Deadline pressure

    Firefox has a new update this New Year's Eve, and I'm afraid if I write anything particularly weighty or verbose I won't have time to download it, too. So all you're getting at the moment is a "Happy New Year!" and I'll write the real blog post later as an edit if time permits.
     Edit: Hey, I don't have to feel like a heel anymore. Margaret had pain in her back and in her leg, so she wasn't feeling good enough to visit Dad. So they couldn't have gone to the New Year's dance anyway. Not that I feel good about that; I feel terrible. But the silver lining is that I can go see George Clinton with a reasonably clear conscience.

B12 and coping skills

    (Or lack of same and lack of same.) So as I've mentioned here and there, though maybe not on this blog, I recently discovered that Aldi changed their spice supplier at some point this year and their spice labels now read "may contain wheat, soy or milk." I learned a valuable lesson about trusting corporations. Don't. Ever. So when I noticed that my cinnamon (eaten every day) and cumin (every third day, say, on average) were most likely contaminated, I threw them out and bought McCormick's. McCormick's is much-admired in the celiac community for never putting gluten in any of their single-spice packages.
    And it was like 2007 all over again. Clinical depression went away. Suicide watch was lifted. Good cheer returned. Problems start looking like challenges to be confronted and solved rather than roadblocks to be avoided. Granted, there are a lot of problems, some scarier than ever. But I can see being able to handle them, or anyway to laugh at them. I've mentioned but I'll mention again that the chief problem I have from celiac sprue is that I can't get enough vitamin B12, which leads to all this nervousness and crippling depression.
    I'm not quite out of the woods yet. I'm taking B and C supplements to get my B12 levels up quickly. But I'm returning to the point where I can remember that this is the Johnocentric universe and I'm John; things have a way of working out.

More fiasco-like

    Last night after his dialysis, we took Dad to Lizard's Thicket. That didn't work out so well. He had no energy and little appetite. Malcolm took him back to Rice Estate and I drove along behind to backstop him. Inside the door were a couple of wheelchairs, and Dad suggested we give him a ride. This is a fair measure how exhausted he was. We did, of course. We got him back to his room and he settled in pretty well, phoning Margaret as I left. He had another supper there, too, if he wanted it, so if his appetite returned later he wouldn't have any problem. Anyway not a fiasco exactly, but probably not the best idea ever. (The ham I had was very nice, though! And Anne got to try the chocolate meringue pie. Chocolate meringue pie?)

One of the best fiascos ever

    So yeah, it WAS fun. Dad's appointment went no problem at all. We were dreading having his eyes dilated, and he did have, but he didn't have any problems with it except he had trouble seeing or getting around unless all the lights were on. While Malcolm and I waited, Anne called to propose going out for early supper. Dad preferred Outback Steakhouse and as late as we could manage, so we went over to Margaret's to hang out and wait. Malcolm brought Margaret's notebook computer up to date after 7 months in abeyance and we watched TV.
    Outback was pleasant. For some reason they had the air conditioning on and it was flaming death (well; not literally) getting them to turn it off. Also the steaks were cold. But we had a pleasant time. Unfortunately, service was unbelievably slow and I had to abandon them to get to Drinking Liberally on time. Where... nobody showed up. Still a commitment's a commitment.
    Upshot is that Dad's vision is fine. He can keep his license. He thinks he's going to be driving and no one can dissuade him; I'm hoping this turns out to be wrong. Doctor just wants him taking fish oil with vitamins. Sounds like a super idea in any case. His balance was OK, and he said several times (in between complaining about the bitter coffee) that he was glad he chose Outback. So that was fun.
    Meanwhile, Margaret and he want to go to the New Year's Eve dance at the Senior Center. Much as I love the idea, they neither of them are getting around that well and we don't have a couple of NFL linebackers handy to keep them from falling. At the same time, for the first time in my life, there is actually something I want to do on New Year's Eve. (George Clinton and Parliament Funkadelic are going to be on Main St.) So I feel like a heel, but at the moment I'm putting the kibosh on it. Maybe we'll find a way. That would be neat.

This'll be fun

    Earlier this month, Dad got a letter from the DMV saying that he had to have an eye exam by an eye doctor to continue to have a driver's license. Turns out that this was because his eye doctor had told the DMV two years ago that he would need an exam in two years. Sooo I begged and pleaded and got him an appointment before the deadline, and the appointment is today. It's raining. He isn't moving well. There is no one on Earth besides himself who wants to see him driving. I haven't cleared this or even discussed it with the nursing home. What could possibly go wrong?
    Fortunately I have Malcolm along for backup, and the rain isn't too bad. Dad can talk and has no doubt notified the staff that he's going for an eye exam. I would normally be going out there with Margaret a half hour later anyway, so it's pretty much my normal routine. (She asked that we call her when the appointment's over, so I will. Hopefully we can pick her up so they can be together for part of the day at least.)
    So there's at least a chance that things can go smoothly. Knock on wood!
    Meanwhile, I haven't seen so much of visiting family, but Malcolm came around last night bearing tunage. We found that the new mini-component setup handles jazz pretty well. Also Pepper Adams was (or is) pretty cool.

Hung by the chimney with care

    We successfully delivered Dad to Margaret's daughter Bunny's house and back with no major mishaps. One stumble, but he was caught before he could fall. And he looked very nice. But he did not look a lot like a man who was going to be dancing out of the facility any time soon. However, the dialysis folks think that they've figured out why his blood pressure has been too low (he was drinking too much water) so hopefully he will rally again in the new year.
    Meanwhile, nephew James' new bride Christina celebrated her first Christmas in the US. She's from Mexico and had previously gone home to celebrate. And they announced her pregnancy. We did our best to look astonished, having been forewarned by proud future Grandma Anne. It was nice that Christina got to have her first US Christmas in warm family surroundings. The fact that there were a lot of ladies there who could give her tips on getting over morning sickness was probably also a plus.
    So a good time was had by all, and we got Daddy back to Rice Home in time for supper. Yay!

It's come to this

    I finally had a happy dream. And what could my brain come up with as a happy dream? I dreamed that I found the gluten-free soft corn tortillas that Publix carried for a few months, then didn't anymore. When I woke up, I was really pissed that they weren't really in my refrigerator. Boy, my hopes and dreams have narrowed down a lot, haven't they? I used to believe in romance and hope; now tasty gluten-free tortillas are my highest aspiration. Then again, it's at least attainable.
    Not meaning to bring people down on the big day; take all that with tongue in cheek, and a merry, merry Christmas to all!

What does "Stop Push" mean?

    Brother Malcolm gave me an awesome mini-component system for Christmas. It plays both CDs and MP3s. The latter function makes me especially happy, as I have several CDs full of them. (And I mean FULL; between 100 and 200 tunes on each.) So we were trying to figure out how to work the Shuffle function so I could get maximum joy therefrom. The instructions said to push the Play Function button on the remote. I did several times but the display just read "STOP. PUSH." we were flummoxed. Then I just went, "Oh," and pushed stop. Then the Play Function button worked perfectly straightforwardly. I'm tellin' ya, I'm a genius; just ask anybody.

Get thee behind me Santa

    I'm so childish. The phrase is as above, except with the anagram. I thought it was "Get behind thee, Satan," and said so publicly. And even though nobody corrected me and nobody cares, I'm pissed because I was wrong. And even though the one-liner above is at least more than a little cute (if not exactly original), I can't enjoy it because I had it wrong at first. Childish.
    It is true that I don't much like buying gifts and am seldom as enthusiastic as I should be about receiving them. But Santa's jake with me. I would even leave him cookies and milk... if I ate either cookies or milk.
    Dad is having a run of low blood pressure. We don't know what the deal is. One would guess that it might have something to do with the Heparin they give him for dialysis and the consequent difficulties to get him to stop bleeding at the end of dialysis. One hopes they will maybe lessen the dosage. One worries. A lot.
    It doesn't help a bit that Medicare sent a giant package of information about coping with End Stage Renal Disease. I don't know who the idiots were who thought that that phrase would be an improvement over "kidney failure," but I'd like to punch them. I'm sure he would like to read all this stuff, but I'm equally sure that Christmas is not the ideal time. Boxing Day, on the other hand...

Solstice

    BOY I'm glad we passed the solstice! Long ago, dealing with a depressed girl friend (as opposed to girlfriend), I was able to cheer her up, or at least back her away from the precipice, by pointing out that even though it was cold and grey outside, the days were getting longer again and Spring was coming back soon. Sometimes it even works on me.

FINALLY got to do my joke

    At Aldi, Dee, the best checker in the known world, always asks customers, "Cash or credit?" However, she never asks me since I always pay by cash. Which is a shame, since I have had a great reply ready for just ages. Today I was a little slow bagging up my purchases, so I was still there when she asked the next customer, "Cash or credit?" And I thought of a back-channel way to do my joke. I said, "She never asks me that 'cause she knows I'll say, 'Shopliftin'.'" Dee laughed. The customer, I think, was more than a little non-plussed. I live for these moments.

The quiet Beatle

    It's almost a truism of music fandom of the last 40 years that Yoko Ono broke up the Beatles. However, one can't help but notice that George Harrison played on "How Do You Sleep?," John Lennon's savage denunciation of Paul McCartney from "Imagine." In many ways, his guitar solo (my memory and ear says it was a dobro, but the Internets are refusing to back me up) is more blistering than Lennon's lyrics. The lyrics are mainly wistful and regretful except for that whole "The sound you make is Muzak to my ears/ You must have learned something in all those years" thing.
    So it probably wouldn't be unfair to infer that it was actually Paul (or if you're really that misogynist, Linda) who broke up the Beatles. If I recall correctly, Ringo played on the LP "Imagine," too, though not on that track. I think he said all he needed to say in "Early 1970," helpfully posted on YouTube at least as of a year or so ago: "When I go to town, I want to see all three." Forty years on, I still bawl.

