Busted!

I wasn't trying to keep this blog secret, exactly. I mean, it's a blog, fer Chrissake. This is the Internet. How secret can it be?

Yet, in some respects, blogging feels very private. I guess I self-censor more than I would in a private journal, but when I'm writing a blog post I don't really think about anybody reading it. It's very odd, since for so many years in my day job the first thing I had to decide was who I was writing for. Now I guess I'm writing for me, although I don't know why I would want to do that. I put things in this blog that I wouldn't want people who know me to know. But since this is a blog, and this is the Internet, people I don't even know might read it. Somehow, that's OK.

I was a little disconcerted, the other day, to find Scarecrow reading this blog. I never told him about it, though I didn't make any particular attempt to hide it, either. It's not that I didn't want him to read it. There's nothing in it he doesn't already know, nothing I wouldn't want him to know (I went back and checked), and I didn't say anything bad about him (I checked that, too). I just didn't think he'd find anything of interest. I guess I was hoping to spare him having to listen to some of this stuff in person. It's OK. It just feels a little weird. Now, when I'm writing a blog post, I'm aware that someone might read it. Weird.

While I'm vaguely on the subject of family news, Tuffy came home from the gym a few days ago with a hematoma auris, more commonly known as cauliflower ear. Eewk. When she was wrestling in junior high and high school she always wore ear guards, but apparently for mixed martial arts it's not the done thing. So she had it drained, and she has to wear a very awkward pressure bandage around her head for the next nine days in the hope the perichondrium will reestablish a connection with the underlying cartilage. And it hurts.

I have not asked whether she plans to wear ear guards from here on out, because sure enough, if I do, she won't. Her birthday was last month, but they don't stop being teenagers on the day they turn 20.

Can't Do It Alone

The power went out at our house yesterday afternoon. It was only about 4:30, but this time of year it gets dark early. Tuffy lit some candles. No 'net. Too dark to read a real book, and all my e-books had considerately returned themselves to the library.

I sat in the dark, listening to music. It's been a while since I did that. I pretty much stopped listening to music when I got to where I could no longer play it, but that's stupid. Too many choices, but I come back to a few favorites, over and over. Chris Smither is always good. Just as I got through the playlist, the power came back on.

Turn off the lights and listen to this.

Chris Smither
Help Me Now




I've been a fool of singular cool, all by myself
Nobody showed me how, I was born that way
Every day is a solo played on a single string
Nobody shows up, and nobody walks away

What do I do when the tune is through
How'm I gonna get me home
What would you say if I turned your way
And said "Help me now, I can't do it alone.
Won't you help me now, I can't do it alone."

Because lonesome is as lonesome does, and I do it
Perfect practice keeps me next to me
Nobody needs to need me, there's nothing to it
Friends you don't make always let you be

Where do I go to close this show
This one-man-band-to-the-bone
Why does it feel like such a deal
To say "Help me now, I can't do it alone.
Won't you help me now, I can't do it alone."

Well there's a bitter taste to this wicked waste of emotion
In the time it took just to dig myself this hole
Finding peace of mind in this commotion
Terrifies my solitary soul

Tell me how to see outside of me
Tell me what I should have known
Start at the top and don't stop
Till I can say "Help me now, I can't do it alone."
Won't you help me now, I can't do it alone."

Our Weekend Project

Last weekend, Scarecrow and Tuffy finally emptied out the self-storage space we've been renting during the remodel-that-wouldn't-die, and moved everything that was in it back into the house. That's one more expense we won't have every month, and I'm ecstatic about that.

Of course, since we've managed to get along without this stuff for almost a year, you've got to wonder how bad we really need it. And if we don't really need it, wouldn't it have made more sense to get rid of it before we paid to store it for a year? Yeah, well, OK, next time for sure.

