Feeling sorry for myself today

Most of the time, I can talk myself out of starting my own little pity-party. I remind myself of how lucky I am for dozens of reasons. I live in one of the most beautiful places in the country. Our home is comfortable, filled with color and quirky things everywhere you look (like the wood flying pig we bought years ago in Carmel Valley, or the little wood birdcage where we've put a ceramic fish instead of a bird). For the moment (who knows what will happen next month or next year?) we can afford to pay for health care coverage, and we have access to an HMO that was rated the best in the country by Consumer Reports last year - no small thing when one takes medications that would cost close to $3k a month without insurance. We're warm in the winter and cool in the summer. We see and hear songbirds every day. Signs of spring come early, in February, when the daffodils burst open and the camellia bushes are covered in magenta blossoms.

I could go on with the list, but you get the point, I'm sure.

In the scheme of things, compared to 99% of the people living on the planet today, I have no reason to feel sorry for myself. But I do.

I miss my work so much. I even miss getting up at 5 a.m. and starting my arduous commute to Silicon Valley 40 minutes later, just to avoid the traffic back-up on the approach to the Bay Bridge. (I don't miss having to stay in the office until 6:30 p.m. for the same reason, or working in a company that demanded "24/7" of its managers, though.) I guess the thing I miss the most, smarmy though it might sound, is the connection with a diverse and interesting group of people and the clear knowledge that my work actually helped a lot of them survive the rigors of life in the DotCom universe a little bit better than if I'd not been around. I miss knowing that I was someone people could trust. At one point, my boss called me "The soul of the company" (okay, he said it as kind of a guilt-trip, when I was thinking about quitting, but still - I like knowing that someone valued my integrity).

Hmmm. So as I read what I've written here, it looks like my Ego is what's hurting, doesn't it? I'm such a competitive being, and I've lost the ability to compete in the one place where the ol' Ego had the opportunity to shine, to get all kinds of positive feedback, all kinds of strokes. So when I tell myself I'm feeling sorry for myself because I have Multiple Sclerosis, that's really bullshit, isn't it? My poor little Ego is feeling neglected - that's what's really going on here.

So maybe the way out of this rat-hole is finding a way to soothe that part of me and find contentment elsewhere?

Oy. An AFOG (Another F***ing Opportunity for Growth) appears. Maybe I can take up the challenge and do some real work around this not-so-new- but-still-uncomfortable life of mine? If I do, at least I'll stop whining, even if I only whine inside my head? Who knows? But stay tuned, 'cause I'll probably end up bitching about the process here!

The goldfinches are back in Portland

Last year around this time, I was gazing out at the back yard and I noticed a swarm of little, gold-colored birds fighting for space at the thistle feeder that hangs from a branch of the Japanese maple. "Hey," I said to David, "there are parakeets at the thistle feeder!"

So he came over, looked out at the birds, looked at me (with a faintly pitying glance) and replied, "Uh, no. Those are goldfinches, hon."

In my own defense, City Gurl that I am, I'd never seen goldfinches outside of books. The sad truth is, even if I'd been walking through a flock of goldfinches, I probably would have ignored them, or tried to shoo them away. In Life Before the MonSter, birds didn't make a blip on my radar screen (unless one of them pooped on my car, in which case my reaction was momentary annoyance and then indifference.

Sad, huh?

Now, the comings and going of the birds in our back yard is a constant joy - and very interesting, indeed. So the I was pretty excited when I noticed that the goldfinches (or maybe, at this point, lesser goldfinches) had returned to our back yard. At times, the flurry of activity around the sunflower chip feeders is dizzying; a few days ago, one of the house finches bonked himself against the dining room window (one assumes in a frenzy of sunflower-chip lust), making a loud THUD in the process. Ack.

The bird equivalent of the jungle-drums must be in full force, 'cause every tree in the back yard is filled with birds - perching, swooping over to the feeders and jockeying for one of the perches, and swooping back to the pear tree or the Japanese maple. It's not necessarily a graceful process, but it's endlessly fascinating.

Once again, I have to stop and thank the MonSter (a term for Multiple Sclerosis coined by my friend Cindy, a fellow sufferer) for forcing me to stop and pay attention to what's going on around me. There's a lot to watch and think about when the pace is slowed and attention focused on the here-and-now.

The crocuses are up in the yard

Can spring be far behind?

Even better, it's a little before 6:00 pm and it's still light outside! Not bright sunshine, of course, but not darkness, either. I ask you - is there anything that can lift one's spirits more than the sure knowledge that spring is on its way?

In honor of the Coming of Spring, I stopped off and bought a few flats of flowers - primroses and pansies - and planted them in pots on the front porch. There was one valiant primrose, one with deep purple blooms, that survived snow and temperatures in the 20's, and is sporting a half dozen blooms right now. I added two more to the planter - one yellow and one pink-and-white - and I've got my virtual fingers crossed that we won't have another deep frost this year. Pansies and primroses - harbingers of spring.

If it doesn't rain tomorrow, I plan to scope out the back yard, to see what kind of clean-up is needed, and to check on the shoots coming up all over the place back there. We have dozens and dozens and dozens of daffodils; not only are the stems out and growing, but the tips are showing light yellow, which means we should have bright yellow blooms scattered all over the yard within a week.

I LOVE spring. It's by far my favorite season, made oh-so-much more sweet after a cold and snowy winter.

I'll get a few photos up in a couple of days, when David returns with our digital camera!

Signs of spring abound

I went out to retrieve the Sunday Oregonian a little while ago, and spotted what used to be the quintessential hallmark of spring when I lived in Philadelphia - a robin redbreast. Winters were a lot more severe back east, so catching a glimpse of a robin was a really exhilerating event, one that heralded the end of boots and gloves and scarves and hats and heavy, wool jackets and the possibility that summer vacation really, truly would arrive.

Things are quite a bit different these days, for lots of reasons beyond the weather, but seeing that big, plump robin pecking away at the grass on our neighbor's front yard produced that same reaction in me -- "Wow! There are green shoots coming up all over the yard, and the buds on the rhododendron bushes seem bigger and fatter, and things are getting green everywhere I look. Yes!!"

A few days ago, I saw two, tiny buds on the fuchsia plant that's been hanging in the sun room for several months - another sign o'spring, for sure.

It's amazing, isn't it, how these tiny, seemingly inconsequential changes in one's environment, can make such a difference in one's attitude?

Or at least in this one's attitude!

The thankless life of a housekeeper

As I was making coffee this morning, and admiring my (temporarily clean) kitchen, I realized that I've been given another Life Lesson and glimpse into my mother's thinking. She and I fought bitterly from the time I was in high school until I was in my mid-20's, and we never managed to craft a decent relationship. I did a lot of work around our relationship at an intense spiritual retreat about seven years ago, and was able to see and understand some of her behavior in a much less critical, and much more adult, light. But some of my memories about her still baffle me, and make me wish we'd been able to fashion a minimally close relationship while she was still functioning so I could have gotten to know her better as an adult.

Anyway, I noticed a few smudges on the white countertop tile, and began an internal fume about how HARD I'd worked to clean the damn thing yesterday and how NO ONE appreciated that work, and how David, damn him, didn't wipe up after himself, and, and, and ... and suddenly, I understood my mom in a way I never had before.

My mom was a fierce housekeeper. We used to joke that one could have open-heart surgery on her kitchen floor without any concern about infection. She had a hard-and-fast schedule for cleaning, and the only days where she wasn’t cleaning something in the house were Friday and Saturday. And she CLEANED. She didn't muck around with sponge mops, she got down on her hands and knees and SCRUBBED the kitchen and bathroom floors (hence the open-heart surgery joke).