Countermeasures

    A while back, I noticed that if I listened to jazz all night, I would tend to dream about my misspent youth in the jazz clubs of Philadelphia instead of having nightmares. So having had a batch of nightmares lately, I took a blank CD and put all the jazz that's on my old PC except any with vocalists (for no known reason) and prepared my counterattack. The first night I tried it, it didn't really work, but at least I didn't have any dreadful nightmares. Since then, I've mainly been falling asleep listening to football, but I'll try again. Anyway, it was a good feeling to be fighting back.
    Also, the trick of putting coconut milk in everything does indeed seem to be improving my thyroid and my mood. Tastes good, too!

Another dilemna

    (I really do know how to spell it.) I developed a problem with hearing popping noises from my rib cage pretty much whenever I moved. I figured I was low on calcium, so I started putting kale in practically everything I eat. And... popping noises go away. But as I say, I've been very depressed lately, even taking into consideration external stressors.
    So maybe I have another dilemma: poppy chest or happy skull? Or perhaps it's not a dilemma at all and I just have to get up nerve to take more iodine. (The maximum RDA of iodine is 6 times the minimum, so it's not all that risky.) Or maybe I should amp up the avocados again. I could always add an avocado-cucumber drink to suppertime.
    I'm also starting to put coconut milk in everything. Some of the Crazy People On The Internet argue that all coconut products are good for the thyroid. We'll see.
    Meanwhile, Dad got tired of waiting for the podiatrist and decided to cut his own toenails. With a scissors. And cut his toe instead. Which is WHY WE WERE WAITING FOR THE PODIATRIST. (Sorry!) Didn't say it, but thought, this is how one winds up in an institution for the rest of one's life. Hopefully, he learned a lesson.

Anyway, at least I was right

    I buy my shoes from a discount joint called GB Shoe Warehouse. The last time I was there, I measured my feet and found out why my shoes never fit. My feet are conspicuously narrow. The store has a huge selection of regular width shoes and possibly even a better selection of wide ones, but no narrow widths at all. I also noticed a sign that said if you can't find your size, just ask a salesperson.
    That day I didn't feel like it. The other day I did. It was quite a wait to find a salesperson to ask. I caught his eye and he asked if I was finding everything OK. I said no. Eventually he came over. I explained the situation and he said that the only narrow sizes they could special-order was Florsheim. We went over to check the Florsheims and he meanwhile double-checked. About the time I found a Florsheim I could live with, he came back to tell me they couldn't special-order those either.
    He was conspicuously skinny, much more than I am, so I asked him what he did for shoes. He said that was what he liked about working there; he could just keep searching until he found something that fit. Also something about wearing two sets of socks. So I thanked him, then pointed out that at least I was right about not being able to find anything. He laughed a bit.

Dilemma

    For one thing, shouldn't that be dilemna? Guess not.
    It seems clear that with my condition, whatever you want to call it (Asperger's, chronic depression, anxiety disorder, the human one) I have a choice between being smart or being happy. I can eat avocados all day long and make my thyroid and mood happy but find myself more or less unable to think or remember clearly. Or I can eat a more normal and more thyroid-adverse diet and be smarter but more miserable.
    This is how it seems today. Of course when the solstice comes and the days start getting longer again, I'll probably feel differently. Or if the crazy external stressors relent a bit. Or I kick the heroin.
    What I find frustrating is that when I doubled the cucumber in my lunch-time avocado-cucumber drink, a beverage that previously led to happy feelings just doesn't anymore. The cucumber is just supposed to counter the avocado's vasoconstrictive properties, not its pro-thyroid ones. As far as I know, even the Crazy People On The Internet don't make any claims that cucumber is bad for the thyroid, but maybe it is. Goodness knows everything else that's good for you is.
    Still and all, except for despair on waking I feel great. My earlier idea of staggering my iodine intake still sounds good to me, but I can't figure out how to split the pills. Of course, I could just take two. Might be worth a try.

There's something strange going on tonight

    Or rather, this morning. Woke up today with an odd twitch in my forehead. It went away when I went for my walk but returned when I did. (OK, that was a little twee; it returned when I came home.) Maybe the kitty allergy is finally getting out of hand. Maybe it's just stress. Maybe it's guilt about not playing with the kitty enough. (Obviously, she favors this explanation,) Whatever, it's very annoying and I hope it goes away soon. For one thing, as a confirmed hypochondriac I'll have myself convinced it's a stroke or some damned thing in no time.
    Would that I had the wherewithal or the space or the wherewithal to have the space to be able to get another kitty. The Monkey deserves a playmate more dedicated than I can be. She's a sweetie sweetie sweet sweet and has saved my life numerous times just by being there. She deserves a companion. Or a 20-foot-long Slinky, I'm not sure which.

Obsessed with cooking

    This should be a very intelligent, in depth, focused and detailed discussion of my dad's situation, as the staff came around and explained to Margaret and me about their concerns for him and his need for in-out catheterization. But I'm still not too confident that they'll be able to sway him. They're going to try tomorrow and I certainly wish them all the luck in the world.
    But I'd rather talk about my muffins. They really, really, really turned out. And now I'm obsessed with the idea of replicating the feat with apple sauce in there instead. I'm just not sure how much it would take. Nor how well apple sauce goes with pecans. Nor whether I want to try to slip some raisins in there as well. Where's the flavor sensei when I really need one? Anyway, a neat distraction from the more important issues of the world.

Stop! Went too far

    On the Cayce Riverwalk, there are assorted green chalked arrows pointing further along the trail, and at least one message saying "Keep going." Then on the handrail is a green chalked Stop sign followed by "Went too far." I never saw the green chalked "You are here." However, there is no rain in the forecast, so I can always look more closely tomorrow or on following days. Or it will always be a mystery. Pretty fun stuff anyway.
    Also on the Riverwalk, I encountered a couple of young women, one of whom was wearing a "Beat Clemson" sweatshirt. I thought, "Hey! It worked!" Boobies of power! (This of course would have been a much better subject line, but I really don't need that volume of visitors.)

Zzzzzzzzz

    It is a thing of less than perfect joy when I bring Margaret to see Dad and they both sleep for more than half of the visit. Common sense would say that maybe if we turned the heat down (from its very, very, very high levels) during the visit, staying awake might be a little easier. Also, when either of them wakes up, he or she is unwilling to awaken the other, even though clearly one wants to visit and the other wants to be visited.
    Still, they're very sweet together when both are awake. And it's a sweet thought to let the other sleep even though it cuts into their limited time together. And maybe maybe maybe it'll help them evolve toward the idea that Assisted Living would fit their current abilities better than trying to live at Margaret's house. But it's a trifle frustrating. Way better than a lot of the alternatives, though, of course.

It's nice to have my playful kitty back

    As I think I may have mentioned before, if the kitty is going off to hide in high, inaccessible places (and also grooming maniacally), she isn't trying to be cute; she's trying to tell you that the carpet has fleas. After I treated her with Feline Advantage, she returned to the frolicking, rollicking kitty I'm more used to. In short, the World Arena Kittyball Champion is back in town. (Just don't ask.) Now if only my lower back would cooperate, I could be just as playful...

I work at Publix in Georgia

    I had just paid for my groceries at the good-looking people's Publix at Gervais and Huger (they let me in on a special pass) when a woman buttonholed the checker with, "I work at Publix in Georgia, and a picture of this building comes up on my work computer every few minutes, so when I saw the building, I had to come in!" At last! We have a tourist attraction!
    (The building in question was the Dispensary when Pitchfork Ben Tillman (I think) decided that the state should be in charge of distributing all liquor in SC. However, Publix being in the building is something of a con because most of the store is in a new building built on to it and only a small part of the store is in the actual Dispensary. Most of the Dispensary has turned into high-end housing, or it would be if anybody ever moved in.)

Assisted Living not a hit

    We got to go see the model Assisted Living unit. I was very, very favorably impressed; Dad and Margaret, not so much. It's very compact, with a small living room, a bedroom, a bath and a kitchenette-ette (fridge, sink) in the foyer. The TV was in the living room; Dad wasn't overly happy that he would have to bring his own TV to be able to watch TV in bed. He just doesn't see any benefit to Assisted Living. One difference would be that he would no longer have to ride the ambulance to dialysis, but he says as long as the facility is paying for the ride he doesn't mind the ambulance.
    In other news, the doctor at Rice Estate talked to Dad yesterday and confirmed Juanita's view that he doesn't need to do in-out cath unless he wants to (which he doesn't). Gail, the social worker (also a nurse), still thinks that he just has to be able to do in-out cath; I told her we're at an impasse, and we'll just have to agree to disagree. As this is just an issue if he wants to be in Assisted Living (and he doesn't), it's just not the biggest problem in the world. I just want to see him keep getting stronger.

Common sense threatens to break out again

    Juanita, one of the nurses at the Rice Estate called yesterday. What she wanted to talk about was Dad's order for in-and-out catheterization, specifically with regard to its no longer being necessary. As I was FULLY in agreement, we mainly took turns saying "Exactly!" a lot. She said that they continue to scan his bladder, and though there's some urine left in there, it isn't causing him any discomfort or problem, so why worry?
    Unfortunately, Juanita isn't the deciding vote and she won't be there today to talk to the doctor. But she left a firm recommendation in the notes that the order be discontinued, and recommended that I be firm about supporting the idea. I won't have any problem with that.

This facility fiasco-free for two (2) days

    Yeah, I can't believe it either. I still think there's a fiasco out there heading my way at something better than double nickels. Or a major limb is going to fall off. I'm glad to say that for once I don't think anything horrible is likely to happen to Dad or to Margaret, though he too seems horribly depressed. I asked him if he wanted to renew his Consumer Reports subscription and he said that he just looked at it when he wanted to buy things didn't think he'd be buying all that much more. So this kind of thinking has to be headed off.
    As to me, zippiness is far, far away, though I did inadvertently smile a couple of times yesterday. The kitty has fully recovered from her funk, so at least I have a playful kitty again. That helps tons and tons. Morale improves with every fiasco-free day at the facility. May they continue.
    (Just to be totally clear, "facility" refers to me, not to the place where Dad's staying.)