In order to clear out the storage shed, we took a perfectly usable, newly remodeled office and turned it into an indoor garage.
This is not actually a picture of the mess we've made of the new office. It's actually an unretouched picture of my dad's garage. In fact, it's an unretouched picture of part of my dad's garage, although the whole thing looks pretty much like this. As does our office. (I would like to believe the disease that causes this condition has no heritable component, but I fear it does.)

Our project for this weekend is to start going through all this stuff and either put it away, or throw it away. If there's no place to put it, it's out of here. This time, I really mean it. We need to at least start with a place that doesn't look like a landfill.

Fortunately or not, we have enough experience with our slovenly habits to realize that the office, once it's in use, won't look whole lot better than it does now. Even the threat of an avalanche of papers and books roaring out of the office and engulfing the rest of the house probably won't motivate us to become tidy people. And on our disability budget, the only cleaning that will get done will be the cleaning we do ourselves.

Good thing we've got doors.

Looking For Adventure

Many years ago, when I was young and out of my mind, I loaded my stuff in the back of my truck and moved from Portland, Oregon to Michigan to begin a two-year fellowship in a place I'd never been with a boss I'd never met. By the time I got there I didn't have enough money to turn around and go back, so if the Michigan winters got the better of me or one of my coworkers turned out to be a sociopath, I was stuck.

It felt like quite the daring adventure. True, I had my truck, and roads, and maps to get me there. Lansing was hardly uncharted wilderness. There was housing, central heat, grocery stores. Life there would not be all that different from what I left behind.

I can't help but compare that to the story of Adrienne Duvivier.

The daughter of Antoine Duvivier and Catherine Journe, Adrienne was born in Corbeny, in the Picardie region of France, in 1626. When she was 20, she married Augustin Hebert dit Jolicoeur, a young man recently returned to France from Canada. After the birth of their first child, a daughter, in Paris the following year, the family sailed from La Rochelle to New France and settled in the colony that would one day become Montréal.


In 1647, aside from a group of nuns working to establish a hospital, Adrienne was one of the few white women in the colony. Augustin worked as a fur-trader, merchant, farmer and master-mason. He died in 1653, leaving Adrienne, with three small children, one of the village's largest landowners.

In 1654 Adrienne married Robert Lecavelier, a gunsmith from Normandie, with whom she had four more children. The family was among the 627 residents of the colony in the census of 1666. Adrienne died on 20 October 1706 at the age of eighty.

Is that a life, or what?

One of Adrienne's sons, Leger Hébert, married Marguerite Gamelin. They had 13 children, at least seven of whom survived childhood. Leger's direct line continues to this day. To this person, in fact. To my daughter.

I am not under the impression that this puts as in a particularly exclusive company or makes us special in any way. What with the prevalence of early marriages and large families, most of French Canada and much of the rest of the world can trace their ancestry back to one of the prolific early residents of Québec. I'm just fascinated by people who would leave everything they knew for an unsettled place with brutal winters and an indigenous population that had, at best, mixed feelings about their coming. Most of the people who came couldn't afford to turn around and go back home if things didn't work out. Some had to work just to pay off their passage.

Now that's a daring adventure.

I'm not a serious genealogist. I'm not even a not-serious genealogist. I started out tracing my family because, well, I can. I can't play music or dance or quilt anymore, or do many of the other things I used to do, so I was looking around for something new. When we get bored, bad things happen. This one branch of my mother's family is easy to follow, because the Catholic church in Québec kept voluminous records, many of which are available online. That's how it started. When I got back to the people who came to Québec when there wasn't anything there, I got sucked into the lives these people must have led. 

My daughter says I'm obsessed. If I start to tell her about any of this stuff, she rolls her eyes and asks if this is going to be another history lesson. Scarecrow listens, I think, because it keeps me busy and out of his hair. If either of them catches me not paying attention when they're talking to me, they accuse me of being off in the 17th century. Which is probably where I was. I've been spending a lot of time there lately.

It must've been an amazing adventure.