Our home did look wonderfully neat and sparkly - as long as none of us did anything to mess it up. Of course, we did, which meant that she was almost always pissed off at one of us - at my dad for spilling pipe tobacco on the rug, or at me for being such a complete slob (I’ve matured into a somewhat neater person than I was back then), or at my sister for doing something equally horrific and inconsiderate.

Back then, I thought she was a raving maniac. But now that I'm home so much of the time, now that this house really is the center of my corporeal universe, and now that I'm hyper-aware of cat litter trailed on the floor by the cat box, or crumbs on the countertops, or how gross the bathroom sink gets after a couple of days, I finally understand how she must have felt. Because keeping that home sparkling clean was her JOB, a job she did magnificently, and most of the time, we didn't appreciate a thing she did. If we did appreciate her efforts, we rarely acknowledged them.

When David crafts a magnificent hardwood cutting board, everyone can see and appreciate his hard work. But when I spend several of the very precious hours when I have energy scrubbing the kitchen down, not only do things get dirty almost instantaneously, no one notices my efforts. That kind of ‘work’ is pretty much taken for granted. The work of a housekeeper isn't valued all that much in our society, is it?

No wonder she was so angry all the time. At least I’ve had a 30-plus-year long working career, the last years of which were interesting and fulfilling and (at least some of the time) fun. I sure wish I'd figured out all of this stuff before she disappeared into dementia so I could have apologized for being a self-absorbed, unappreciative teenager, acknowledged her hard, fierce, loving work, and thanked her for it. It’s too late now; she passed away on New Year’s Eve, 2003. But I’ll never discount what she did for us – ever again.

Thanks, Mom. (And I'll never have a house as sparkly clean as yours was. Not ever!)

An (almost) shameless pitch for a contribution

Truthfully, I am feeling kind of weird and uncomfortable doing this, but I'm hoping the three or four people who actually read my ramblings will understand my motivation.

The National MS Society holds a bunch of fundraising events every year, including the "MS Walk". Last year, they held the Walk in Portland on our first anniversary (and Buddha's birthday), so we decided to form a team and participate (I sat in my wheelchair, of course; otherwise, I'd still be walking somewhere on the Hawthorne Bridge). We called the team "The Lib*erators" and were joined by a wonderful group of family and friends -- and somehow I managed to end up the highest individual fundraiser in the state of Oregon. This was very cool on several levels, not the least of which is my still-active sense of competition, which will probably end a few days after my body ceases to function and I leave this life - not before. But best of all, we managed to raise over $5k (appropriate, I guess, since it's a 5k Walk) as our contribution to ongoing research into the cause -- and one hopes -- a cure for this lousy, stinking, bizarre disease called Multiple Sclerosis. And I type those descriptors on a day that's started out fairly well so far.

If you have a few extra bucks, and are able to earmark a little of it for a very, very worthy cause, please visit this link at http://main.nationalmssociety.org/site/TR?px=2344324&pg=personal&fr_id=1850. Look for the heart at the top of the page, click on "Pledge/Sponsor a Participant and make a contribution either to me (Libbi Lepow) or to The Lib*erators. Either will work, and either will make a difference. Hell, just make a contribution to the MS Society if you can!

The MS Society not only funds research, it also provides incredible support to those of us with MS - from written materials to workshops to support groups. They have a kick-ass web site, something those of us who aren't as mobile as we once were really, really appreciate. I can't count the number of times I've gone to their web site to look something up, or to try and learn more about one of my more bizarre symptoms; I'm very grateful for that resource, believe me.

So, like I said, I do feel a wee bit sheepish asking for support, but know that the only thing I'll get out of this (aside from a morning spent with a team of amazing and beloved people, several hours outside in the pouring rain, and maybe another t-shirt) is the hope that maybe a few of the dollars we collect will be part of a major breakthrough in MS Research.

My husband, the artisan

I think I posted something about how multi-talented David is (note I am NOT implying that he's good at multi-tasking). I'm not going to list all of his skills, for a few reasons: (1) I get depressed when I see how many things he does really well, 'cause my list is miniscule next to his and (2) it will take too long, and it's almost time for dinner.


Here's a quick look at his latest endeavor; he now designs and crafts hardwood cutting boards. These are gone now, given as gifts to friends and family during the holidays, but there are more being crafted at this moment (well, at least the glue is setting up on them).

Keep in mind, please, that he never made one of these things until early last December, some time between Thanksgiving and Christmas.

The woods in those boards are rock maple, African Padauk, black walnut and something I can't remember how. Birch, perhaps?

Sophie, the Beauty Queen

Sophie is a beautiful corgi who lives across the street with our neighbors Deb and Mark. She is definitely Mark's dog - she clearly adores him (and even though he'd probably pooh-pooh this, I'm pretty sure he adores her, too).

The day of the Big Snowstorm, I was outside clearing the snow off my car, when I heard her barking. I turned to look for her, and the next thing I saw was this adorable bundle of blonde-and-white fur bounding through the snow, across the street and into our driveway. She seemed to love it, even though a few more inches of the stuff would have buried her!

Our doorbell rang yesterday afternoon - it was Mark and Sophie, just back from the groomers, so I asked David to take a few photos of her in her lovely, pristine, just-shampoo'd state. These pix don't show it, but she was wearing a brightly colored, paper bandana around her neck, a gift from the dog grooming establishment.

I wanted to share these pix with anyone who reads this blog, 'cause I think she's just gorgeous.

Everything changes, nothing stays the same

That's a line from a country and western song (Patti Loveless? Kathy Mattea?) that I played at the end of a brief workshop about change I once gave, and I'm reminded at least once a day how true that is.

So after bitching and moaning about winter (and yes, it's still pretty cold here, and the little pond in our back yard is still frozen) I discovered dozens and dozens of new, green shoots jutting out all over our yard. The two planters next to the front stairs are showing lots of shoots (probably daffodils and tulips), and there are daffodil shoots all over the garden plot beside the driveway (and probably out back, but I haven't ventured out there for a while).

David went out yesterday (while I stayed in bed, trying to fight off a case of the flu) and cleared out most of the detritus left over from last year's blooms, which will, we hope, allow these lovely, little green shoots to get more sun and more room to grow.

I'll take a few photos and post them in the next couple of days, but I did, at least, want to report that we're beginning to see some clear hints of spring here in Portland. That, plus the return of light (it's still light outside at 5:30!) gives me hope.

More whining about winter

This is 'Campaign Craig', a sculpture made from a shovel and a couple of rakes. We bought Craig from the guy who made him (whose name was - you guessed it! - Craig) and David added the 'campaign' when we placed him on a tree stump in our front yard. What can I tell you? David loves puns...

So Craig greets folks as they walk towards our front door. We had him draped in fake spider webs on Hallowe'en, and he took to that costume like a pro. But I'm not sure how he feels about the snow that's currently piled up on top of his head and back. I mean, he MUST be cold, right? Poor little guy...

I'm feeling like the biggest wuss in the world. I mean, I lived in and around Boston, MA for fifteen years, and I drove in all kinds of lousy weather to get to and from work, but now? Now I'm too nervous to try a quick trip to the post office, much less venture out on the freeway.