Also I'd like a pony

    The above is what I say whenever I wish for something impossible. The good news about the weekend's fiascoes is that nothing worse has happened since. Or at least nothing that I've heard about. The tightness in my throat and far far further down the digestive system indicates that this situation will not continue. But a fella can hope.
    In the larger world, there's an election year coming up. One dreams that the people will see reason, or even common sense, and vote for people whose chief concern is for them, the people, and for the long term. And if the people's best interests come in conflict with those of corporations, maybe now and then our representatives might opt for the former. And as the Christmas season dawns, it would be nice that while we're talking about peace on Earth and goodwill toward men, maybe we could try implementing these concepts a little.
    Also, I'd like a pony.

Picked the wrong weekend to quit sniffin' glue!

    As I said, Margaret fell in her yard Saturday morning and had to wait a half hour in the cold for somebody to help her. However, she is if anything more determined to stay by herself (or preferably with Dad), even though she says herself, "I've fallen and I'll probably fall again." And even though she clearly needs better nutrition and more physical therapy. I'll keep trying, but I am keenly disheartened.
    Also yesterday, a person I had thought of as a dear friend told me to drop dead, only much more firmly and colorfully. Hope that things work out somehow. Can't help but think that things are likelier to get worse than better.

Tho much for Thtockholm Thyndrome

    I was starting to think that Dad was getting irascible with us to make up for having to be ingratiating with the staff at Rice Estate, sort of a variant on Stockholm Syndrome. (This was going to be titled, "And I bet Patty Hearst was a real bitch when she got home, too.") Yesterday, however, undercut that idea more than a little. A member of staff came in to get Dad to come out to be weighed. She asked if he was done with his lunch and he said, "NO!" She asked if he was going to put shoes on and he said, "NO!" He was smiling, mind you, but it appears that he's getting irascible with everybody. He's more than ready to get out of there, I don't doubt.
    Also yesterday, Margaret called to say that she had fallen down outside earlier in the morning when she went out to get the paper. When she couldn't get up, she had to sit on the ground for a half hour until a neighbor helped her up. Hopefully, this will cause her to think more seriously about trying assisted living. Or at the very least remember to carry her cell phone at all times.

Finally, a true-to-life dream!

    Last night, I dreamed that I had accidentally gotten several specks of Wite-out on an otherwise new and unused envelope. And I tried to Wite-out the Wite-out. Even asleep, I thought it was funny. And absolutely true-to-life. That is what I would most likely try to do in those circumstances. Must have really needed a laugh!
    I do notice that I despair in the night, and then am cheerful again after breakfast. I take my kelp-for-iodine with breakfast. I'm wondering if I took another one at lunch, or split one in half and took half with breakfast and half with lunch if I'd get through the night better. Unfortunately, they don't split but rather pulverize, so I'd need a different kind of tablet. Something to think about.

Well they listened

    So yesterday when it was almost time for Margaret and me to go, Dad told her that it was time for them to make some decisions. They needed to decide, he said, whether he was going to move in with her or whether he was going to go back to the house. This was wildly premature, but it didn't seem politic to say so. Instead I suggested that they both try Assisted Living for a while so they could both get stronger and more ready to live independently.
    They didn't laugh me out of the room at least. Margaret said she wanted to see what the Assisted Living facility is like. She's always objected to Skilled Nursing on the grounds that most of the people there are fairly catatonic. I know that she'll find the Assisted Living residents a lot livelier since we've already seen them.
    Mostly I just want to have them together for Christmas, and it's just too soon for Dad to move out. He can't even sit up in bed by himself. Neither of them can open a twist-off bottle without help. Neither of them get around too well; neither of them drive too well either.
    I don't know if they'll go for it. I'm sure Dad's fed up with nursing home care, and I'm sure Margaret is far from eager to volunteer for it. But at least I tried, and there's some chance it might happen. We have an informal appointment to see the Assisted and Independent Living rooms next Thursday. Yay!

Medicare pays for the walker

    OK, maybe I am such an idiot. The head nurse at the Rice Estate ordered Dad a walker, the tallest one they could find. We were pleased with this solicitousness, but I at least assumed that we would be paying for it. Now they're ordering him a cane as well (the tallest they can find), and very nicely explained that Dad would have to pay for this, because though Medicare will pay for the walker, they won't also pay for a cane.
    This reflects just brilliantly on UniHealth. They never provided Dad a walker except during physical therapy, leading directly to all his bodily function problems. It's of course possible that they were on the lookout against liability problems, but really I'm not sure they're that bright. If Medicare pays for the walker anyway, I can't see any argument against them having ordered him one. The only conclusion I can draw is that they're totally clueless. And that we're happy to be shot of them.

Heaven, one bite at a time

    My portable baklava has transmogrified again, this time to mini-muffins. I wanted to add coconut, but adding enough such that anybody could taste it made for an unpleasantly chaotic trail mix and unpleasantly greasy fingers. So I added an egg and tried to make cookies, but too much stuck to the aluminum foil. Thus mini-muffins. Otherwise, the recipe is exactly the same. OK, end of blog post; have a nice day!
    Or maybe not. It's kind of hard to write this recipe, since what I do is completely insane. What I wanted was brown rice flour, which nobody sells. This is because the difference between white and brown rice is the bran. So if you want brown rice flour, you buy white rice flour and rice bran and blend the two. However, I still have all that puffed brown rice I need to use up anyway, so what I did was put a cup thereof in a freezer bag and beat hell out of it. A lot of people think that the strongest substance on Earth is spider silk, but I'm pretty sure it's puffed brown rice. I use a sauce pan for the beating, flipping the bag over now and again. It isn't necessary (nor possible) to make flour or meal; just pulverize as much as you can.
    Preheat oven to 325 degrees. The coconut is a pain, since I use frozen. It doesn't exactly like being measured. However, I aim for about two tablespoons worth. I set it out on a saucer on the rear right burner, which in my house gets quite warm as the oven is preheating. If yours doesn't, you can always put it in the oven for 5 minutes or so.
    As before, get out a large mixing bowl and add a tablespoon of EV olive oil, two of clover honey, another of oil, another two of honey. Add a teaspoon of cocoa and a teaspoon of vanilla. Mix like crazy. Crack and scramble an egg and add. Mix even crazier. Add your ricemeal and mix the craziest still. Add a quarter of a cup of raw sunflower seed meats and three-quarters of a cup of chopped pecans and your hopefully-defrosted coconut. Mix to your heart's content.
    Publix has non-stick mini-muffin tins and also the paper liners. Between the honey and the egg, this stuff is super-sticky. Also, the muffin tins feature a warning not to use anything metal on them. I just had no confidence that I could get the muffins out without a knife or something, so I used paper liners and they worked very well. Might be overkill. The recipe above made an even 12, coincidentally the number of cups in the mini-muffin tin. Magic!
    Spoon out your mixture into the paper liners in your mini-muffin tin. Cook for 25 minutes. (See Edit below.) Take out and let cool for at least 10 minutes. Enjoy heaven in the form of ricemeal pecan joy mini-muffins, one bite at a time.
     Edit: When I did this the first time, I baked for 20 minutes at 350 and when I brought the pan out, the cupcakes looked undercooked. So I put them back in for another five minutes with the oven still hot but the heat turned off and they turned out perfect. When I tried it the second time but baking for 25 minutes, they came out just a tad overcooked. I settled on 23 minutes at 350, but since have been happier baking for 25 minutes at 325. Pretty sure that the egg is completely cooked at that temperature. Anyway, nobody died. Well; nobody important.:)
    Eventually, I remembered that between the cocoa, the coconut and the pecans, I've pretty much synthesized German chocolate cake frosting, at least how it was done in our house. Thus the new name for the mini-muffins (or cupcakes) is German Chocolate Ricing. Huzzah!

OK, maybe I'm not such an idiot

    On retrospect, Dad seems to like UniHealth a lot more than he did when he was actually there. Of course, he may be trying to make me feel better, since I've been quite loud in my self-criticism about having ever sent him there. But he now says that they taught him to walk again, so he's grateful. The whole having to beg for help with bodily functions thing, the whole always hating the food thing, and the whole having to wait an hour to see a nurse thing seems to be out of sight and out of mind.
    Still, he's doing a lot lot lot better at Rice Estate, so I'm glad I got him moved there. He's well, so UniHealth didn't do any serious damage. And it's possible that I couldn't have gotten him off Dilantin at Rice Estate. The fact that UniHealth is so cheap and slapdash may have served us well in that case. Anyway, I'm willing to accept "All's well that ends well" as a life's philosophy, as indeed, my father did decades ago.

Whatcha say

    "Whatcha say" is a lot more romantic sounding in "Heroes" by David Bowie than if you add a question mark and an exclamation mark. Dad has needed hearing aids for at least 40 years, probably my entire life, and he's never been particularly gracious about his lack of hearing. Rather than grasping that maybe his life would be better if he could hear better, he has always acted as if the rest of us are just mumbling. His recent tendency to answer everything with "Whatcha SAY?!", even to Margaret, is more than a little wearing. It isn't even as fun to hear as the Nazi in "Casablanca": "Vot did you SAY?" When I can't hear what he says, I try to set a good example with "I'm sorry; I couldn't hear you" or even "Pardon?" Not working so far.

A small tragedy

    Walking home from yesterday's building, just around the corner on Olympia Avenue, I saw a young woman holding a baby and with two very small children, standing just outside her front door talking on a cell or otherwise cordless phone. She was obviously upset, but calm enough to be polite. ("Yes, ma'am.") She must have been talking to 9-1-1; given how quickly the fire trucks came, she must have been on for a while and they may have been keeping her on the line to keep her calm. It's a terrible little building, a duplex like two shotgun shacks turned sideways. Also with window units for AC, but with a small satellite dish. No matter how poor you are, you have to be plugged into the entertainment monster.
    Two pumper trucks came and one ladder truck. I thought the latter was overkill since it was a one-story building and a low one at that, but by this morning, the roof was boarded up, meaning part of it must have burned away. There was obvious smoke damage out one window (also boarded up) and no sign of the young family, not surprisingly. It was weird because I was only feet away and never even smelled smoke. The lady and her young children seemed to be breathing perfectly well; there were no coughs that I could hear.
    So while I'm very sorry that they lost their rental apartment and that their possessions were likely smoke and water damaged, I'm so grateful that they came out unhurt. And wish them every good luck in the future.
    (Why didn't you stay to help, John? It looked like a lady talking on the phone and standing in front of her house with her kids. As I say, I didn't smell smoke and she didn't sound all that alarmed. It was only when the fire trucks rolled up and stopped there that I was sure that something was wrong. And firemen are often called for grease fires that get contained with no damage at all. In other words, I didn't know it was a small tragedy until today.)

