Anybody can Dance, Even Those Who Do It Weirdly

Posted on May 15, 2015 by kathryningrid

Midhun Antony claims anybody can dance. I have always thought of myself as living proof that even if every single other living creature on the planet can do it, there’s still One Who Can’t. It’s not a point of pride with me; just what I think of as an uninspiring factoid.

But he’s right. It’s unfair, despite my belief I’m being honest in claiming to be a fairly awful dancer, to say that I can’t. Even if my goal is to impress anyone, rather than merely to enjoy the activity for itself, or to express joy—surely among the highest and best reasons to dance, really—can I truthfully claim that a bad dancer is no dancer? How many times have I enjoyed, along with my much-better-dancing friends, the vision of an uninhibited exhibition of movement-to-music by a truly unskilled practitioner? The littlest of children, even those not yet able to stand without support, dance and fearlessly. That is the point! It’s not about skill and coordination or style points, or ballroom etiquette, the vast majority of the time; it’s about happiness and commitment.

A little bonus exercise is not to be sniffed at, either, I should be the first to confess.

If I’m truly so self-absorbed as to think that my dancing should be of any interest to anyone in the room but me or—given the right circumstances—any other person I am dancing to please, at the very least I should keep in mind that letting down my guard so others can have a good healthy laugh at my expense would be a tremendous gift. Some of the best moments ever recorded on film are not only those shared by the Nicholas Brothers or Rogers and Astaire, Alvin Ailey or Mikhail Baryshnikov or Judith Jamison, but also the high and low comedic gifts of attempted dance we also remember with intense fondness. Elaine Benes, I salute you! Chris Farley and Patrick Swayze, I curtsey in awe. I fall down while curtseying, of course, but I do admire your work. In fact, I’ll hazard a little wiggle of sheer glee right now, just because you all make me so happy.

What a Difference a Day Makes!

Posted on May 11, 2015 by kathryningrid

Yes, the age-old adage, “if you don’t like the weather, wait a minute,” whether Mark Twain originated it or not, is as true as ever in north Texas. Winter was generally milder than average in the metroplex, with only a couple of brief ice storms to remind us it was winter. But then, we’ve had a spate of rainstorms here this spring that must be at least close to setting some records for the region’s seasonal rainfall and low average temperatures, and certainly I can attest to the practically tropical greens and lushness of the landscape as compared to my previous 5+ years living in the area. A glance at the lake levels charts is almost comically improbable; even the small line reading “Change since yesterday” today reads “↑ 0.70 feet,” meaning that nearby Ray Roberts Lake has risen nearly 21.5 cm in under 24 hours. For a place that has languished well under normal levels for several years, being still below “full pool” as late as 11 April this year, that’s a tidy bit of change.

Even the level of Sparks Lake, also known as our front porch, has remained so high that I have had to resort to putting mosquito-repellant ‘dunks‘ designed for standing water applications on the concrete. At least now we can advertise our home as waterfront property.

The last few days have been especially showy in their showers. On Thursday night, our drive home from Dallas was merely rainy at the beginning, but the last half hour was lit with such constant sheet lightning and the soundtrack of equally omnipresent grumbling thunder that it was film-worthy. I shot 30 minutes of iPhone footage that would have given a Steadicam a seizure, but of course it’s too long to link here and would probably give my reading friends dizzy fits. Not to mention the incredible circus-like blur of lights as the rain obscured and abstracted everything, and the couple of times that waves literally engulfed the whole car, even at crawling speeds. But as there was no place to stop on the freeway for shelter, all of us simply lumbered on, determined. I did, however, shoot a couple of very brief clips at home over the weekend, as the fun continued.

Yesterday, in fact (Sunday), the local tornado warning sirens went on around 2 or 2:30 pm. They kept up their mournful moaning for well over an hour, accompanied by warnings via telephone and computer from the National Weather Service that our county was under flash flood warnings until the wee hours of today. The wind picked up quite a bit, even in our sheltered spot between a low rise toward the street and our back fence line along the small runoff ravine, where we sit pretty comfortably sandwiched between higher lots and houses on the sides. Our great oak and pear trees whispered more urgently than usual that we should batten down the hatches and keep away from the windows. The lightning and thunder that had been holding their dramatic interchange all through Saturday night and Sunday morning kept at it like a couple of elderly housemates nagging at each other without more than a moment’s pause for breath. Somewhere around 3:30 pm, I thought it prudent to quit sneaking onto the porches for a gawk at the squalling mess and hunkered down in the quietest part of the house to write until the sirens stopped and the storm abated. And it did. The worst here had stopped shortly after, the eye of the storm now past us.