Of course, they knew how to clear the roads in Massachusetts, at least the major ones. I'm starting to wonder if Portland, OR even owns a snow plow, and, if they do, whether they've been using the plows to store stuff in a warehouse somewhere, 'cause it sure doesn't look like there's been much plowing going on around here. Of course, our little neighborhood, which doesn't even have sidewalks, is obviously gonna have to wait until nature takes its course, as it were, and things thaw enough to melt the snow on the street. But the Traffic Cams I checked this morning, the ones that show the major freeways and bridges, don't give me a lot of hope that things are gonna clear out on the neighborhood streets any time soon.

As Reva suggested in a comment on one of my last whining posts, we're pretty lucky that we don't have to be anywhere in this kind of weather (and my life doesn't include a lot of going-outside anymore in any case). But there's something about knowing you have the option to venture out if you want to do so that I find comforting. So I'm not feeling particularly comforted this morning!

Whining aside, I do need to admit that it's looking pretty gorgeous out in our back yard this morning. And I kinda like Craig's white-hat look, so he's gonna stay that way until - well, until nature steps in and melts it all away. Guess I shouldn't bitch about the snow-plow guys after all, huh?

Okay, we get it!

Left: The front of our house from across the street

Below: The view from our front porch

We get it. It's really winter in Portland. There's no need to do anything else to prove that fact to us, honest there isn't!

We got between three and four inches of snow here today, which isn't much by, say, Boston standards, but is a LOT for two folks who got used to what passed as winter in northern California. As the pictures show, we found ourselves in a literal winter wonderland today.


I went out when it stopped snowing, armed with a broom and wearing a pair of snow boots I unearthed from the closet in our guest bedroom, and cleared all of the snow off my car. Luckily, it's very dry, light snow, so it wasn't hard to get the car cleaned off. Now I'm wondering what the road will be like tomorrow....

What's a weekend?

Today is an official holiday, the observance of Martin Luther King's birthday.

I remember when I looked forward to these three-day weekends with great relish, when the thought of having three full days away from the office and work was a gift to be anticipated and savored. Now that I'm no longer able to work, I find that weekends (long OR short) simply don't matter much anymore. The week consists of seven days, without much differentiation other than trash-and-recycling pick-up day, or Hillsdale Farmers' Market day, or the day that I refill the nifty container that houses the myriad medications and vitamins I take every day. Oh, and Shot Day, the day that David gets to stab me with an inch-and-a-quarter-long IM needle filled with Avonex, the medication that may (or may not) be slowing the progression of MS.

Our DVR (DISH TV video recorder) even eliminates the need to remember what day it is in order to watch a program we like: all of our faves are set up to record automatically, and we can watch them when (and if) we're up for it.

Many of our bills are set up to be paid automatically, both in Quicken (I bow to the person who developed this software, without which I would likely be in debtor's prison, given my complete lack of attention to detail and underdeveloped arithmetic skills) and in our bank's online bill-paying system. I get email from several credit card companies, letting me know that my monthly statement is available online, so I don't even need to open an envelope to record an upcoming payment or three.

Is it any wonder that I find myself not knowing the actual date more often than not? I can always look at one of the five paper calendars hanging in strategic places around the house, or at my Live With Intention 2007 Datebook, or even rest my cursor over the time displayed in the lower left-hand corner of my monitor screen to show the day and date. Hell, who needs a memory with all of these aids available?

And, sadly, who needs a three-day weekend when life is no longer neatly arranged into work-week and weekend?

Will I ever settle comfortably into this unwanted retirement? I wonder...

The thing is...

....ya gotta laugh.

Ya gotta laugh no matter how screwed up things seem to be; if you lose the ability to laugh (especially at yourself), life gets very bleak, very quickly.

One of my favorite people, my friend Stephanie, sent me this t-shirt for my birthday. I know some folks might be offended by it, but I'm just glad I didn't have a mouthful of coffee when I opened the package, 'cause I would've spit it all over the place if I had, I was laughing so hard. I love it! And the truth is, if there's anything positive at ALL about this damned disability, it has to be the disabled parking, right?

So thanks, Stephanie, for the gift and the belly laugh!

Some more about friends

A good, good friend was visiting Portland earlier in the week, and came to our house for dinner and a long visit on Tuesday night. This is a guy I just adore; he's very smart, well-read, interested in a wide variety of stuff (from movies to books to music to nature), and he's going through an extremely difficult time at the moment. It's times like these that I regret not being in the Bay Area (not that I can do much to help, but at least I'd be around for coffee dates and shmoozing). He has a lot of good friends who care about him deeply, and I don't doubt that he'll get through all of this at some point, but it's hard for me to see someone I care about in pain. I do hate feeling helpless...

This morning, when I climbed off the Theracycle, I glanced over at a wicker rocking chair that sits near the west window in our sunroom. The chair was a hand-me-down from our friend Mary, who was going to ditch it if she couldn't give it away. The cushion on the chair is covered with gorgeous fabric, bought in consultation with our friend Darlis, who also sewed the cover (since I can barely sew on a button properly). And there's a little, quilted pillow, with Laurel Burch kitties on both sides, made by our friend Reva, sitting up against the back of the rocking chair. It's a small piece of furniture, but boy, does it carry lots of wonderful energy - and reminders of good friends.

I just glanced over at a small cork board hanging on the wall to the right of my monitor. There are several post cards from Paris (my favorite city), sent by friends who knew how much I love the place. There's an origami heart that Reva made, and a wonderful birthday card my sister sent me a few years ago. There's a tiny Christmas ornament, given to me by Patti, whose presence in my workplace when I first moved to the Bay Area literally saved my life, and who remains a dear, dear friend, as well as a set of worry beads she brought back from Greece. There's a tiny Japanese kimono-doll, given to me by my friend Peg. And a drawing of a Land Shark, done by Zack when he was nine or ten years old. And my pin, designed and printed by David, so many years ago that it's very faded (used at WELL parties to identify me to all the folks I'd only met online).

And that's just one small space in the office, again a spot that's crowded with memories of good friends and beloved family.

So the next time I'm feeling blue because a friend has visited and is now many hundreds of miles away, I'll do a quick reconnaissance around the house to drink in the memories and remind myself that all of my friends are available, at least virtually, whenever I need a fix.

A magical start to the new year -- finally

Anna's Hummingbird

Happy New Year!

So we did our traditional New Year's Eve thing, which consists of staying at home together, feasting on finger-food (unfortunately, the theme ends up being 'the more fat, the better!), drinking champagne (I only had one glass, okay?) and watching movies. Last night, we watched Scoop and the very first episode of Saturday Night Live (which I watched from a friend's house in Yonkers, NY when it was first broadcast!). We hung around until midnight, playing computer games, watched the ball come down (three hours delayed, of course) in Times Square, smooched, did some more computer gaming, and crashed around 2:00.

Sometime around 3:00 am, driven out of the bedroom by some powerful snoring, I fumbled my way into the guest bedroom, grappled a quilt out of the blanket chest, and ended up asleep on our very comfortable couch until 8:00 am or so.
When I realized that I wasn't going to be able to get back to sleep, I hauled myself up out of bed, brushed my teeth, emptied two litter boxes, took the hummingbird nectar out of the refrigerator to warm it up, and did a full forty minutes on my trusty Theracycle (a truly remarkable exercycle, made especially for disabled folks). I brought the little glass feeder bottled into the house so I could wash them and refill them, and went out to hang them on the feeder.

(I bet you're wondering where the hell the magic is, right?)