This property is condemned

    There's this very cool building in my neighborhood. It looks like a fortress, painted white. It must have been in some commercial use at some time. I say this partly because the real estate sign very, very high on one wall says "For Lease" instead of "For Rent" and because the front door is recessed behind two iron gates with plate glass windows like the entrance to a small store.
    I wanted it for my world headquarters. It's-- well, I used "very cool" already, so I'll just say that it's a delightful surprise in an otherwise residential neighborhood. The fortress look appeals to my enchantment with irony. Unfortunately, there is a notice on both doors to the effect that the building has been deemed unsafe and will be knocked down if corrections are not made. Granted that the notice was about it being unsafe for housing and the building doesn't appear to be intended for housing, but one suspects that the authorities would call this hair-splitting.
    Mind you, there are window units in some of the windows, suggesting a lack of central air. In this climate, that would make for a fairly unpleasant world headquarters. Still, in a town with so few cool buildings, it would be a pity to lose one more. Where are the "Breakin'" kids when we need them?

Pleasantly uneventful

    Long ago, I noted that in the current situation, boring is a good thing. However, since it is not a popular word or concept and certainly not something you can say about an event reflecting a lot of hard work by others, so I will say that Thanksgiving yesterday was pleasantly uneventful. Granted, Dad hit his head getting into Anne's car, which is always a little worrying, but otherwise everything went trouble-free.
    It was also neat that there was so much going on. Between baby Braiden, now almost 10 months old, walking, cute as a button and waving like royalty and Margaret's granddaughter Libby and her husband Matt on the verge of adopting a baby, there was a lot to distract from the return of the conquering hero. I suspect that this suited Dad fine. Libby and Matt received a surprise baby shower to their great delight and that of us all. So Thanksgiving was pleasantly uneventful in the sense that nothing bad happened to or with Dad, and quite fun and eventful otherwise. And the turkey was great.
    We also got to talk a bit with Margaret's daughters Linda and Bunny. We are all agreed that, though we don't disapprove of Dad and Margaret living together, we don't see how it could work given their mobility problems. So now it's just a matter of getting them to see another way. Which might not be so hard.

We none of us can pronounce "dialysis"

    Well, between Dad, Margaret and me, that is. Granted it's a difficult word. Granted two of us are fast approaching 91. But we all tend to stick on the word. Dad for a long time called it "the place I go" or "the place I go three times a week." Margaret will stick on the word and otherwise has trouble pronouncing it. I have more trouble with the word than with most words, too, and find a certain difficulty saying it as well.
    I don't think we're in denial or anything. I guess it's mostly all it represents: the loss of freedom of movement; the loss of all that time; and the actual discomfort it causes Dad three times a week. (I'd rather blame the dipthong, but I don't think that's really a dipthong. Long, long, long time since I took Phonics. Really love using the word "dipthong" at every opportunity, though.)
    And on this Thanksgiving Day: Thanks!

The Fortress of Solitude

    As time passes, I tend more to question the wisdom of having set up all these defenses around me. OK, the barbed wire, that's just common sense, but the machine gun emplacements, the tank crews, the neutron bomb-- these might be overdoing it just a smidge. The world just isn't that scary. Anyway, the world isn't any scarier, or even as scary, as I am. There must be some reason all these people seem so intimidated by me, I mean besides the monobrow. It's a bewilderment to me.
    Maybe I'll dismiss the crews and dismantle the bomb. I actually like people a great deal. I think I can trust them not to bring any red kryptonite. And it's getting pretty cold up here in the Arctic with just a leotard on. (Kidding!)

Aggressively uninteresting

    I had one of those dreams last night that was interesting because it was uninteresting. In other words, it was startlingly vivid, especially given that a) my dreams usually aren't and b) it was highly prosaic. In real life, I'm giving Paul a ride to Aiken today to see his mom, brother, sister-in-law and nieces. In the dream, we were going to the mountains instead. (A much better idea. Hey; his extended family can come, too!)
    He was playing a Walkman, only it was called a Boneman. I believe that in real life there is something called bone hearing aids, but maybe I'm making that up, too. If there's such a thing as bone headphones, I don't want to know about it. I think that was the inspiration anyway. I thought he was playing my Walkman (I think you can guess the odds that either of us have a Walkman in real life in 2011) and he got annoyed that I would suggest such a thing. He wanted to play his Fats Domino records.
    Also in the dream were real things from my apartment like the Batman punching bag. In real life, we went to a rally at the State House last night and I was pretty hepped up by the experience for no reason that I can think of, both as of the time I went to bed and when I got up. Maybe that was it. Maybe it's the unseasonably warm weather. Note to Paul: you should probably go get some Fats Domino records.

Oh great

    Sarcastic but it isn't sarcastic, because on one level it really IS great. Dad, before the hospital, drove one of two cars: a '78 Impala and an '82 (or so) Crown Victoria, mainly the latter. The engine on the Ford died when it was only a few years old, so he's been driving it with a (terribly) rebuilt engine for decades now. My sister Anne has been offering for many years to buy him a new, reliable car. The other day, he finally said that he thought he would accept the offer. Yaaay... ish.
    Problem is of course that he should. not. be. driving. Even Margaret, who is also his age, feels this way. (Probably especially Margaret, since she would be the one riding with him.) She says he can't turn his head, which indeed would uh, impinge unfavorably on driving. Also, the main thing he would want to drive to and from would be dialysis, which I think would be ill-advised at best. I'd much, much, much rather hire somebody to drive him, especially to dialysis.
    In the short term, Anne will be coming down for Thanksgiving, so we can discuss it then. And I will ask the physical and occupational therapists to check on his neck mobility. But compared to a few months ago, it's truly awesome that such questions are even coming up.

Where's the river?

    Back in the '80s, I had the pleasure of traveling in Europe now and again, creating many happy memories, and one weird one. When I reached Valencia, in Spain, it struck me as a very nice city, except for one thing: the river was missing. There was a broad flat area running linearly through town with bridges over it and everything, but no water. I keep thinking that I must have asked many people, "Where the hell is the river?" but if I did, they must have been fellow tourists who knew no more than I did. Because if I had asked any natives, they would have without doubt cleared it up directly.
    If you want to know the solution to the mystery, do an image search of Valencia, Spain, which I did a year or so ago to try to find the answer. And you will find that by the riverside, or oftener in the river, they built just a spectacular series of buildings, pretty much Europe's answer to Sydney, Australia. I know that I could just throw in some links to pictures, but as they wouldn't belong to me, I wouldn't feel comfortable. If I ever get a scanner, I'll put up my pictures of riverless Valencia. They're pretty cool, too. And now I want to go back.

Do not hump

    I really need to start carrying a camera with me at all times. I got stuck waiting for a freight train, a frequent problem in my neighborhood, though not one I was expecting on a football Saturday morning. I was behind a Checker Yellow cab on the rear of which was a plate reading "Taxi Interceptor." This caused and is causing me great mirth. I get that cars made by Ford to be police vehicles are Police Interceptors. I can even grasp that the same fleet vehicles might be sold as taxicabs. But it seems to me that Ford could manage another word. Taxi Catcher? Taxi Interceptor sounds like a really weird comic book hero.
    One of the flat cars on the freight train had "Do Not Hump" written on the side. It looked like it was painted on there officially, in other words that it wasn't put there by a really clever graffiti artist. But none of the other flat cars (there were many) had "Do Not Hump" written on them. Maybe humping is only a recent flat car phenomenon. Or maybe it's a Shaker railroad.
     Edit: apparently it's flatcar, and that isn't what these were anyway. A relatively flatcar. Also, something else odd yesterday, though I don't know if I needed a camera for it. The Valero station on State St., which used to be cheap, then was expensive, is now cheap again. And there is a sticker on the gas pump reading "Enriched with 10% ethanol." In the first place, every other station says "up to 10% ethanol." In the second, "enriched" is an odd choice of words; given gas mileage figures, "impoverished" would probably be more accurate.

Denouement

    Reading back, I see that I have unintentionally left the last few entries incomplete. Not that any of them were all that electrifying, but here are the endings. Most importantly, Dad indeed had a perfectly easy procedure yesterday, and was back at Rice Estate in time for lunch and physical therapy. The latter went particularly well; he walked all the way back from the PT room (a considerable distance) without a rest break, I think for the first time.
    As to Dad's stool softener, they didn't actually take it away, so we did. And the doctor at Rice Estate came to see Dad and told him that the stool softener he was using wasn't particularly good and that he would write him a prescription for a much better laxative. This hasn't happened yet, but Dad is at least hopeful. And it's neat to have him in a facility where people actually listen, and communicate. What a concept!
    Amelia's story ended well also. I can get a job anywhere as a cat whisperer. I got her to stay still by the simple means of scritching her chin, and put the Feline Advantage on the back of her neck without her even running away. Her scratching and compulsive grooming has diminished remarkably. OK; so I'm dumb. But I figure stuff out eventually.

All fingers and toes

    Dad is having the permanent catheter out this morning. Hopefully he's all done and all went well and easily. It's supposed to be a perfectly routine procedure. This will be the first time that I'm hoping that he's off having physical therapy when we arrive, since that would mean that it was really routine.
    Meanwhile, the alleged governor had the Occupy Columbia protesters arrested for camping at the State House, including at least one friend or at least acquaintance of mine. Note: if you're going to abrogate the Bill of Rights unilaterally, you might want to put up No Trespassing signs first. Otherwise, you aren't going to enjoy the lawsuits you're going to lose.

OK, so the kitty is smarter than me

    I've learned before, but keep having to relearn, that when Amelia starts grooming like a maniac, it means that she has fleas. I'm always reluctant to use flea medicine, since it's actually poison that goes into her bloodstream. So I always wait until I actually find flea dirt, i.e., dried blood in her fur, in other words, flea poop. Finally found it yesterday, so Feline Advantage has been purchased. Getting ready to try to get her to stay in one place long enough to apply it to her neck. And I'll try to learn to trust that she's smarter than me next time.