Burger Butt

Four months ago, Ernie spent a day at the vet having an owie removed; a benign tumor on the outside of his thigh. The surgery went fine and he seemed to feel a lot better with it gone, but it took forever to heal. Greyhound skin is so thin that it doesn't hold stitches very well, and they kept pulling out. So, anyway, it finally heals, more or less, leaving a big pink scar -- we call him "burger butt" -- and he's got another lump in the same area. He went back to the vet yesterday to get it removed.

Poor old guy. He'll be 12 next month. While that's not terribly old for a greyhound, it's getting up there. He can still manage a 3-mile walk around Green Lake, as long as he can sleep the rest of the afternoon, but his legs get shaky if he has to stand for any length of time, and he sometimes has trouble getting up on the slippery hardwood floor.

We usually adopt older dogs; seven or eight or nine year old dogs that are returned for one reason or another. When we adopted Ernie, he was not yet three. We've had him longer than any of the other retired racers we've lived with. We took him in as a foster, during the holidays, because all the usual foster homes were full. We actually maintained the fiction that he was a foster for a couple of days before conceding that he was staying with us for good. Even as a youngster he was always polite, reserved, gentlemanly. Not a kisser or a cuddler. If you needed a dog to make a fuss over you, he wasn't it. He was a cat-person's kind of dog. He still is, pretty much. He gets excited about a treat, or a walk, or ride in the car, in his reserved, Ernie-kind of way. You have to know him to see it.

We picked him up yesterday afternoon. The pre-surgery bloodwork looked good, and the surgery went fine. The vet says he's in pretty good shape, all things considered. He was pretty sore last night, but seems better this morning. He has a new, 5 inch incision right next to the old scar.

Old Burger Butt.

If MS Is A Gift, Where Do I Go To Return It?

My mom always told me I had a bad attitude.

When I was a kid I never understood what she meant by that, but now I not only see what she was saying, I'm starting to think she may have been right. Particularly around the holidays, so many people seemed to be recounting the blessings conferred by MS, or some other chronic condition. It makes them a better person, brings them closer to God, deepens their appreciation for life, family, whatever. I suspect I should find these essays inspirational and thought-provoking. I find them thought-provoking, all right. They provoke me to wonder, "Are you f%#king nuts?"

I do not see anything good about having MS. Nothing. I do not feel blessed in any way. I do not see it as an opportunity to become a better person. I'm perplexed by the general assumption that, when you have a chronic disease, it's important to maintain a positive attitude. Why is that? Can somebody point me to some real, convincing evidence that positive thinking makes a rat's patoot worth of difference, to anything?

I'm not talking about wallowing in self-pity, here, making yourself and everyone around you miserable. I don't see any point in that, either (although I admit I do it sometimes. I try not to wallow, but sometimes I put my feet in and swish them around a little). But isn't it positive enough to take one day at a time, enjoy what you can, appreciate the good stuff, and just slog through the rest?

Projecting a relentlessly positive attitude is hard work. I know. I do it all the time. Most people who ask me how I am don't really want to know, not really. "I'm fine..." I say, "I'm good...", and we talk about something else. I wonder if forcing yourself to be artificially positive might even have a negative effect. I find it very stressful to pretend I'm OK when I'm not.

Inspirational affirmations make me itch. "Life isn't about waiting for the storm to pass; it's about learning to dance in the rain." "When life hands out lemons, squeeze out a smile."

"I have MS, MS does not have me."

I admit I'm being deliberately obtuse, here. I realize that the people who say this probably just mean they are determined to maintain a life outside of MS. They will not let the disease define who they are. That's all good. I try to do it myself. But every time I see this, what I hear is "If I fight hard enough, I can beat MS. I can keep it from changing my life."

Maybe you can. I hope you do. But I couldn't. MS has totally kicked my sorry butt. Maybe I should have fought harder. Maybe I wasn't positive enough.