As I was struggling to hang the second glass globe, I realized that a hummingbird had flown over and was drinking out of the one globe I'd managed to hang on the feeder - not more than a foot away from me! It was an Anna's hummingbird, a male, with a gorgeous, iridescent, ruby-colored head, and it hovered there, right next to me, sipping away for about 45 seconds. It stopped drinking, hovered for a moment or two just looking at me, and then darted away into the huge bush in the next yard. I stood there for a couple of minutes, not quite believing what had happened, and then I decided that one of my 'gentle goals' for 2007 simply had to have something to do with seeking out the magic in my life everywhere I can find it.

So here are my Gentle Goals (I hate the whole idea of 'resolutions') for 2007:

• Be mindful of what I eat
• Exercise every day
• Be compassionate - towards myself and everyone else
• Seek out and notice the magic around me

(fwiw, none of these are particularly easy, but they seem gentle to me)

What else? New Year musings

Much as I'd love to write something profound or memorable today, this last day of 2006, I'm much too tired and spaced out right now to do much of anything beyond a quick post and a weaving walk into the bedroom, where I'll likely sleep for several hours.

It's been a social whirlwind (at least in my current definition of such things) around here since the start of the 2006 holiday season. I've baked up a storm (three batches of brownies, chocolate-chip cookie bars, chocolate-chip spice cookies, 'thumbprint' cookies with raspberry centers and two kind of gingerbread), cooked almost as much (yesterday's experiment was split pea soup) and spent lots of time with friends and family. I missed The Nutcracker because I was too sick to go out, but managed to see Susannah Mars' holiday show at Artists' Rep in Portland (a real winner!). Tonight will be a return to our traditional New Year's Eve - just the two of us, a lot of finger-foods, some good champagne, a movie and a time to say good-bye to some of the stuff we'd prefer not to see in the coming year.

Here are a few of the things I hope will disappear in 2007:

• Neo-con control of our government
• The war in Iraq (what the hell, how about war in general?)
• Cancer. Too many of our friends died last year, or had brushes with cancer (including my beloved, who is, we hope, now past that particular threat)
• 'Sectarian violence' -- of any kind, anywhere on earth
• Stubborn ignorance, especially as it relates to our policies on global warming, or the lack thereof

I would so like to be like Anne Frank, who somehow managed to hold on to her optimism and belief in the essential good of her fellow man, and I think that will be at the top of my goals for 2007 -- to look forward, as much as possible, with optimism and hope.

Happy New Year to all. May 2007 bring light and abundance, health and hope.

Today is my birthday!

Now, I gotta say, when you hit the age of (gulp) fifty-nine, you don't actually celebrate getting a year older, but --- what the hell. Fifty-nine years ago, give or take about 12 hours, my parents were attending a Philadelphia Orchestra concert, and my mother went into labor (I wasn't due for another three weeks - looks like I started out impatient, and that hasn't changed one bit, as David will attest). Mom's obstetrician was in Atlantic City (a very different place in 1947, with nary a casino to be seen) so I was delivered by the intern on duty at the time. He was so nervous (and I was apparently so eager to get on with it) that I slipped out of his hands and fell - head-first - into the bucket awaiting the afterbirth, positionedon the floor next to the delivery table! I wish I could say that explained a bit about how I turned out, but I've learned that babies and small children manage to do a lot of tumbling and falling without major damage, so I can't use that event as an excuse, much as I'd like to!

For the next year, my uncle, who was an MD, and our family doctor, stopped by our house at the end of the day before he went home for dinner, 'just to take a look at your beautiful baby'. Both of my parents found that rather odd, but didn't know the reason until I was a year old (can you believe it? no one told my parents what had happened for an entire year after I was born! Today, that would mean Major Lawsuit, I'm sure).

In any case, head-bonking, the Years of Sex, Drugs, Rock-n-Roll, working at a nuclear power plant (really!), and Multiple Sclerosis notwithstanding, here I am, like an overweight Energizer Bunny, still going after fifty-nine years.

And the day dawned sunny and bright in Portland, a welcome gift for all of us!

(Cue the Beatles singing "Today is Your Birthday...")

Christmas greetings

I'm feeling a whole lot less sorry for myself this morning, thanks to Nyquil and two good night's sleep (as well as the blessed ability to go more than three minutes without sneezing!). The Paris Ring hasn't shown up yet, but it seems much less of a tragedy than it did when I posted the other day; after all, it's just a thing, right?

We spent Christmas Eve with my husband's family, at an informal get-together that included a Secret Santa (which we called a 'Yankee Swap' when I lived in New England). I gathered a few gifts I had bought over the past couple of years and stored away for just this occasion (a painted wooden rooster made by a Native American couple, a pot holder with a rooster on it - can you sense a theme here? - and a slightly obscene rubber-chicken keyring that lays an eggs, complete with yolk, when you squeeze it. Oh, and a pair of hugging salt-and-pepper shakers which were a slight variation from the major theme but fit in a secondary, kitchen-related, theme. Of sorts.) Gifts ranged from that to some of those sponges that morph when you wet them (I LOVE those sponges!), to two sets of 'cocktail' plates (because each has a drawing of a wine bottle or cocktail glass on it), to one of David's gorgeous cutting boards. David's mom, who turned 92 earlier this month, managed to find a ceramic bell in the shape of Santa Claus - who knew that she actually has a bell collection? She was THRILLED (and I would have taken it to Goodwill immediately).

Christmas dinner will be here today, with our dear friends Reva and Jerry, who moved to Portland shortly after we did, and our new friends Deb and Larry. I've unearthed my mom's good china (a gift in 1929, when she and my dad were married) and am ready to start the early prep (making the stuffing for the capon) as soon as I log off and get back to 'real life'.

I wish you all (assuming there are more than three people who read this Blog!) a very happy holiday, no matter what your celebration might be. Me? I celebrate the returning light, beloved friends and family, and another day of life.

Lost (and not yet found)

When I was ten or eleven years old, my parents gave me a pinkie ring with my initials engraved on it. I was warned not to wear it 'just anywhere', but it was my very first piece of real jewelry, and it beckoned me like a Siren ("C'mon, open the drawer and put me on!") and I, never good at postponing gratification, did exactly that. And, at some point during that day, I lost the ring. I'd had it less than a month, and my mother was absolutely furious at me when I came home and confessed that I'd lost it. "I'll never buy you another piece of jewelry again," she shrieked. "You can't be trusted!"

Of course, she didn't make good on that threat, and they did buy me jewelry as I grew older, but most of it was stolen when my apartment was burglarized in Boston. When I called my parents to tell them about the burglary, her response was "It's your own fault, you know. You should have put it all in a safe deposit box!" (never mind that all of her jewelry, an impressive collection, was stored in the top drawer of her bureau). It was the last time I called my mother with a problem, and the end of expecting any kind of solace or comfort from her.

When David and I went to Paris in October, 2000, we were walking down a small street on the Left Bank, and I saw a gorgeous ring in the window of a tiny store. We went in so I could try it on, but it was too small. The saleswoman showed me another ring, a silver ring with a blue topaz, and I fell in love with it as soon as she pulled it out from under the counter. The exchange rate was in our favor, and the ring only cost the equivalent of $75! I've always thought of it as my "Paris ring".

A couple of weeks ago, I started wearing it all the time, not taking it off when I showered or slept; it reminded me of what will likely be my last trip to Paris, a city I love, and I liked having such a tangible reminder of a time when I could still stroll for five or six miles, without having to use a cane.

Somehow, I managed to lose the ring last night. It's in the house somewhere, I'm sure, but I have no idea where. When my hands get cold, my fingers shrink a little, and the ring obviously slipped off at some point during the evening. We've searched the trash cans and the bed, and all of the obvious places it might be, but so far, it hasn't turned up.