Still learning

    ...more than I want to learn about dialysis. As it turns out, a permanent catheter for dialysis means-- a temporary catheter. So apparently it's normal to switch to the graft in his arm. In fact, this usually would have been done months ago. But I did get the nursing staff at Rice Estate to examine his arm. They say the lump is also normal and nothing to worry about. Not a hematoma, in other words. So he's now scheduled to have the catheter taken out Thursday morning. Knocking on wood commences then.
    Also, I accidentally ratted Dad out. He asked me to bring him his stool softener tablets from home. I told the staff at Rice that he was still having trouble going to the bathroom and mentioned the stool softeners in the context of asking for him to have a higher fiber diet. They blew up a bit. So supposedly, his stool softeners have been taken away, though he can still call the nurse and ask for one. Apparently, it's another thing that isn't particularly good with dialysis (as, apparently, is a high-fiber diet). Pisser. Hopefully, he won't be too mad.

Continuing dialysis adventures

    It seems like years ago now. Dad was in the hospital, and I was trying to persuade them that it wasn't a good idea to drag him all the way across town three days a week through 100 degree weather in an ambulance for dialysis. There were two dialysis facilities reasonably convenient to the nursing home I had chosen. Dad already had a permanent catheter in his chest for dialysis. One of the facilities wanted him to have a graft in his left arm for dialysis instead. So the hospital did that and sent him along to the nursing home.
    As far as we can remember, it wasn't the dialysis facility that he wound up using that wanted the graft. These guys used the permanent catheter instead for well over three months. However, suddenly they have decided to use it, and that the permanent catheter is too much of an infection risk, and that it has to come out. Immediately. (Well, Wednesday.) I'm trying to find someone there to talk to about it. Because he isn't going to be staying at the nursing home, and he and Margaret aren't going to want to go all that way for dialysis. And the other dialysis facilities are under different ownership, and might well prefer the permanent catheter.
    Moreover, using the graft hurts Dad, and there's a lump (possibly a hematoma) in his arm near the site. The catheter never caused any problems at all. It's very frustrating waiting on a callback. In theory of course, they shouldn't be able to do any procedure without express permission from either me or him. But maybe I signed that away when he started; they certainly have already done one procedure (admittedly minor) without asking for any signatures. As I say, frustrating. Hopefully, I can get this straightened out before Wednesday.

Cell phones

    I've always been fairly hostile to cellular phone. Since the crisis with my dad erupted, I've had to live with one constantly. Lately, it's quit ringing, and I can see a day when it will be no big deal if I happen to forget to bring it with me.
    When Dad changed nursing homes, he no longer had a room phone, and setting up a new account with the phone company seemed like overkill when we had no idea how long he was staying. As luck would have it, brother William had an extra cell phone, so I put some minutes and days on it (It's a prepaid, almost a twin to mine. Trakfone or some damn thing.)
    It works, and he can make calls. Unfortunately, his hearing is terrible, and he also usual has the TV blaring. So often, the phone goes to voicemail. He wasn't able to retrieve his voicemail. Yesterday, I found out why. Whoever programmed the phone at the factory put in the wrong number for voicemail. They left off a couple of digits, so the call would never completed. I couldn't change that, but I did put the right number in his address book.
    Sister Anne taught me that holding down the 1 key will normally get you voicemail. This would be true, except that's still the number only with two digits missing. Now, however, I've figured out how to program speed-dial, so today I will do so, putting Margaret as 2 and voicemail as 3 and anyone else Dad wants on the other keys. (Can't reprogram 1; go figure.) Did I mention that I'm not very familiar or comfortable with cell phones? Getting there.

Mr. Bill Wells

    Bill Wells, owner, proprietor and genial host of Bill's Music Shop and Pickin' Parlor, an institution on Meeting St. in West Columbia lo these many decades, has died. He died Tuesday at the age of 84. His age was a surprise, as he looked a hale 60 or so. He had clearly been in declining health, though, as he had been using a walker/chair and oxygen in recent months, and had more recently turned the store over to his son Willie. He was a terrific human being and musician and gave a home to bluegrass and old-time music that brought joy to the Columbia area for ages.
    When Mom was still alive and somewhat alert, I wanted Dad to see Bill's, as he had always been a big Grand Ole Opry fan. He also exposed us to Arthur Smith and the Lewis Family on early morning TV from Augusta when we were little (or anyway when I was). So I borrowed brother Frank's video camera and was able to show my folks how great open stage at Bill's is, and also I think a bit of the jam session. On a subsequent birthday, I was encouraged to pick my entertainment, so we went out to barbecue and then to Bill's. So I got Dad there after all. Mom may have been in the nursing home by then, though; I don't truly remember.
    Last night, they had a special open stage and jam session to honor Bill's memory. The crowd was immense, and every bluegrass musician in three states apparently turned out as well. I had to leave early, as I had committed to go down the street to pay for the privilege of getting insulted by a geriatric punk rocker (which was more fun than it sounds like), but a great time was had by all. I wasn't there long enough to hear "Will the Circle Be Unbroken," but I know they did it and it was awesome. The family promises that the store and Friday night open stage will go on. Will it be unbroken indeed.

PT

    Yesterday we arrived to visit Dad and he had just left for physical therapy. A nice physical therapist (Kayla, who was at the meeting Tuesday) offered to show us the way, so we went on down. (Also, the cleaner was working on his room, so we couldn't exactly wait there anyway.) This place has much more primitive facilities compared to UniHealth. On the other hand, the staff actually seem to know what they're doing, which is rather the exception at the previous place. Melanie, Dad's physical therapist, was mainly working on his balance and coordination. It's too early to say how much it's helping, but it certainly seems like a much more intelligent approach. Also, the physical therapy room is so far from his own room that it's a pretty good workout just getting there.
    Also also, they did bring him back up to five days a week of physical therapy, leaving him with three of occupational therapy. Also also also he got his double portions. Yay!

It's 2005 again

    Amelia the cat is a good doctor but a poor chiropractor. When she first came into my life, she would sleep glued to me all night. If I rolled over, she would climb up to the new high place. She's started doing that again. For much of the intervening six years, she's been sleeping on my legs instead. These days, she's mostly sleeping on my belly, which tends to knock my back out of kilter. Thus, I'm much happier on the occasions that she sleeps on my chest instead.
    She also is grooming all. the. time. This is also much like 2005. I couldn't figure it out then and I can't figure it out now. It's supposed to represent stress. I guess she might be stressed out because I've been absent a lot more while watching out for my dad, or she might be stressed because I'm stressed about him. Or maybe she just thinks she's dirty. Who knows? I keep looking for fleadirt, but can't find any. Sooner or later, I'll get flea medicine (ok, poison) just to be on the safe side.
    She also hides in the uh, portable closet. Call it a plastic armoire. She lies on Alice's old comforter, which I wasn't using in 2005 quite yet, but for most of my stay over there. Don't know if Amelia's nostalgic or just cold. Maybe I'll slide the thermostat up another degree.

That went well

    The care planning meeting at Rice Estate went well. Or to be more accurate, it went fine, but aspects of it were spectacular. Because Dad went to his own care meeting. He walked all the way and all the way back, and he had already had physical therapy about an hour before. He made intelligent observations, and signed off at the end, and his signature looked like his signature instead of the shaky thing it was the last time I asked him to sign something.
    The staff still feels that he needs in-out catheterization and thus that he has to learn to do it himself. That was certainly the goal when he moved in, but since then he's been able to go to the bathroom on his own. Their scanner shows that there's a lot of pee retained in his bladder when he feels like he doesn't need to go. I pointed out that since Baptist he's been getting in-out cath and nearly every time the nurse told him how much came out. When the quantity reflects the kind of numbers their scanner is showing, he felt an extreme degree of bladder fullness. I also pointed out that he was a lot less alert and aware then than now. They said they were getting a new scanner and getting the old one calibrated. So we'll see. (Or somebody will; I'm pretty much out of the loop.)
    The problem being that they won't allow him to move to Assisted Living until he can do in-out cath for himself, and they won't be happy about him leaving until he's done about three weeks in Assisted Living. He doesn't see much point to either in-out cath or Assisted Living. Gail assures us that he's at risk for urinary infection if he's retaining urine. (I think urine is sterile, but what do I know?)
    The other thing Dad was concerned about was physical therapy. He wants it 5 days a week; really seven. He was getting it three days a week instead. He says a day without physical therapy is a day wasted. The physical therapist, Kayla, said they should put that up in the PT room as a motto. Anyway, they agreed to 5 days a week. And the dietitian promised to redouble efforts to double his portions. So a good day, on the whole.

Big meeting

    I meet today with staff at Rice Estate about Dad's future. They sent me a very large bill the other day, but it was only very large because they asked for all of November in advance. I have very grave doubts whether he will want to stay for all of November, though not because there's anything in particular wrong with Rice Estate. He's already lost almost six months, and at 90, pushing 91, there isn't an unlimited supply of months.
    On the other hand, Margaret still isn't moving that well, and I dread having them living together alone without help. Thus, I mainly need to talk about how to get them help, how to get him rides to dialysis three times a week, how to get his dialysis moved to a more convenient facility, etc. Or how Rice Estate is going to make him significantly more ready to go home than he is already. I think what nobody grasps is how much better he is. In spite of being so very thin, he's much better off than he was before all this started, or even a year ago. Whether that's good enough is another question; whether he can get drastically better is another still. But he and Margaret miss each other so badly, and deserve to be together. Tough one, isn't it?

