too, because the Jackson Family are practicing Jehovah's Witnesses. It had to look like the Muslims or Hindus did it.<br /><br />14. Paul McCartney ordered the hit, because MJ bought the Beatles’ catalog before Paul was able to buy it for himself.<br /><br />15. The executors of the will did it so they could play around with all of the recordings Jackson left, so they could have full-time work and get paid lots of money by Jackson’s estate.<br /><br />I am a firm believer in Occam’s Razor, that the simplest theory that fits the facts of a problem is the one that should be selected. The more people involved in a conspiracy makes it more likely that conspiracy will be uncovered. Over 2 ½ years after his death, no one has stepped forward (other than conspiracy theorists) to say there was indeed a conspiracy to kill MJ. No one has been able to prove how the main so-called conspiracists, Sony and AEG entertainment, were going to benefit from a dead Michael Jackson. There is not enough insurance in the world to make it profitable to have a corpse on their hands, allowing them to collect the insurance funds.<br /><br />I also believe that the LA County DA performed an extensive investigation and would have upped the charges had they been able to find a reliable witness who could say Murray showed malice toward Jackson. Truth is, Jackson himself hired Murray, and demanded AEG hire/pay him to be Jackson’s personal physician. MJ did not need a cardiologist, he needed multiple specialists, doctors who would have said “no” to his request for propofol and benzos. While Murray is responsible for abandoning a patient receiving unacceptable medical care, MJ is the one who picked that incompetent physician.<br /><br />If Jackson fans want to pursue any of their conspiracy theories, I suggest they form a group, collect the funds, and hire a private investigator or ten. Build an unshakable case. Look at both sides, pro and con. Make sure your evidence is valid and admissible in court. Only then do you take your unshakable case to the DA. They will appreciate all of the work you have done."<br /><br />Or let LaToya and and the rest of the Jacksons pay for it. Just don't spend a dime of taxpayers' dollars on investigating something that has already been investigated and is going through the courts in proper fashion.<br /><br /><i><span class="Apple-style-span" >A heads-up to would-be negative commenters: Don't bother to send me links proving the various conspiracy theories. I will not approve the comment nor will I check out the link. However, I will approve people who see this post for the tongue-in-cheek entry it is, and want to add their own conspiracy theories to the lunacy. This is MY blog and there is no freedom of speech unless I like it! </span></i></span>CaliGirl9http://www.blogger.com/profile/06639398512708841968noreply@blogger.com2