At one point last night, the memory of my very first ring flashed through my mind, and I heard my mother's voice admonishing me for having lost this ring, even though I'll be fifty-nine years old on Wednesday, and my mother has been dead for several years. That voice, that angry, negative, critical voice lives on in my head, despite years of counseling and a life filled with accomplishments and success. Why the hell can't I lose that voice, I ask you?

Sunrise

It's rare these days for me to be up and around early enough to catch a sunrise (unlike my bad ol' working days, when I'd leave home in the dark and not return until long after sunset). But I got up early this morning to set out gifts for the guys who pick up our trash and recycling and to get the morning Oregonian. As I turned to walk back inside, I noticed that the sun was rising in the east, above the huge maple and oak trees in our neighbors' yards, and I decided I wanted to watch it a bit longer. So I came back inside, went out to the back deck (where there's a much better view) and stood out there, breathing in the cold, fresh air, and watched the sky change to a palette of rose and gold.

And I was really very glad to be alive.

Some more about winter

I feel a little wimpy complaining about winter weather in Portland, especially after having spent fifteen years living in and around Boston, MA, where winters are beyond intense. The year after we moved to Boston, we experienced the Blizzard of '78 (1978, that is; I'm old, but not THAT old). A nor'easter dropped 24 inches of snow on the city in 12 hours, and high winds took out a bunch of transformers near the harbor. We were without power for 36 hours. We lived in a basement apartment at the time, with no windows other than two, tiny windows at street level that were much too small to let in any light at all. But we had flashlights and candles, and Frank (who later became my second husband) fought his way to Boylston Street and snagged the very last transistor radio in the drugstore (which, we discovered when the lights came back on, looked just like a hand grenade) so we were able to stay on top of what was happening outside.

When we emerged from our dark cocoon, the snow drifts in the Back Bay were astounding, higher than anything I'd ever seen before. We walked to a local grocery store to get a few things (we lost everything in the refrigerator, of course) and saw a snowplow take out an MG that had been completely covered in snow - the CRUNCH of smooshed metal and breaking glass was awful to hear.

But, of course, we lived through the storm, and the week following, when all streets were closed to traffic, which meant having to walk about a mile and a half from the Red Line to our apartment to get to and from work every day. Eventually things got back to normal (and our next apartment was a 4th floor walk-up -- no more living underground, thankyouverymuch!

I thought about that winter as I was scraping the frost from my car windows early this morning, wanting to get to the supermarket before things got too crowded there. I do have a new, warm jacket (something I didn't need in the Bay Area) and gloves, so I wasn't at all cold, and there was only a thin layer of frost on the car windows, which was really easy to scrape off. So when I started that internal bitching session, complaining about having to take the time to clean off the car, I stopped myself and thought about the Blizzard of '78 -- and stopped internal complaining as well.

Yeah, it's cold here (25 degrees when I went outside) and yeah, it took five extra minutes to get the windows cleared off. BFD, as they say.


BFD.

Winter returns to Portland

It's been a wild and woolly week in Portland, weather-wise. A wicked winter storm blew in (literally), bringing a ton of rain and hurricane-force winds with it. I've never been as happy that we have a new roof as I was on Thursday night, listening to the rain pelting down and hearing the roar and whine of the winds.

We lost power (about 20 minutes after I'd put a meatloaf in the oven, of course) for about three hours, but we were prepared for that. David hung his Coleman lantern from a hook in the living room ceiling, and I lit a few dozen candles around the house. We have flashlights in every room of the house (thanks to years living in earthquake country), so it was easy to find one to use if we had to visit the bathroom while the power was out. The lantern put out enough light that we could sit and read, which is pretty much what we did until the power came back on three hours after it went out.

When I checked outside the next morning, the only visible damage to the trees and bushes was a small limb in the driveway, down from the maple tree, and the poor, battered grape arbor on its side (it's been propped up - precariously - since it fell over due to the weight of all the grapes last fall) in the back yard. David did some more pruning on the maple, taking down several dead branches, and the grape arbor is once again upright.

Yesterday, the temperature dipped into the low 30's, and there's been frost on everything in the mornings. I'd much rather have cold, sunny weather than warm stormy weather, so I'm quite happy with the Return of Winter.

At least for now...

More fun with earplugs

So I've been excrutiatingly careful with ear plugs since Harley's initial debacle. I always put them away carefully, and am even paranoid about tossing used ear plugs into the trash can, lest she be tempted to root around in there and chow down.

Towards the end of January, Harley got really, really sick - so sick at one point, that I was terrified she would die. We took her to a vet that one of our neighbors had recommended, they did all kinds of tests (including two sets of x-rays), put her on an IV drip, and sent her home with three different medications, as well as an IV bag and needle so we could continue to hydrate her. Nothing helped. She kept on puking and getting more and more lethargic. The new vet (where we dropped over $1,000) was absolutely no help at all, and we ended up having her moved to another vet's office, a woman who had worked at the first vet's until it was acquired by some big corporate entity, which resulted in a push for profits and not for decent care. The new vet suggested a barium x-ray, and, in the process, discovered (yep, you guessed it) an ear plug wedged in the duodenum, making it impossible for Harley to do anything but puke because of the blockage. We approved immediate surgery, and Ms. Harley returned home the next afternoon, a little bit shaky but otherwise just fine.

How, you ask, did she find an ear plug to savor and ingest? All we can figure out is that one got loose as we were packing and moving from the rental house where we lived when we first moved to Portland into our home, giving Harley the opportunity to pounce on it and devour it. We figure the plug moved around in her digestive system for a few weeks (hence the symptoms, which came and went mysteriously) until it finally came to rest, as it were, in a place where it was causing her a great deal of pain and discomfort.

She may not be very bright, but she sure as hell knows what she wants and how to find it. Dammit.

A little about MS

...after all, this is supposed to be a blog about my 'MS Journey", isn't it?

So I saw the neurologist yesterday, for my semi-annual check-up. He ran me through a bunch of simple tests (memory, muscle strength, etc.) and pronounced me 'steady as a rock'. Yeah, right.

The thing is, I guess I am 'steady' in that I haven't deteriorated in the past six month, which is, I know, a Good Thing. But dammit, I want to IMPROVE, even though I know that's beyond less-than-likely, and it's hard for me to get excited because I know what city and county I'm living in or that the thing with the shiny, metallic band and round, glass-covered thing in the middle on the doctor's wrist is called a 'watch'. Cut me a break. The last IQ test I took clocked me in somewhere in the 150's - of COURSE I know what a watch is! But ask me how many words I lose every day, or whether I can walk more than a block or two before my legs are too clumsy to be trusted. Or whether I can stay awake for longer that five hours before I have to collapse in bed and sleep the afternoon away. Or whether I can hike. Or run. Or work.

Of course I know why he was so bubbly and positive throughout the examination - I haven't gotten perceptibly worse in the past six months, and that really is a very good thing. If I could only figure out how to relinquish my dreams of getting back to what used to be 'normal' and settle into what is now 'normal' without the fear that I'll give up entirely if I do that.

He also mentioned that one of the the liver enzymes they track in my every-six-month blood tests came back elevated (not a surprise, since three of the meds I take can negatively impact liver function), so he told me I now have to get monthly blood tests and (JUST BEFORE THE HOLIDAYS!) give up alcohol entirely. It's not like I drink all that much, either. I don't drink any hard liquor, haven't for years and years. But I do like a glass of wine with dinner, and several glasses if we're at a restaurant or hanging out with friends. But for now, and until my blood tests show a reduction in that enzyme, even my one glass of wine a day is verboten.