I'm pretty sure MS has not made me a better person. When I finally had to retire from work, one of my coworkers told me, "You've been an inspiration to all of us as we see your courage and grace." It was such a nice thing to say, I only wish it were true. Have you ever noticed that obituaries always talk about fighting a brave battle against disease? I'm afraid mine will have to say I was a pitiful spectacle, a total cringing whining craven coward. I'm not being brave. If there were another option, I would take it. I'm just not aware of any.

I've even had people tell me "You're a survivor." I guess I am. We all are, aren't we? Until we aren't. Then we're dead. To borrow a headline from The Onion, "Despite Best Efforts of US Medical Profession, Death Rate Remains Obstinately High at 100%." Does being a survivor, when the only alternative is being dead, make me a better person? I'm not seeing it.

Maybe it's just my bad attitude.

-- Mme. Crabbypants

A Visit With The Rehab Guy

We met with the rehab guy the other day about new ways to drive my power chair. In our latest encounter with the Red Queen, I'm finding I no longer have the strength or range of motion in my hands and arms to use a fairly standard, garden-variety joystick to get where I want to go. The minor modifications we made six months ago now endanger entire city blocks, putting large numbers of innocent pedestrians at risk. It's kind of scary for all concerned.

Anyway, this guy (Let's call him Mike. Because that's his name.) is with a new durable medical equipment provider. This has got to be a good thing, because the company I've been dealing with up to now, the one from whom I purchased the chair originally and the only one in the area I was aware of, is incredibly horrible. Like, epic horrible. Amazingly, frustratingly, expensively, infuriatingly, I-don't-know-how-you-guys-stay-in-business horrible. Like, every interaction I've had with this company, and there have unfortunately been many over the past several years, has turned into a many-phone-call, multi-appointment comedy of errors. Even something that should be as straightforward as replacing the battery on my power chair. Really. If I had known there was anyone else within 50 miles, they'd have had my business before now. Anyway. The physical therapist says Mike is pretty good. Between her recommendation, and the fact that he could hardly be worse than my old provider, it was definitely worth a try.

We had expected to talk about two possible solutions:

• Some kind of modification to the size, shape, or position of the joystick control, which we expected to be more-or-less affordable but would, the way things are going, probably have us racing the Red Queen again in a few months
• A new control that I would operate with my chin or head, which I could probably use for longer but would probably cost more.
  

That's about what he told us, but instead of more-or-less affordable and expensive options, turns out they're both expensive options. Why am I not surprised. My insurance would pick up most of it, but even the co-pay would be a pretty good chunk of change.

We'll have to think about it. I know we'll have to switch to something else before too long. For now, we've come up with a homegrown jury-rig to my current joystick control that's working pretty well. For now, that will do.

I was feeling pretty good about having evaded, at least temporarily, durable medical equipment hell.

At lunch today, my footrest came off.

Sigh.

The Library Shelf

Reading books is hard work these days. Turning pages can be a real struggle; by the time I manage it, I've lost track of the story. Flipping back to the previous page just ain't going to happen, so I forge ahead, but I'm always afraid I'm missing something. Paperbacks can be particularly tricky to handle, and let's face it, everything is paperback these days. Books in electronic format are a lot easier to read for the dexterity-challenged, but not everything is available as an e-book yet.

Besides, I like real books. I like the cover art, the texture of the paper, the design of the typeface, the layout of the page, the feel of it in my hands (I can't really feel much anymore, but I have a good memory, and a good imagination). I like being able to mark my place with a bookmark from Munro's books in Victoria, BC, or Jocundry's in East Lansing, Michigan (is Jocundry's still there, I wonder?), and see how many pages I have left to read. Sometimes it's just worth it, even if I need help turning pages. Fortunately for me, Scarecrow is willing to put up with a lot. Since he had some time off work over the holidays and was just hanging around the house, I took advantage of his willingness to do this.