We were among the most fortunate, in our safely tucked-in hideaway at home. For a glimpse at some of the nearby damage, click this link. Yes, a couple of deaths have been confirmed and plenty of damage has been sustained. It is nowhere near the levels and expanse of more famous storms and disasters around the world, but my heart goes out to those who had a harder time of it during this go-round than we have; as I’ve said many a time before, suffering is a relative thing, and one’s pain in the moment may as well be the only pain in the world. The people who were hit hard by this latest storm, whether the ones three miles down the road from us or those in other counties and across the state line, have my true sympathy, and I feel all the more fortunate for the ease of our escape.

Today, less than 24 hours later, this is what it looks like in our idyllic little backyard. Blue skies, bright sun, thriving garden, and receding puddles where the walking path had been a fast-flowing stream. I look at it in amazement and scratch my head a little. The weather forecast tells me to expect rain tomorrow and the next day, and thunderstorms again for a full week afterward. All I can do is keep living my life and see what comes.

Meanwhile, I need to get back out to the garage and figure out how to reset our water heater, because the storm knocked it out of commission.

Motherly Love

Posted on May 10, 2015 by kathryningrid

It’s no secret that I love my mothers. I post about both the wonderful woman who carried me into this world and raised me and the marvelous woman who joined in mothering me when her son and I became partners for life. No amount of Mother’s Day posts, no matter how heartfelt, can tell anyone who doesn’t already know it how important these two superb people have been, and will always be, in my heart and in my daily existence.

Even telling you that I had to compose this post entirely from scratch twice, thanks to the joys of hiccuping technology, and was still willing to do it, can’t convey the height and depth of my affection and respect, of my love for them both. Though, if you know how technologically inept I can be, the latter might come close.

I’m here, though, to say thanks not only to Mom W and Mom S, with sincere gratitude and delight, but also to the innumerable stars in the sheltering sky of motherhood. Those who conceived (with a bit of help) and carried (with, or without) children and raised them from infancy. Those who have raised, or helped to raise, others’ children. People of all ages and socioeconomic levels; the educated and the self-taught; the mild-mannered and the most colorful characters on earth. Nature doesn’t guarantee aptitude or attitude, nor does nurture: like many people raised by outstanding, wise, and loving mothers, I did not feel the call to motherhood as a biological imperative myself, and of course many who do are not granted the opportunity.

I think men can mother. Youth can mother age. Persons with no genetic or legal relationship can mother. Anyone with the commitment to bettering the lives of those around them who may have a moment—or a lifetime—of need may be motherly material. I think that the truism “it takes a village to raise a child” isn’t far off the mark, but might be interpreted more broadly than some would do. History has handed us so many examples of familial bonds and gifts that extend far beyond an individual marriage or household or lineage that it surprises me we don’t celebrate the motherly instinct in any and everyone who is willing and able to exercise it for the good of others in their life’s path.

So I say Thank You with my whole heart to my beloved mothers. And I must add my deep appreciation, too, to every next-door mom, teacher mom, sports team coach mom, lady at the local convenience store mom, psychiatrist mom, librarian mom, delivery truck driver mom, classmate mom, and dive bar mom who ever counseled, taught, comforted, held, humored, read to, chastised, fed, and showed patient kindness to the rest of us when the time arose. My “village” has been a grand one, and good mothering is one of the best reasons it is so.

Creeping Up Appearances

Image

Body Dysmorphia Dolly vs. Me, Unvarnished

Posted on May 7, 2015 by kathryningrid

I am not beautiful by worldly standards. I have all of the requisite parts to meet the various averages and norms, am reasonably symmetrical and moderately well proportioned, and have no extreme [visible, wink-wink: happy weirdness doesn’t count here] anomalies that draw attention to themselves or, worse, make other people start in sudden horror and look away with a shudder. I am ordinary, reasonably well ‘put-together’ in terms of neatness, cleanliness, clothing, and so forth, and I have an in-house hairdresser who gets consistently good reviews not just from me, his wife, but from others who marvel that a person as musically, academically, and otherwise gifted as he has yet another impressive and artful skill. But I am not, nor have I ever been, what the rest of the world would consider distinctively beautiful.