Yeah, I know. I could be in Fallujah, or Darfur instead of in beautiful Portland, OR. I have nothing to complain about, not when you look at the way the vast majority of human beings live on this planet of ours. But for today, just for now, I'm really bummed that I can't toast the holidays with anything stronger than a Diet Pepsi.

Poor pitiful me.

Harley's Biggest Bungles - Chapter One (The Great Ear Plug Disasters)

Harley, Queen of the Bungle

So Harley just LOVES the taste of ear wax. I shudder as I type those words, but I'm being honest here.

We discovered this perverse bent of hers when she was about a year old. We were living in a little house at the top of the ridge in Kensington, CA at the time of this Great Discovery. See, the only way I can sleep in the same room (much less the same bed) with David is if I wear those squishy ear plugs - otherwise, his snoring wakes me up and I end up sleeping on the couch or in the guest bedroom. (An aside: I used to work for a company that manufactured one brand of those squishy ear plugs, and at one time I had dozens and dozens of 'em, given to me by the Human Resources director when I was visiting the office in Indianapolis.)

Anyway, back to Harley's story.

I would put the ear plugs on the little bookcase next to my bed when I woke in the morning (yeah, I re-used them; I couldn't afford to use 'em once and throw them away now that I had to pay for them!), and I'd notice, every once in a while, that one would disappear during the day. I assumed that the cats had knocked one off the shelf and used it as a tiny soccer ball, and figured I'd find it when I vacuumed under the bed, so I promptly forgot about it.

Until a sunny morning when I was home from work, sitting at the dining table and drinking a mug of Peet's coffee, when I noticed that Harley had just puked. When I knelt down to clean up the mess, I saw a disgusting-looking, brown lump in the middle of it all, which I found the courage to pick up and examine. After a minute or two, I realized it was -- an ear plug, no longer bright yellow, but still recognizable. Blecchh!

Over the next few hours, Harley relieved herself of eight more ear plugs in various spots around the house. "What the F***??!!", I thought. "How many of these has she eaten?! Did she eat them one at a time, or did she save them for a huge feast? AARRGGHH!"

The next evening, I realized that Harley was sick. She wasn't eating or drinking and she was extremely lethargic. I managed to convince David that we needed to get her to a vet (of course, the only vet's office open at night was the Emergency Vet Clinic on University Ave. in Berkeley, where they charged the proverbial arm-and-leg for their services) NOW!! They put her on an IV drip because she was badly dehydrated, and did X-rays - X-rays that showed THREE MORE EAR PLUGS (two in her stomach and one in her intestines) for a total of one dozen ear plugs she'd ingested that never passed through her digestive system.

$800 later (and one stolen truck, but that's another story), Harley returned home, free of ear plugs. From that point on, I stored my ear plugs in a little wooden box on the night table next to the bed, and Harley returned to eating kibble.

Until Ear Plug Disaster Number Two, of course...

Harley, Queen of the Bungle

Here's Harley, in her favorite spot on the living room sofa. Note the checkerboard face.

Two cats share our home at the moment. I wrote a little about Sam the other day; here's a glimpse into Harley.

We found both cats at the Berkeley/East Bay Humane shelter, a righteous, no-kill animal shelter in west Berkeley. We'd waited to get them until Zack arrived for the summer, so all three of them would have several months to bond and get to know each other. David zero'd in on Sam, who was in a cage with several of his siblings, obviously just bursting with desire to be petted and cuddled. In stark contrast, Harley was in a cage by herself, lying in that Kliban Cat meatloaf pose, with her back towards the rest of the room. "That's my cat!", I thought, and I was right. After a brief drama that involved getting our landlord's permission to adopt the two cats, and a last-minute sprint back to the shelter before it closed for the weekend, both kitties arrived in our home.

A few months later, when we were back at the shelter for a check-up, we mentioned something about Harley's less-than-effusive personality. "Yeah", the vet's assistant replied, "torties have attitude!"

Eleven years later, I still think about that description, which is absolutely right-on. Harley has attitude!

We named her "Harley" for two reasons. She has almost-perfect checkerboard markings on her face (kind of like a harlequin) and, when she was a tiny kitten, she purred so loud, she sounded like a Harley-Davidson revving up to take off down the freeway. She still produces one helluva purr when she's feeling happy.

Harley has the softest coat of any cat I've ever petted (and that's a LOT of cats!). Touching her is such a lovely experience, especially when she's relaxed and allows the contact to continue after a moment or two. A lot of the time, as soon as you start to pet her, she'll move around and start licking your hand as if to say "Hey! I get to control this process, not you! Get it?". She'll let you pet her, but on her terms, not yours!

This morning, I woke to find her nestled up against my hip, sound asleep. For about five minutes, I lay there stroking her soft fur and scratching under her chin, until she came to consciousness enough to turn around and lick my fingers, re-establishing supremacy in the process.

Harley is beautiful, haughty, and not very bright. And I love her to pieces.

Cat rituals

David and Sam, engaged in The Ritual

If you're a cat lover, and have lived with cats at any time in your life, you know what I'm talking about, 'cause cats LOVE rituals. Okay, so I'm anthropomorphizing just a teensy bit here, but I get to do that 'cause this is my blog, right?

Take Sam, our big, sweet black-panther-of-a-cat.

When I'm finally awake, teeth brushed, meds and vitamins taken, coffee set to brew, Sam somehow knows that it's time for his Morning Ritual. I stoop down and pick him up (no mean feat, since he's a big and very solid cat). He puts his big ol' paws on my shoulder, rubs up against my face, and starts PURRING. He's very clear on exactly where I should concentrate my scratching, and will crane his neck in the appropriate direction, giving me all the information I need to give him exactly what he wants. From time to time, he'll turn and look at me, and give me a few swipes of his tongue on and around my lips, and then go back to the real business of the moment - getting lots of scratches and scritches and strokes. At some point, one or the other of us will tire of the position, and we'll disengage.

If for some reason I don't respond to his morning yowling immediately, he will follow me around the house until I do what he wants. And once the Morning Ritual has been completed, he's off to lie on the little bookcase that sits in the middle of the bay window looking over the back yard, intent on watching the comings and goings of the birds and squirrels (and perhaps reminiscing about his days as a valiant Back Yard Hunter?).

We just completed The Morning Ritual, this time while I was sitting in my chair at the desk. I'm pretty sure he'll be in his bird-watching spot when I go out to the sunroom to exercise, but he'll barely acknowledge my presence at that point. The Ritual will have quieted his need for contact, at least for a while.

Talent

I've never really had artistic talent.

My son is a very talented comic artist. He started drawing when he was three years old. Whenever we went out, we took a bunch of markers and crayons and paper with us, so Zack could draw while we waited for our food at a restaurant, or visited friends who didn't have kids of their own. He drew everywhere, on paper place mats, all over his notebooks - everywhere. His passion for drawing is matched by his talent, and he's on his way to a career in comic art.

Yep, the guy has talent.

My husband is another very talented guy. His first career was painting houses - not just any houses, but upscale homes in the San Francisco Bay Area. Some of his work has been featured in "Fine Homebuilding" magazine, and you can still see some of the work he did on several of the Victorian mansions in San Francisco. He does incredible stuff with color, and the walls of our home in Portland, as well as our home in California, are proof of his creativity and talent.