I wasn't reading anything edifying or high-minded. I read for fun. I admit I don't often give books the amount of thought they deserve; I read the way most people watch TV. My library shelf is entertaining rather than impressive. I just finished Wolf Hall by Hilary Mantel. Before that, Endangered Species by Nevada Barr, Pillars of the Earth by Ken Follett, Her Fearful Symmetry by Audrey Niffenegger, The Help by Kathryn Stockett, Roadside Crosses by Jeffery Deaver, Still Life by Louise Penny, not necessarily in that order. I'm currently reading New York by Edward Rutherfurd. I've got Push by Sapphire and An Illustrated Atlas of the Civil War waiting on the shelf when I'm done. And I bought Scarecrow a copy of Unseen Academicals by Terry Pratchett for solstice. When he's done with it, I'll drop everything else and read that next. I'm seriously due for a Terry Pratchett fix.

I'm still new enough to retirement that I feel vaguely guilty about spending all this time reading for fun; isn't there something else I should be doing? For the first time in my life, the answer is No.

In some respects, acknowledging that I have nothing better to do is painful. In other ways, it's something I might be able to get used to.

NPR Commentary

There was an interesting commentary on NPR this morning:

To One Of The Lucky Ones, The New Year Means More by Ben Mattlin.

It's not about MS, but it's an interesting perspective from someone living with a progressive neurological disability.

His own heart laughed

"His own heart laughed;
and that was quite enough
for him."
     --Charles Dickens
     --A Christmas Carol

Taking Inventory

They're taking inventory today in the "Bob's Books" department of Bob's Books and Adult Day Care Center. Everybody is busy in the warehouse. They brought in pizza for lunch, and got enough for the "Day Care Center" department too, which is nice because it's just me, and I'm not helping with inventory.

I guess with the end of the year and all it's a good time to take some sort of inventory, a summing-up of the year just past. That's what newspapers (remember them?) and magazines and TV and radio do this time of year; seems like there's no getting away from it. But me, I'd really rather not just now. I had a couple of really dark days right after solstice (yeah I know -- everybody did) and I feel like I'm still climbing back. For people with progressive disease, reflecting over the previous year and anticipating the coming year is something you want to be very careful about. A year ago I could do a lot of things I can no longer do. By the end of next year I'm unlikely to be able to do everything I can do now. I don't think I'm being negative or defeatist or giving up, or failing to be hopeful or positive or tough or determined or inspiring or any of that. It's a progressive disease. That's how it works. I'm just sayin'. At this point, for me, a good day is one that's not a whole lot worse than the day before. A good year would be one that's not a whole lot worse than the last. I'll plan for the future as best I can, but getting through today is about all I can manage. If I can do that, we're good. One day at a time.

So, as days go, yesterday was a pretty good one. And old friend from southern California was in town visiting her sister and brother-in-law, and they all came by for a visit. She brought Lucy the golden retriever, which Ernie and Bareit thought was a very fine thing. Tuffy kindly  baked us a batch of brownies. I think we managed to save her a couple.

Winter!

I love winter!

The solstice is past (yes, we had a lovely holiday, thanks for asking) and each day is a little longer than the day before.


Even though the coldest weather is probably still a month or so off, here in Seattle we'll start seeing the first signs of spring almost before the last of the holiday lights are put away.

I've lived here 15 years, but I still worry that the buds and shoots that start to appear in February and March are way too early.



In Michigan, they'd be goners for sure. Here, most years, their optimism is justified. We'll get some cold, maybe even some snow, but spring will be here before too long.


I'm ready. I love winter, but I'm always ready for spring.

Whatever you celebrate this time of year, I hope it is a time of joy and peace.

Photo credit: Tuffy, last winter, in the appealingly-named Swap Creek Park, across the street from our house.

Home Alone

Scarecrow just left for the grocery store. He won't be gone long. It's only a mile away, and he's only going to pick up a couple of things. So I'm here by myself.