Mnemonics

    Age is catching up to me. I no longer can remember everything, or even much. Last week, I forgot my ATM PIN. I went to the bank to get a new PIN. That bank branch had sent their rePINing machine to the shop, so I went on to another branch. The second branch should have sent theirs, too. It destroyed my card for me just exactly at the moment that I remembered the old PIN. Soooo they got me a new card within a few days and at no charge but with the same old PIN. If I had been wrong in thinking that I had re-remembered the old number, it would have been a hell of a mess. Fortunately, I had been right, and all was well.
    The point to all this song and dance: I had had a mnemonic for remembering the number. The PIN had been very much like the 3-digit code on the back of my old card. Unfortunately, they had sent me a new card with a different 3-digit code, and eventually I forgot the old one. And it develops that relying on the old mnemonic had blinded me to the fact that there was a much, much easier mnemonic, one so easy it makes me hope I can keep this PIN forever. Lucky that the new PIN didn't work!
    My other memory issue lately has been that when I cook in the morning before going to see Dad, I tend to think that I left a burner on. It's happened twice; both times I was panicked enough to drive all the way home to check, even though I was sure (correctly as it turned out) that I hadn't left anything on. Yesterday, I thought of a trick: I put a sock over the front doorknob, so I would remember to check the burners before I left. Worked, too. It's heck getting old.

Oh lackey! Lackey!

    Back at the old place, I would sometimes hear Amelia calling out from the bathroom in the night. And I thought that this must be the dumbest kitty on all the planet to be able to get lost from ten feet away. Or possibly that I had one of the few night-blind kitties. And it's taken me all this time to figure out that what she was saying was, "Oh lackey! Lackey! I have befouled the litter box. It must be cleaned immediately!" Not that I would have jumped to attention any quicker if I had known what she was saying, mind you. I'm a pretty good chamberlain and all, but I draw the line at 24-hour-a-day service!

Old-time radio

    As I may have mentioned, I am a major fan of old-time radio, great stuff like "Escape" and "Suspense" and slightly less great stuff like "Inner Sanctum Mysteries." But I think my greatest fandom is for stuff that's really terrible, like "Dark Fantasy." It was a show that had a brief run in the early '40s, produced in Oklahoma City. All the episodes were written by one guy, a novelist (or so he said) named Scott Bishop. Maybe his novels were better.
    The problem with radio is that everything that happens has to be described. The problem with horror on radio is that it has to be described at the top of one's voice. The problem with low-budget horror radio is that it has to be described at the top of his voice by one of the characters, since who can afford a narrator? "Oh NO! You have a knife! You're coming at me with the knife! Please don't stab me with the knife! Oh no!"
    Or in Scott Bishop's case, a demented and disembodied (distrunked?) tree branch comes after somebody and pushes her down an elevator shaft. In another episode, a mad scientist kidnaps an opera singer and puts his vocal chords in a gorilla and trains the gorilla to sing opera. (And to talk and to fly a plane.) So he could make a fortune from his opera-singing gorilla. And when his gorilla starts singing less well, he shoots him. As if people would only pay to see a gorilla who sings opera REALLY WELL! I gotta go find this guy's novels! As a longtime Mystery Science 3000 fan, this stuff is catnip to me.

Pheromone-infused

    I have a sinus headache, so this won't be a very ambitious entry. I was looking for body wash and was amused beyond words by Dial for Men Magnetic Attraction-Enhancing Pheromone-Infused Body Wash. (No, I didn't remember all that; I looked it up.) I almost bought it for the kitsch factor, but not quite. I assume that they're trying to take on AXE, seeking to crack the dumb, cheap guy market. With my luck, I would just attract mosquitoes anyway.:P

Crisis Kitty

    Amelia the cat has always been a little keyed up. If she could talk, her conversation would go like, "Ohmygod ohmygod ohmygod, John! There's a squirrel in the tree!" Or "Ohmygod ohmygod ohmygod, John! There's another kitty! In the yard! Ohmygod!" Lately, she's been even more anxious than usual. She's started jumping in the laundry basket. I appreciate that this is typical kitty behavior, but she's never done it in all these years. She also jumps up on the kitchen counter to sit on the kitchen windowsill, another unsurprising kitty act which nevertheless she had never done before.
    I also noticed that she never gets up on her kitty condo anymore. Eventually I worked out that there might be a connection. I vacuumed that heck out of the kitty condo (as it was blanketed in kitty fur), but she still wouldn't climb on it. I tried the tricks I had done to get her to use it in the first place, but no go. Finally, I just picked her up and put it on it. She didn't stay long (Crisis Kitty doesn't like being picked up by anybody!) but a little while later, she was back up on it like normal.
    Later she jumped in the laundry basket again, and she's still grooming herself like a maniac. So the crisis isn't necessarily over. I'd be happy to think we're back down to normal crisis levels, however.

Slack

    As the weather gets colder, I really really need to get Dad some warmer clothes. He has a bunch of sweaters at his house which I can easily liberate. Only problem is that he has lost so much weight that they will probably be falling off him. I really need to get somebody to take his measurements, because he's going to need a whole new wardrobe, or at least to have the old one taken in pretty comprehensively. I really need to talk to the powers that be at Rice Estate about Dad's outlook and plans. In a perfect world, he would stay there until he could handle the outside world well. But he and Margaret really miss each other, and I think he'll want to go off to be with her as soon as she's ready for him. In summary, I need to be doing a lot of things, and I'm really slacking off. Combat fatigue, I suppose.

Canvasser

    Paul was over last night for shrimp boil. There was a knock on the door, but it wasn't a trick-or-treater. A young man from Occupy Columbia was canvassing to oppose the Walmart expected to go up in place of Capital City (baseball) Stadium. He met a friendly reception. We signed his petition and I gave him a bowl of shrimp boil. His name is Dillon and he lives up the street. We had to decline the opportunity to march on City Council, but were otherwise totally supportive. Hopefully he has other successful canvasses.
    Trick-or-treaters eventually turned up, though not in great numbers. Paul and I listened to Orson Welles' War of the Worlds, which was suitably creepy. Amelia got comfortable enough to sit on Paul's satchel for a while. Well, I thought it was funny.

Out-dreamt myself

    I was God, or maybe Jesus. I was chatting with Moses. I had skipped school that day because a) I had important divine business to take care of (it was specified in the dream but I forget) and b) I hadn't done my homework. I was razzing Moses about him being 4,000 years old, and how he would phrase that in a personal ad. ("Just starting my 5th millennium...") My homework was something to do with him, too, but I can't remember what that was, either. Oh, and I was living in a supermarket. For once it was a wholly imaginary one, rather than the Colonial Store that used to be next to the KMart on Fort Jackson Blvd and which figures so prominently in my dreams most of the time.
    Generally, I find that these totally bizarro dreams mean that I need to use the bathroom, and that certainly was the case. But boffo, that was a pretty weird one. Maybe I ought to ease back on the curry buffets.

Catchphrase purge

    I have, and have always had, an unfortunate tendency towards the catchphrase. Alice always claimed that my NPR program would be called "Be That As It May, with John Dantzler," though I honestly don't remember ever saying that particular one. (I will admit that it sounds like something I would say, though.) In recent years, it has been, "On the short list of really good ideas ISN'T found..." whatever is irritating me at that particular moment, tailgating, say. And I fully understand that it's a silly phrase to latch onto, too cumbersome, too circumlocutious (if that's a word). In other words, on the short list of really good ideas ISN'T found... saying "On the short list of good ideas ISN'T found..."
    This is what comes from spending all your time talking to a kitty. She isn't very discriminating, so long as whatever you say is punctuated with scritches.

Everything's $3

    At Rosewood Market, I bought kale and rice noodles, each of which was $2.99. So I said to the teller, "It's a beautiful day today at Everything's $3!" Which drew a smile, fortunately. (I would call her older, since she has white hair, but she's probably younger than me. That happens a lot lately.)
    I'm a bit weatherish and should probably not risk infecting my dad, but Margaret wants to visit and I'm her ride. So I'm hitting the Listerine hard and making chicken noodle soup (what the rice noodles were for) and planning to hold my breath a lot. Or, I dunno, go to the big and tall shop and try to find him some warmer clothes for the colder weather. It happens to be conveniently located. Kismet, I'm thinking.

Incorrecting

    A few weeks ago at Drinking Liberally, a young woman mentioned the pe-CAHNS in my portable baklava and I reflexively said "pee-cans." I made a joke of it and certainly wasn't seriously disagreeing with her pronunciation, but on some fundamental level, I probably was. Your accent gets so ingrained that it becomes a part of you. Also, I always felt that the wood should be pronounced one way and the nut another. (Not that this approach requires either to be pronounced "pee can." Pi-CAHN and pi-CANN, respectively, probably meet the situation well enough.)
    This Tuesday at DL, I had to correct (apologetically, even embarrassedly), or rather incorrect a young man regarding the local pronunciation of a nearby road, settlement and lake called Monticello. We pronounce it MontiSELLo. Mortifyin'.
    The Southernese pronunciation that I've never quite believed is "bedroom suit." No one has ever said it to me directly, but they say it in local TV furniture store ads (or did when I watched TV). I always picture my imaginary incorrecter saying, "No, (pronounced, unspellably, somewhere between "Naw" and "Now," like Andy Griffith did in "No Time for Sergeants") it isn't 'bedroom SWEET.' It's bedroom SUIT. You ain't from around here, are ya?"

Free free free

    I still fantasize about opening a store featuring only gluten-free casein-free soy-free foods. In my fantasy, the name would be No! No! No! because I think it's funny. But I have to admit that Free Free Free would probably bring in more customers. Only problem with that is of course that people might think that I'm giving everything away. I appreciate that it's a pain in the butt leaving comments on Blogger, but I'm pretty sure that using the Reaction tool doesn't require giving up any information or any other pain or agony. If you'll vote "Funny" for No! No! No! or "Zippy" for Free Free Free. Or comment. Or, you know, email me. I'd be grateful, but if nobody does, you need not worry about it. This is still totally hypothetical, after all.

It'll be easy

    Sure. All we have to do is talk Dad into spending money on himself. At the previous nursing home, (sister) Anne had to deposit $40 into an account so that he could get a haircut. The haircut cost $12 so there was a balance due. Anne didn't care about it but Dad was fairly adamant that we get that money back. (It was no problem.) But the point is that free spending isn't in his makeup.
    If we can get Dad moved to assisted living, Medicare B will pay for any therapy he needs, but he'll have to cover room and board. This will mean something like hundreds a day, thousands a week. I'm not sure he'll be willing, but he certainly knows that he needs to be stronger. Hopefully, he'll see the light and do the math; it's not like he can't afford it.
    Also, as I think I've said already, he and Margaret really need to move to some place built for people their age, i.e. with railings on all walls and fittings and convenient to health care personnel. Talking them into that'll likely be double the challenge!