A couple of years ago, he got into woodworking, after building a bench in memory of his father. A year or so ago, he made me special box for storing bills, with lovely, dovetail joints (made of wood left over from an old sofa!). His skills keep improving with every project he takes on.

A few days ago, I suggested that he make a new cutting board for the kitchen (the kind that slides in between the counter and a drawer) because the existing one was looking really ragged. My thought was that he'd measure the board, cut a piece of rock maple or oak, and make a simple replacement.

No way. That's not how really talented people do stuff. Instead, he made the gorgeous board pictured above, a mix of rock maple, oak, walnut and padauk (an African wood that's almost red in color). It's a shame to hide the cutting board under the counter, but that's where it will live.

The man definitely has Talent. Lots and lots of talent.

A Two-Cat Night

Kitties sleeping in warmer climes

(Not unlike a three-dog night, I s'pose.)

It's been pretty cold in Portland for the past week or so (lows in the low 30's) and both cats end up snuggled in bed with us. This isn't new behavior for Harley, who spends 99.9% of her time sleeping (the rest is spent eating), but Sam usually chooses to hang out somewhere else in the house rather than bunk in with the three of us. Not lately, though, when the combined warmth of two humans and another furred creature is too tempting, even for an independent guy like Sam.

So I wake now, wedged between two hefty cats, which makes hauling myself out of bed a wee bit difficult (it's hard enough to get my legs moving after a night of MS-enduced muscle spasms and pain), but figuring out how to wriggle them out without disturbing the cats makes it damned near impossible.

Yeah, I know - why not disturb the cats? Because, as the pillow someone gave us as a gift recently says "Dogs have owners, cats have staff."

And that's the truth. We live to serve - to empty litter boxes and fill water dishes, to scratch ears and bellies - and to try never to disturb their rest.

Much as I love having their soft, furry bodies snuggled up with me when I sleep, I'd sure like it a lot more if they'd MOVE when I wake up!

Birds?

The black sunflower seed, squirrel-proof feeders, with a few finches stopping for a quick snack.

Our bird feeders (there are three in the back yard at the moment, plus a hummingbird feeder) have turned the space into a kind of mini-zoo. And I, who used to hate birds, find myself fascinated and
entranced by the endless variety of our feathered visitors. Sam, the larger of our two cats, now on permanent house-arrest after too many visits to the vet, spends much of his day stretched out atop a small book shelf, watching the birds as they swoop by (I assume he wants to lunge through the window and grab a couple of them, but I've learned that trying to read minds, whether human or feline, is an exercise in futility).

Last spring, we bought a squirrel-proof bird feeder that closes off when the squirrel's weight pulls on it (this after watching most of the black sunflower seeds disappear into the squirrels' bellies for a month or so), and we added a second a couple of weeks ago. The feeders empty every three or four days, so we're now buying the largest bags of black sunflower and thistle seeds we can find, in an attempt to keep up with the birds' winter appetites. If someone had told me, even fifteen years ago, that I'd want to entice birds to visit my home, I would've laughed 'til I couldn't breathe. But, as is so often true in my life, that particular 'never' (as in "I'll NEVER like birds!") has proven to be incorrect, and I love seeing a new species perched on one of the railings on the back deck, so I can grab one of the half dozen bird books stored on a shelf under Sam's perch, and try to figure out what new variety of bird has discovered the Rancho Dleepow Lunch Stand and Bird Sanctuary. This morning, we saw a northern flicker out there, along with the usual house/purple finches, chickadees, and junkos. The Annas hummingbirds are sticking around, and will, I hope, continue to visit all winter. We get an occasional visit from a pair of raucous jays, who chase the smaller birds away while they peck at the seeds that have fallen onto the flower beds, but they don't linger long, and the others return fairly quickly.

My dislike of birds can be traced to my childhood, living in a big city, where the predominant bird population was pigeons (or, as I call them, 'flying rats'). Pigeons were EVERYWHERE in the city, as was pigeon poop. Flocks of pigeons would swoop down to grab at a fallen bit of hot dog bun some careless pedestrian dropped on the sidewalk, making it both difficult and unpleasant to navigate past that spot. I won't bother to go into graphic detail about pigeon droppings, other than to say "BLECCHH!". It wasn't until I got sick and stopped working that I began to see the beauty and variety of the bird life in our back yard in California, and I've been given the opportunity to see (and appreciate) an even wider range of bird species since we moved into our new home in Portland.

So, I'm now (gasp) a bit of a bird watcher myself. Who knew?

BRRRRRRRRRRRR!!

Hoo, boy. Winter has definitely arrived in Portland. Snow. Temps in the low 20's. Black ice. All of the above.

The little pond in our back yard was frozen over this morning, and the bucket I use to carry weeds up to the green waste container (filled with water by last week's rains) is now a bucket of ice. We're working to keep the bird feeders filled with black sunflower seeds, so the birds have enough food to keep them going until it warms up a bit.

I feel little abashed when I write this, but I am almost completely unused to this kind of cold weather. Even after fifteen years in New England, where winter started at the end of October and didn't end until May some years, my body acclimated itself to Northern California about five years after I moved out there, and it hasn't gotten used to this cold weather yet - not by a long shot. Luckily, I saved a bunch of sweaters and gloves and wool scarves, even after the move to California, so I have a decent supply of those garments, but I no longer have a really warm jacket. I'm not going anywhere near stores or malls until after the holidays, so I hope the temperatures moderate enough that I won't be in desperate need until early in January.

In the meantime, I'm sure grateful for central heat!

Can someone be grateful...

...when that someone is sick?

Well, duh! Of course I can be grateful, even on days when my right leg seems to have a strange and unhelpful mind of its own, or when I'm too tired to do more than empty the dishwasher and check my email before stumbling into the bedroom for yet another nap.

I remember someone saying this to me, years and years ago, and thinking how obvious and inane it was - "The most important thing you choose in your life is your attitude." Obvious? Sure. Inane? Not on your life, it ain't!

Here's the thing. I could choose to focus on all the negative stuff in my life (and believe me, that's my default mindset). I could focus on how much I miss my work, or how much I miss my friends in the Bay Area, or how much I miss being able to wake in the morning, throw on a pair of running shoes and sweats and walk a mile in fifteen or twenty minutes. Hell, I could focus on how much I miss being able to drive across town, spend an hour with a friend, and be sure I'd have the energy to stay awake and drive back home!

But if that was where I focused my attention, I'd be dead, either literally or figuratively. And dammit, I refuse to let this illness control my attitude, even though it seems to have control over my body!

So here's my Gratitude List, a few days after Thanksgiving, but heartfelt and true nontheless.

I am grateful for:

David - my caring, supportive, smart and multi-talented husband, whose quiet, strong presence gives me strength


Zack - who has grown into exactly the kind of man I hoped he would. Beside his amazing artistic talent, and his quirky sense of humor, his capacity for love and affection seems boundless.

Emily, Zack's sweetie - a lovely and talented young woman who seems to appreciate all of those qualities in him, as well, and who has made him very happy.

Families. My birth family, now down to my sister, her grown children and grandchildren. I love them! My family-in-law, including nephews and nieces and grand-nephews-and-nieces, all of whom are smart, interesting, talented and caring folks. And my family-of-choice, those amazing and wonderful friends whose presence in my life is a gift beyond words. I can't imagine my life without all of you, dear friends and family!

All of my 'teachers' - the friends and colleagues who have taught me more about how to live than any book or class could have done.

Sam and Harley - our beloved kitties, who allow us to be their staff!