It's scary.

I haven't been a quadriplegic for very long, so I'm still getting used to it. Being entirely by myself, nobody within hollering distance, is probably a bad idea. Since I'm very good at imagining, I can imagine all kinds of things that might happen that would require opening doors, or pulling plugs, or turning knobs, or pushing buttons, or calling 911, or, oh, I don't know, anything. None of which I can do. None of these dire circumstances are very likely, I know, but still.

I don't like this. I always liked being by myself. I got testy and unpleasant if I had to be around other people all the time. I do not like being entirely dependent on another person, to an extent I never could have imagined.

Oh never mind. He's back. I know we need to make provision for times like this, I know I know I know. I know we need to get some respite time for Scarecrow. I know we do. Tomorrow for sure. I'll think about that tomorrow.

A Different Kind of Holiday

There was a time when Christmas at our house was occasion for great bustle and festivity. House decorated inside and out, a tree big enough for the eclectic collection of ornaments we've accumulated over the years, artfully (if I do say so myself) wrapped presents piled underneath, hand-lettered cards, cookies, food, the whole nine yards. I was really big into Christmas.

Then, at some point, I got to wondering why we were making such a big deal out of a Christian holiday when we aren't even nominally Christian. Somehow devoting that much energy to a Winter Festival of Crass Commercialism and Greed was not a particularly appealing alternative. That's not to say I didn't see anything to celebrate this time of year. Living for years in gloomy, dreary Lansing, Michigan, and then in gloomy, dreary Seattle, I would always count the days to the solstice, anxious to see the sun (gloom permitting) for a little longer each day. OK, so why not just call a solstice a solstice, and celebrate that instead? We can still have the house decorated inside and out, a tree big enough for our collection of ornaments, presents, cards, cookies, food, and everything else. Most of the holiday symbols (lights, evergreens, wreaths) aren't inherently Christian anyway, although I'm not entirely sure about red-nosed reindeer. Over the years we've developed our own traditions into a celebration that we find satisfying and meaningful. It's more about what we're celebrating, and less about stuff. Although there's a little bit of stuff, too. I mean, get real.

So we usually do a different kind of holiday anyway, and this year it will be even more different than usual. Because of the Remodeling Project That Wouldn't Die, we have piles of construction stuff in our front room. Since our decorations are all in storage, we won't have the house decorated inside and out, and we don't have anyplace to put a tree. Since the solstice isn't a holiday for anybody else, we may even have a construction crew at work. I suppose we could tell them not to come, but if it gets The Project one day closer to being done, we'll celebrate around them. So we'll be doing something different this year, although I don't yet know what, exactly.

Maybe we'll just celebrate by lighting candles on the longest night of the year. We'll build a fire (Seattle air-quality permitting). We'll be together. We'll be warm, and dry, and fed. That would be enough.

Red Queen Redux

Yesterday I had an appointment with the physical therapist. I've worked with this woman for years, checking in with her every time the Red Queen challenges me to another race. She's not only very good at what she does (the therapist, I mean, not the Red Queen, who is also very good at what she does, which is why I need to see the therapist), she's a great person as well. I like her a lot.

The reason for this visit is that, once again, I'm looking for another way to control my power chair. I was in for the same problem just six months ago, but I've lost so much function in my arms and hands since then that the solution we cobbled together is already not working for me anymore. We talked about solutions that I could probably afford, which might work for a little while. And we talked about options that might provide a longer-term fix, but would probably exceed the maximum my insurance will pay for durable medical equipment. All of which assumes I can get my COBRA continuation coverage set up, which is a whole 'nother rather tiresome story. The upshot of all this is that we will talk to a DME provider, find out how this might work, and what it might cost. And I'll talk to the COBRA administrator to get the insurance thing straightened out. You know, dealing with a disability is bad enough, but doing what you have to do to be able to deal with the disability is a real pain in the butt!