Peeled

    It is no news flash that English has a number of dialects. but I at least am always surprised when I have to learn a new one. As a person who used to date a daughter of a shrimping family, I would have thought I had shrimpese down, but no. At the fish market, I always asked for "shelled" shrimp, and got mad when they brought me shrimp with shells on. As it turns out, at least in Columbia, what I needed to ask for was "peeled" shrimp. Did so yesterday with happy results. And the shrimp boil turned out awesome, even when I forgot to put the garlic in. Huzzah!

Miracle

(The usual "Here be bodily functions" warning obtains here; I'll try to be gentle.)
    When Dad left the previous nursing home, he needed help with both of the popular excretory functions we all enjoy or at least have difficulty living without every day. Between yesterday and today, all that changed. He did each of the first two ordinal numbers by himself with no assistance from enema, in-out catheterization or nurses in any way. It's hard to convey how major this is; try to remember that it has been many months since either thing has happened. Try to imagine how hard it would be to live independently if you couldn't do either #1 or #2 by yourself.
    Although I kid a bit about this being a miracle, all it really took was for him to have a comfortable chair so he could sit up most of the time and a walker to be available to him at all times. At the other place, he only had a walker or a cane for physical therapy. The chairs available in his room were two uncomfortable chairs for visitors and a wheelchair that was too small for him. And anyway, not having a cane or a walker, he couldn't get there. So he spent 23 hours a day in bed. Not surprisingly, this didn't do a lot for his digestive system. At the new place, just add recliner and walker and SHAZAM: instant miracle.
    There's still a lot of work to do. He still needs to be stronger. He still needs to be able to give himself insulin injections. Somebody has to be able to drive. (The doctor had suggested that Margaret might not be allowed to drive for months, though she is sure that this won't be the case.) They ought to move into a house that has rails to hold onto in every room, and ideally located near a nursing home so that medical care is available immediately if needed. But things certainly look a lot rosier than yesterday.

Reunion

    Friday evening, Margaret called and asked if I could take her to see Dad the next day (now yesterday). I said sure, that I would just need directions to Linda (her daughter)'s new house. They called yesterday with those and off I set. Turned out that because of interstatage (freewayage?) it took no longer to pick her up there and take her out to the hinterlands than it did to pick her up at her own house. So I felt silly about setting out a half hour early, but then they got an extra half hour together, so not that silly.
    They were very, very, very happy to see each other again. It was a truly great reunion. I think she cried more beforehand than at the actual event. (She had thanked me for bringing her; I assured her truthfully that I was delighted to be able to.) There was a certain degree of Family Guy type comedy regarding getting two walkers arranged such that they were within reach but not in anybody's way, but no problems. It was achingly, boundlessly sweet seeing them together again. They sat together on his bed for a good while, then he let her use his recliner. Then they of course fell asleep for much of the visit. But they were holding hands.
    Margaret doesn't think she'll be able to visit during the week, since she still has physical therapy herself for another week. But I'm taking her back today. I'm very much looking forward to it.
    I also set Dad's cell phone so that hitting any button, rather than just the Send button, will answer any incoming calls. That might solve his problem with missing calls. If not, we can always get him another phone. He has been able to call out at least.

Pasta physics

    Back when I ate wheat, I was always bewildered that elbow macaroni would never stop expanding, while other forms of pasta would. Now that I eat pasta made from brown rice instead, I'm still bewildered that elbow macaroni never stops expanding, while other types do. What is it about the elbow form? Or is it the elbow name? Fusilli are or is practically the same thing exactly but doesn't turn into noodle monsters as long as there's water in there somehow to plump it or them. Is this some kind of The Blob phenomenon? Are elbows really invaders from space? Serious minds need to know! (Well, frivolous ones, but still.)

Two months late but coming on like a freight train

    Dad is finding it a new and delightful experience to have nursing home staff actually do what he asks them to do. Even moreso that they ask him his wants and needs, and actually accede to them. They wanted to put him on a strict diabetic diet with fluid restriction (the latter the other facility said they had him on, but didn't). He declined, so they just had him sign a waiver and he was off all restrictions. Pow!
    I didn't do a very good job of showing him how to use the cell phone, so he's probably effectively still phoneless, but if he asks them, they'll probably help him with that, too. Or in the worst case I'll walk him through it better tomorrow.
    Of course, now I'm beating myself up doubly hard for not sending him here in the first place. How different might everything be? Still, the other place did a good job on the physical therapy and more or less kept up with his daily needs. Anyway, they weren't quite criminally negligent. But oh I feel like an idiot about now.

Jeez, how autistic AM I?

    Yesterday was Dad's moving day, which would have gone smoothly if I had planned the phone situation better. Unfortunately, I played it by ear, which didn't work out so well. I had his old cell phone and the new smart phone that sister Anne had bought for him. I had overmuch faith that the Verizon store would be able either to resurrect the one or make the other usable for him. John at the Verizon store disabused me of the first notion, saying that the phone was 10 years old and nobody makes batteries for it anymore.
    He did sell me a charger for the smart phone with a three-foot cord instead of the two-foot one it came with, but it turned out not to work. So not a good day at the Verizon store. (John did download and install an app killer for me, so it might have been a useful visit after all.) I rearranged the furniture in Dad's room so that the two-foot cord wasn't a problem. But I still don't know if he'll be able to use the smart phone, and because I didn't know when he would arrive, I couldn't be there to walk him through it.
    I felt awful leaving him with no way to call Margaret or get her call. Eventually, I remembered that William has a new cell phone, meaning that his old one is superfluous. I picked it up and got a new Net10 card and added minutes and days and voila: we're good to go. I think that will work better for Dad than the smart phone and will be much less of a temptation to room visitors. But it's a measure of my Asperger's that I was totally keyed up all day about leaving Dad phoneless and became relaxed and happy once I figured out the solution-- even though Dad was still in fact phoneless. Totally autistic, I am.
    Also yesterday, I was supposed to do the orientation call to become the new host for Drinking Liberally, and completely forgot. Damn damn damn. Can do it again in less than two weeks, and nobody died, but still. Damn damn damn.

This is the day

    Dad moves from UniHealth to Rice Estate today. The plan is still that they will pick him up for dialysis normally and drop him off at the new place instead. I'll pick up all or nearly all of his stuff this morning and take it to the new place to be ready for him. The phone situation is complicated. To get a normal land line, I'd have to get a phone and set up an account with the phone company as if he were moving in, which we hope he's not. So I think I'll try him out with a cell phone. Unfortunately, his regular cell phone will no longer charge, so I'll take it around to Verizon and see if there's a simple fix.
    His smart phone is also available and I'm more confident that it won't go walkies at this facility than at the other, not least because it's a semi-private room. Anne says it's insured so she doesn't mind if I leave it with him. Only fly in the ointment is that its battery life is very poor and its charge cord is very short. But if there's an outlet close enough to a bedside table, it might be sufficient. It would be neat for him finally to get to use it after all these months.
    For whatever reason, I'm scared to death. There's no reason at all that this should be any problem at all. Except for the rainy weather, it ought to be sort of fun. But anxiety is very, very high. Hope all turns out well.

Not a fan

    Had a dental appointment this morning, and got to try ultrasonic cleaning. I was assured that I'd had it before, and I guess I had because I went in a panic when I noticed there were no cups on the apparatus, meaning that my mouth was going to be dried out by suction. The suction wasn't a problem this time; in fact, it was an improvement. The ultrasonic, however, was flat torture. I eventually had to give the cut signal. I'm not such a fan of having every hair on my body standing on end. Five seconds of it I could have withstood; more than that was more than I could countenance. I'm sure it's a great boon to the stone deaf patients, though.
    Other than that, the appointment went great. I still have to work on the bottom teeth. It just doesn't seem like a skill I'll ever master. But though there's the chance that my gums might go bad, nobody much thinks I'll be getting any more cavities. The one in the cranium is quite enough to worry about.

Onions

(Dad's move date got changed to Wednesday. I did do all the paperwork for the move, though, but all the heavy lifting got put off. Hence this piece of fluff:)
    The onions I buy are always labeled "sweet onions," but oh my. Sometimes, today for instance, "sweet" isn't exactly the world. Ow ow ow ow ow I went blind I cried so hard. I badly needed somebody to tell me a sad story, as my mom used to say in similar situations. I'm still sniffing a bit a half hour or more after cutting up the damned thing. If laughter's the best medicine, are tears good for anything? I better go read a Harry Potter death scene.

Expectations

    Dad has one more day at the Nursing Home To Be Trained Later. The plan is for him to go to dialysis normally Monday but to be taken to the new nursing home instead of back to the old one. I did finally tell him that he would be going to a semi-private room and there might not be either a TV or a phone at first. (It hadn't been a deliberate omission; things just happened so fast.) He didn't go ballistic or seem troubled at all; his only concern was that they know what treatments he needs. After Unihealth, I can hardly blame him.
    I must admit to gothic nightmares of a nurse showing up for in-out catheterization with a bike pump and a drinking straw, but really I think the staff at Rice Estate is much, much more competent. Anyway, it certainly is no snake pit and in the worst scenario, he gets to get a little stronger using up the rest of his Medicare days and will be ready to move in with Margaret when she's ready for him to move in. (She's expecting to leave the hospital tomorrow, but going to her daughter Linda's rather than home.) I think it will work out; anyway I certainly hope so.
    I also admit to being actively afraid when I turned up at Unihealth for my visit yesterday, but have no idea why. Everyone was perfectly cordial, and as far as I could tell, most of the staff had no idea he is leaving soon. I would just as happily keep that up until the end. I hope he gets some kind of care during his remaining time. I noticed he was wearing a button-front shirt, which is normally what he wears for dialysis days, suggesting that they hadn't changed his clothes yesterday. I'll be fairly peeved if he's wearing the same shirt today. Also he has some red in his eye, hopefully just conjunctivitis. They're giving him drops; with luck, that will clear it up. Anyway, he wasn't feeling any pain, or so I conclude from the fact that he thought it was his right eye when it was the left. A good sign, I guess.