And, in a strange way, I'm grateful for MS, because nothing else could have slowed my frantic pace enough to allow me the gift of being in the moment - of watching birds swoop from the trees to the bird feeders and back again, while I marvel. Or seeing a ruby-throated hummingbird, hovering and swaying as it drinks from the feeder on the back deck. Or spending time snuggling with Sam, our big, black kitty, who comes into the kitchen while I make the coffee, and yowls his desire to be picked up and petted. Before MS, I was much too focused on the next task - whether it was driving to work, or, when I was home, the emails I had to answer, or the proposals I had to write. Now, my 'task' is to get through the day, to accomplish a few, small chores or errands, and to try and be mindful of my physical limitations, but this gives me a LOT of time to simply SEE, which isn't a bad thing at all.

The Perfect Day for a Wedding

Our phone rang on Monday afternoon; it was our friend Mike, calling to ask if we were free this morning for a couple of hours. I said we were, and he dropped a small bombshell by asking if we'd join him and Stephanie, at the Multnomah County Courthouse to witness their marriage. We adore Mike and Stephanie. They're both incredibly smart and witty, with exactly the kind of wicked sense of humor we love, and we count ourselves as lucky to have such terrific friends living close by in Portland.

They started dating in 1980, and have been engaged for at least five years. Six months ago today, they moved into a gorgeous, old house in the Laurelhurst district of Portland, which is chock-full of his political and her baseball-related memorabilia. I guess getting married was a logical next-step, and they decided to do it today so they could announce the marriage to Steph's family in person at Thanksgiving.

We live a very informal lifestyle, to say the least. Most days, I shlep around in leggings and some kind of loose top, usually barefoot and always sans makeup. So it was a wee bit scary to contemplate pulling together something to wear to a wedding with three day's advance notice, to say the least. I unearthed an outfit I bought in 1998, and have only worn once (!), an intact pair of pantyhose that were hiding at the very back of my sock drawer, and a pair of shoes that could at least pretend to be 'dressy'. So I managed to pull it off, although that's about as dressed up as I can get; thank goodness we only had to go out for breakfast, not attend a black-tie affair after the ceremony.

David and I were married under the Rotunda at San Francisco City Hall, and I've decided I really like the low-key feel of a small, civil ceremony. I've done the Big Wedding (200 guests at Wedding Number One) and it is so much easier and less stressful this way.

There was a humungous, long line at the Courthouse (I guess a lot of stuff happens on Fridays), so we snuck in through a handicapped entrance around the corner from the main doors, feeling smug and smart at not having to stand in line for a long wait. Unfortunately, David was carrying his Swiss Army knife and we had a gift bag containing a box of chocolates and a bottle of champagne (no weapons or alcohol allowed in the courthouse), so he had to race back to the parking lot to stash the contraband in our car before being allowed into the courthouse. He went back to the handicapped entrance to find that the guard who let me in initially had gone off duty (of course) so he had to return to the line and inch his way back into the courthouse. We hung out in the judge's chambers, watching Stephanie conduct business on her Blackberry, telling silly stories about all kinds of stuff, and getting cell-phone updates from David as he worked his way towards the front doors of the courthouse. Luckily, the judge's 9:30 appointment was postponed, so we were able to wait for David to arrive before the ceremony began.

It was a lovely ceremony, short but warm and charming, and one of the administrative staff took a group photo (well, three group photos, actually, with each of the three digital cameras available) before we trooped out for breakfast.

After some of the worst wind-and-rainstorms I've ever experienced, the day turned out to be just gorgeous - blue skies, cool breezes and lots of bright sunshine.

A fitting - and perfect - day for a wedding!

Where did all those leaves go?

We've had some WEATHER in Portland the last few days - lots of pelting rain and high winds - accompanied by road closures, downed power lines, fallen trees and, of course, leaves. David spent an hour or so yesterday up on the roof with the leaf blower, cleaning out the gutters, and the driveway was pristine and clear when I woke from my much-needed, fatigue-fighting nap in late afternoon.

This morning, however, it's covered again.

But the biggest change is in our back yard, which was looking like the Poster Child For Gorgeous Autumnal Foliage on Saturday afternoon. This morning, it looks sad and naked. The pear tree is completely bare, and the few leaves left on the once-blazing Japanese maple are wizened and ready to drop at the slightest windy provocation. Everything, and I mean everything is covered with a thick blanket of heavy, water-sodden leaves. I think David will be out there a long time if the weather holds and the rain stays away for a few hours today.

The other interesting change (that I'm assuming is due to the season) is how quickly our bird feeders are emptying. We have one of those 'squirrel-proof' bird feeders hanging from the back deck where we can see it easily from the dining room window, and it's been visited by a host of different birds (house finches, chickadees, bush tits, to name just a few of the species we've seen and noted in a little journal we keep alongside the various bird books we've acquired). Over the summer, we needed to fill the feeder about every four or five days; now, it looks like we'll need to step up the action and fill it every two or three days. We're thinking we might need another feeder to keep up with the demand...

There's another feeder that hangs from the pear tree and isn't squirrel proof, and we've seen a small-ish squirrel wrapped around the dish at the bottom of the feeder (it looks like a mesh bucket with a dish at the bottom), looking like a Roman citizen reclining as he chows down on black sunflower seed. If I notice any orgies out there, though, there's gonna be Big Trouble. ;-)


The best change-of-season news, though, is that we're still attracting hummingbirds with our back-deck feeder; apparently, the Annas hummingbirds winter in Portland, so we should see them all year round.

It's, it's ... the LEAVES of Autumn!!

When you live in Northern California, in an urban area, you don't have to worry overmuch about autumn leaves. There are a few, of course, but nothing like the seemingly endless deluge of leaves that happens here in Portland.

We have several, large maple trees on or next to our property, a couple of dogwood trees, several smaller Japanese maple trees and a plethora of woody bushes like hydrangeas, all of which lose their leaves in the autumn. If I were a little stronger and less wobbly on my legs, I'd be out there every day with the leaf blower or a rake or a broom, sweeping them up and depositing them in the green waste bins. As it is, I've done one clean-up in our driveway in the past week and that's been it.

Since then, the maples have begun to let go. The driveway is starting to look like we've carpeted it in yellow-and-brown, and the lawn out back is almost covered with leaves. David has been working nine or ten hours a day, doing all kinds of repairs and painting a friend's condo, so he's had neither the energy nor the inclination to run the lawnmower (and it's been raining on the few days he's even considered doing that).

If the weather holds on Monday, I plan to be out there with our trusty leaf blower to start tackling the LEAVES of Autumn. Let's hope it lasts; last year I burned out the motor on the leaf blower about 3/4's of the way through the season...

Change is a good thing, right?

So I've switched to the new Blogger Beta site.


Wish me luck.

My Muse

I got email from my friend Phil last week, asking why I hadn't written anything here for a while. One of the reasons for my absence was a packed social schedule that included a visit from one of my high school friends (which was a lot of fun, but, as always, very tiring as well).

Aside from the fatigue issue, though, I realized that my 'Muse' seemed to be on vacation, or at least taking an extended coffee break -- I just didn't seem to have much of interest (even to me!) to write about. Or, if I did think of something to write about, by the time I got to my desk and logged on to Blogger, whatever I'd thought to write about ended up seeming inane or boring or just not worth the effort.

I still kinda feel that way, so I assume my Muse is out somewhere, sipping a latte and enjoying the fall foliage. Or maybe she's stocking up on Hallowe'en candy? Or raking leaves and packing them into big paper bags for the green waste pick-up in her neighborhood. Whatever she's doing, it ain't got anything to do with me!