I Have Been So Looking Forward to This

Today is Tuffy's last day as a teenager. Tomorrow she turns 20.

As teen years go, I have to say I think we got off pretty easy. I have no teen-zilla horror stories to relate. Aside from the occasional Sunday night emotional core meltdown, she has always been even-tempered (for a teenage girl-type person) and kinda nerdy, taking nerdy classes, playing a nerdy instrument (viola), and participating in a nerdy sport (wrestling, two-time All-American, hence the nickname). She has never felt obliged to do what everyone else does, and doesn't care about being cool. Gotta like that, in a kid.

Still, I'm relieved to no longer be the parent of a teenager. I don't understand her preference for English and philosophy and drama classes instead of chemistry and zoology, but I don't have to -- she's 20 years old. I don't understand going to the gym six days a week, doing mixed martial arts, but I don't have to -- she's 20 years old. She's learning to go her own way, and I'm learning to let her do it. It will be an adventure for both of us.

The Runaway Blog

I have a rather embarrassing question to put to you long-time bloggers: Does your blog ever run away with you?

Is it just me? Sometimes I start a blog post with a particular, if vague, topic in mind, and without realizing it wind up running off at the pencil about something entirely else; or wind up making an entirely different point than the one I set out to make. That supposes, of course, that I set out to make a point, which I frequently do not. Sometimes I get to the end of the post before I realize I did, in fact, have a point to make. Of course, there are times I intend to make a point but don't quite manage it. That happens a lot, but that's something else. This is like a horse that gets the bit in his teeth. You're going to go where he takes you, and there's not a darn thing you can do about it.

There are times when I'm partway through a blog post and realize I've changed my mind, or I've talked myself out of what I thought I was going to say. Or I suddenly figure out something I didn't understand, when I may not even have realized I didn't understand it. I admit it's not usually an insight into the inner workings of the universe -- more like what I'd have to call a Blinding Flash of the Obvious -- but an "aha" moment, however minor.

I'm new to this blogging stuff. I spent most of my working life earning a living by writing, but sitting down to write about whatever I want is a totally new adventure for me. It takes me unexpected places. I tell people I don't know things about myself I didn't even know I knew. It's kind of scary.

Is that why so many people do this?

Pinching Pennies

Today I finally get to cancel our family cell phone service. I've really been looking forward to this. (Sounds kind of pathetic, I guess, but hey, you've got to get excited about the little things.) We had a pretty cheap plan for three phones, but since I can't use a regular phone anymore I thought I'd see if we couldn't do better with a plan for just two phones. Looking back over the last couple of statements to see how much we used the darn things, I found we were averaging, maybe, 10 minutes a month for the three of us. We don't talk on the phone much. So, yeah. We switched two of the phones to pay-as-you-go, and today I get to cancel the service.

While our house has been torn apart, we've had a bunch of stuff stashed in a self-storage place. I thought it would only be for a month or two, but it's been a year. In the next week or two, our remodel should be close enough to being done that we can get that stuff out of there. I'm really looking forward to that, too.

As an aside, if you can get along without something for a year, you've got to wonder how bad you really need it. There've been surprisingly few things we wished, at some point, we had handy, and only one or two items we needed badly enough to go down and retrieve. I think there's a lesson lurking in this somewhere...

While it seems kind of Scrooge-ish to be looking for ways to pinch pennies this time of year, the transition from gainful employment to retirement benefits made some significant changes in our budget. We've had to distinguish between what we need, what we want, and what we really can do without. I'm not sure that's bad. We can do without cell phone service we don't use. We don't need to rent a storage shed for stuff we don't need. With my birthday, my dad's birthday, Tuffy's birthday, solstice, and my brother's birthday coming one after the other, it's easy to get crazy. Tuffy's tuition is due in January. Let's keep our priorities straight. We'll still buy presents. We just won't be spending money for the sake of spending money. We'll try to focus on what we're celebrating, and why.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to cancel my cell phone service...