26.0 Cleaning Effectiveness

    I bought three vacuums yesterday. The first was a rebuilt Eureka! from Big Lots. Unfortunately, they forgot to put in the assembly instructions. However, I could see that one of the screws had to go in just one place to fix the base part with the upright part. Unfortunaterly, it wouldn't fit. So back to Big Lots it went.
    At Kmart, I bought another Eureka!, the bottom of the line model this time. Printed on the base part, where it normally would say something like "Maximum 12 Amps" was "26.0 Cleaning Effectiveness." I'm afraid that I was so captivated by the aggressive meaninglessness of this statement that I had to buy the damned thing. It didn't occur to me until later that they might have left out "... Out Of 100.0" or maybe 1000.0. I also bought a Philips-head screwdriver, since you nearly always need those and apparently I had returned Dad's last time I borrowed it. But it wasn't necessary. It was the easiest assembly ever, but a total piece of crap. Basically a Dust Buster on a stick, it had a little cloth cup filter in the dust cup so I had to pick all the dirt and kitty hair out of the cloth. If I wanted to do that, I'd just clean the carpet by hand with a comb. So back it went.
    The third one was a Kenmore. It assembled neatly, thanks to the Philips-head, and worked well, though its dust cup isn't so amenable to giving up kitty hair either. The manual said that if it was hard to push, to turn the carpet height dial to the next higher setting. I did and it worked great. Which suggests that that was all I would have had to do with the vacuum I have already, and that I now have two working vacuums, one surplus to requirements. It also suggests that my carpet is growing. Creepy!

Procedure II: This time with the procedure

    So yesterday morning, a couple of guys with a stretcher came to my dad's room and asked if he was ready for his doctor's appointment. He said that he didn't know anything about a doctor's appointment and asked them to check. They did and said that it was him all right so he went along. They took him to another branch of the company that does his dialysis where a doctor did a sonogram of his arm to make sure that his months ago (and still unnecessary) graft wasn't causing any problems. It wasn't, so there.
    Later, while I was visiting, a nurse's aide at the nursing home came in to tell him that he wasn't to bend the arm or use it much. As this was totally at variance with what the doctor had just told him, we treated the advice somewhat casually. After she was gone, he said (jokingly), "It's my arm and I'll use it how I please!" I'm always happy to see these little bursts of personality.
    Burying the lead: The facility wants to send Dad home as soon as next week. The first suggestion I heard was Sunday, though they seem to have backed off from that idea. While I'm thrilled beyond words that they feel that he's made this much progress, neither he nor I feel that he's anywhere near ready. I talked to the social worker today to convey that at the very least he needs some occupational therapy that actually has something to do with daily living (as against picking up a weighted stick, which is all the OT that I've seen there) and to be much stronger. Also, Margaret isn't ready for him to move in yet, as she's still rehabbing from her hip replacement. I don't know how I did at getting the message across, but it was worth a shot.
    Actually, the nurse just called me to say that they were going to try a stool softener for his chronic constipation. (Edit: there was a bit here that was gross and where I showed my ass by saying something that was completely wrong, or anyway out of date. I'll just leave it out and you can take my word for it that I'm willing to admit when I'm wrong.)

Edit: I called Rice Estate, where I've been trying to transfer Dad to practically since he arrived, and they actually have a bed available. So I called him and actually caught him before they took him to dialysis, and he thought it would be a good idea to move, too.  So I've started the process moving. The social worker at his present facility wanted me to meet with various top staff to air my grievances and try to have him stay but I pointed out that a) the bed at Rice Estate would hardly stay open long and b) they already said that he had met his full potential in terms of rehabilitation anyway. So he might be moving as soon as Monday. I think it's a semi-private room with no TV, so he may not be well-pleased. But it should be for only a matter of a few weeks. We'll see.

Kitty sneezing

    Yes, I know. It's the ultimate blogging cliche. "My cat looked out the window! My cat was so cute trying to chase a squirrel!" But hell, I was pretty worried. She was sneezing all week, and I really thought I was going to have to take her to the vet. At the same time, my throat got very scratchy and my breathing passages somewhat inflamed. I suspect that we're just having a multi-species allergy flairup. The vacuum cleaner is working very badly, in spite of a new HEPA filter and sponge filter. I think it's headed for the great broom closet in the sky. Maybe we're just putting up with more dust than previously and not coping well.
    The reason I mention all this is because with a sore throat, I can't decide whether or not to visit Dad today. It's not like I'm feeling awful. I meant to buy some Benadryl with the idea of testing whether this is allergies or not, then completely forgot to buy it when at Aldi. So I can't be all that sick. My Facebook friends are advising me to keep to the safe side and not visit. I'm still mentally flipping coins. Of course, I can always call ahead and ask him; as I keep saying, he's the best doctor in the joint!

Drinking liberally except for the drinking part

    I have committed to taking over for my friend Amy as the host of Drinking Liberally. This is funny or at least ironic since I don't drink at all anymore. But of course I don't mind if other people do. Last night, only three of us showed up, but I think that was a reflection on the weather, not my cooties. To be honest, I would have blown it off, too, if I hadn't said I'd host. It's a terrific group with an ever-changing membership, and we only hope Amy is able to come back and visit as often as possible.

"I hate you! You are not my friend!"

    As the State Fair gets ready to reopen tomorrow, I am reminded of a time, nine years ago I think, when Alice and I made a visit. We decided to ride the roller coaster, bravely sitting at the very front, where if ever you're going to get a bumpy ride, you get the bumpiest. Sitting behind us were a black girl and a white girl, approximately teenaged. Apparently, the white girl had persuaded the black girl to ride the roller coaster (or maybe to ride sitting in the front car) and the latter let the former know about it. "I hate you! You are not my friend!" she shouted almost the whole way. It was very, very funny; I should note that she didn't sound very sincere, at least about the hating or not being friends part, though I think she was sincerely scared.

Hungry

    Can't understand why I'm hungry all the time lately; do you think I should eat more?
    No, seriously. I haven't made any major changes to my weird freaky diet recently, so I don't quite understand why I would be hungry a lot more of the time than previously. At the same time, I'm starting to have trouble fitting into my clothes; in other words, I'm getting fat again. I guess relaxing the hoodoo on goitrogens wasn't the greatest idea from the cosmetic viewpoint.
    On the other hand, I feel terrific; even my back seems to be knitting, or anyway not hurting. Headbone seems to be working most of the time, which is nice. Maybe it's just winter coming on; maybe I just need more avocado chocolate pudding. I expect I'll be checking into the latter possibility shortly.
    Better not be diabetes! I'm pretty fed up with diabetes stalking my family, to tell the truth. I could cope, of course, but I'd rather not. The last eight times I thought I was diabetic, it turned out to be nothing but dehydration. Not that I enjoy dehydration, but given the choice I'd pick it over diabetes any day.

Health care power of attorney

    Dad doesn't mind particularly, but notes that the nursing home much prefers to tell me what's going on rather than telling him. The extreme example was when they told me, but not him, that the bed sore on his sacrum (or posterior) had healed and that they were discontinuing treatment. Yes, folks, it's true that I have a health care power of attorney, but he's completely in possession of his marbles and can handle whatever news you might want to share. Also he's a DOCTOR. I will endeavor to convey this.
    In more cheerful news, I finally figured out what Amelia the cat is trying to say. It isn't "a-HEE-ya"; it's "IKEA." I'll be rich! She'll be advertising cat! This means that rather than the Norwegian forest cat I've always thought she is, clearly she's a Swedish one.

    In much, much sadder news, Margaret's son-in-law, Buddy Wages, died suddenly yesterday morning. He was under treatment for liver and lung cancer and they had just found out that it had spread to his brain, but everyone thought the outlook was good. He just stopped breathing. He was a wonderful husband, a wonderful father, and an all-around terrific fellow. He will be missed.

If I should suddenly go away...

    I know that no one but me is impressed that I haven't missed a day on this little enterprise in well over six months, but hey-- at least I am. I seem to be having trouble with the dialup connection, or possibly with the aging notebook, or something. Whichever it is, getting online is getting frustrating (and the notebook/ laptop is making funny noises, adding itself to the possible contributing factors).
    So I can't guarantee that I'll be able to do this every day. I'm sure all the strange people all over the world who according to the blog statistics are finding me by searching "get mema" (mema must be a really dirty word in every language but English) will be devastated.

Procedure

    Yesterday was another frustrating one. After breakfast, they told Dad that he couldn't eat or drink anything more, as "they" wanted to do a procedure on him. It was unclear who "they" might be, or what procedure it might be. He wasn't brought lunch at the normal time, but an hour later the nurse's aide brought a tray, saying that it could be heated up when the procedure was done. I asked if she could check to see when this might be and she said she would. She came back saying that "they" said they would send somebody at 1:45 (this was 1:30), but it might be 2:30. She added that "they" = the dialysis facility.
    Up to that point, we thought this was in connection with the blood in the urine incident of the other day, but now Dad said that the dialysis people were concerned about something to do with his left arm. That's where the unnecessary graft was put in before he left the hospital; the swelling never really went down. Apparently, they want to have a doctor look at it. I don't see much scope for any procedure being done at a dialysis facility (other than dialysis), so I would guess that this would be a matter of planning for a procedure, rather than doing one.
    Regardless, 2:30 rolled around and passed and the charge nurse called again. Apparently, the dialysis facility or the ambulance service or the doctor or somebody just couldn't get their act together, so she canceled. The nurse's aide heated Dad's main and side dishes, though not the soup. He wasn't too electrified by the offerings, but at least he could eat, and he certainly polished it all off.
    I don't know why they couldn't get the doctor to come by on any of the three days a week that he's already at the dialysis facility, or to have him come see Dad at the nursing home. Just crazy talk, no doubt. Hopefully, they'll have all this resolved soon. (Or, better still, hopefully the doctor will look at his arm and say, "Oh, that's fine. No problem.)