Virtual Friday

It's funny that I still think of weekends as weekends. Even though I go in to work every day with Scarecrow, it's not like I do any. Still, Scarecrow doesn't have to work tomorrow, so today's a virtual Friday. I still like them.

The chore for today was signing up to continue health insurance coverage for Rowan and me under COBRA. With the 60% American Recovery and Reinvestment Act subsidy it's still going to cost more than I paid as an employee, but not nearly as much as I had feared. Of course, the subsidy only lasts nine months, but you can just call me Scarlett -- I'll think about that tomorrow.

The chore for tomorrow is to renew my Disabled Parking permit. The task itself is no big deal; Scarecrow will just stop in at the doctor's office for a signature. It's just odd to think that it's been five years since I got the darn thing. When I got it I could still walk, a little, using Scarecrow's arm for support. I could still drive, getting my manual wheelchair in and out of the car myself. I still had a day job, and went in to work every day. I brought home a paycheck that I'd earned with my own little hands. I could still play music. Recreationally. At least, it was recreation for me. My family would probably have called annoying noise -- it was a banjo, after all -- but they were kind enough to put up with it. (I might also mention that I have accumulated a serious pile of annoyance credits. Scarecrow plays accordion.)

It's realizations like this that sneak up and smack you upside the head, sometimes. You're going along, doing an everyday chore, minding your own business, and whap.

I need to stop and think about that for awhile.

Instant Gratification

I have always imagined that Paradise will be a kind of library.

-Jorge Luis Borges

I love libraries. I remember going to the old Santa Monica Public Library when I was a kid. The childrens books were downstairs, around the corner from the main entrance. We could only go to the library when my mom was in town running errands. Most of the time it was the bookmobile, at the end of our street on Saturday afternoons.

There was the chemistry library and the biomed library at UCLA.

There were afternoons sitting on the floor of the kids' section of the Lansing Public Library, browsing through books to take home to read to Tuffy.

For a while, I even had a job where I spent much of my time digging up information in the Library of Michigan and the Michigan State University Library. How cool is that? (Unfortunately, not cool enough to put up with a sociopathic boss. But it was a pretty cool job.)

In Seattle, of course, librarians are revered -- one even has her own action figure. Living out in the 'burbs, our local libraries are part of the King County Library System (KCLS). When we moved to town, we got library cards before we unpacked our stuff. Browsing for books is one of the best possible ways one can spend an afternoon.

Book browsing is, however, a hands-on activity. It's just not as much fun when you have to ask somebody to take the book off the shelf, open it for you, and turn the pages so you can read bits and decide if you want to check it out. Scarecrow is willing to help me, but I don't do much in-library browsing anymore.

For me, the coolest thing about the library these days is online access to e-books. I can check books out, download them, and read them on my laptop -- no hands! It's all about instant gratification. On Thanksgiving day I ran across a reference to a book that sounded interesting. The library was closed, but the web site was open. They had the hardcover, the audio book, and a digital version. Five minutes later I was reading it.

Reading a book on my laptop is not as satisfying an experience as holding a physical book in my hands, I admit. But it's a lot better than whining about how I have nothing to read!

Downloading audio books has the same instant gratification factor and no-hands accessibility, and depending on who reads them, they can be pretty good (or really terrible). The thing is, if you fall asleep when you're reading a physical book or an e-book, it stops turning pages so you can pick up where you left off. An audio book just keeps on reading.

KCLS even participates in an adaptive technology loan program. I got to borrow a trackball, to see if it would work for me, before I went out and bought one. How cool is that?

I love libraries.

Our whole American way of life is a great war of ideas, and librarians are the arms dealers selling weapons to both sides.
-James Quinn

In the nonstop tsunami of global information, librarians provide us with floaties and teach us how to swim.
-Linton Weeks