My partner considers me beautiful, and I not only revel in that because I know it’s true that he loves me inside and out, but I also feel beautiful in knowing it. That still doesn’t make me the universal Ideal. I am just incredibly fortunate to know that I’m “beautiful” in the ways that matter to me. I’m also human enough to have plenty of little things I’d happily ‘upgrade’ if able: from the mole right in the middle of my face to the jiggly bits around my upper arms and midriff and right on down to my not very glamorous stubby fingers and toes, I can imagine all sorts of ways I could be more like at least my own ideal image of me. While I am working, very gradually, on better exercise and (gasp!!!) eating habits to improve the tone and fitness parts of the equation, I am not so troubled by most of the other perceived imperfections that I feel compelled to fiddle with them. This is just me, sitting here and typing at my desk. Me.

Me, unvarnished. Not bad, for all that—silly selfie smile and all!

Nowadays, granted, I hear nearly as much chatter about body dysmorphia and low self-esteem and the evils of the societal pressures, particularly those coming through the commercial and mass media, that feed them, but I still see a remarkable amount of obsession among people of all ages with perfecting appearance in whatever ways each considers ideal. It still frightens me most of all when anyone goes to extremes to meet others’ ideals, for I hope obvious reasons. So I’m none too thrilled to see that the mutant-looking dolls long favored by the young, or at least those who buy for them, are still prevalent and imitated to such an extent by so many.

I can’t help but wonder what would happen if there were a counterbalance of, or even a momentary appearance on the market of, Truth in Labeling/Advertising consciousness when it comes to these beauties. I imagine a Beautiful Bobbye doll and [her] many lovely iterations stopping people in their tracks in the toy aisle for new reasons: picture the same “perfect” dolls now packaged honestly as Defective Breast Implant Bobbye, Collagen Overload Bobbye, Botox Paralysis Bobbye, Internal Organ Displacement Bobbye, Heroin-Chic Turned Addict Bobbye, and of course the ever-popular Acid Reflux Sufferer, Early Denture Wearer, & Coronary Infarct Death as Consequences of Bulimia Bobbye.

It’s too much to ask, of course, even to have anything like a balance of dolls with aught besides pink plastic skin and long, straight or wavy hair, never mind the idea of having great ones with visibly not-so-average qualities—like, say, a prosthetic leg, ears that stick out, albinism, asymmetry, flippers rather than arms, a mole in the middle of the face, club foot, or overbite—that are simply part of their good old normal selves just as they can be in real life. Wonder what that might do?

All I can say for certain in my own experience is that it’s wonderful to have a doll of a partner who finds me the right kind of Beautiful for his taste and, best of all, to feel quite fine about myself whether I’m looking in a mirror or not. I might decide to fool around with a hair coloring experiment, because I have silver hair envy and given my genetics, won’t ever get much more than the sprinklings of grey I’ve sprouted here and there among the mousy browns for nearly thirty years. I do bother to put on a little streak of eyeliner on the rare special occasion. I wear high heels sometimes to enjoy being taller and pretend I’m longer legged if I feel like it, and I sport earrings almost always because in my much younger days, lots of people thought anyone with really short hair and a fairly flat chest was male, so I got in the habit to avoid the confusion.

Now, of course, males, females, and others wear their hair any length, embrace jewelry from their ears to their toes, or none, wear kilts and sarongs and skirts and pants at will, and indulge in eyeliner or guyliner, tattoos, showy stockings, platform shoes, hats and updos and shaved heads, all while being as masculine, feminine, or other as desired. And I don’t any longer care in the least whether anyone knows me as one or the other, myself, any more than I really care whether they find me beautiful on the outside or entirely different from their taste.

I would far prefer to be thought worthwhile as I am, however I happen to be, as a person. Maybe I can thank my childhood environment where I was free to design and build little houses in the bookshelves and out of empty boxes instead of playing with uninteresting (to me) dolls inside them, and then graduate to building forts in the woods with real, flawed, beautiful playmates populating them. Maybe I did benefit, after all, from exposure to that artificial kind of beauty popularized and supported by plastic dolls and the people who emulate them, youthfully testing their sanity and happiness or lack thereof and shrinking from it. I have my faults, but they can’t stop me from feeling beautiful if I don’t let them.

Going Viral, Part 2: The End of Civilization as We Thought We Knew It

Posted on May 4, 2015 by kathryningrid

Digital illo from photos: Self-Destruct Mode

Self-destruct mode is easy. Living wisely is hard.

While I’ve been having my tawdry fever-dream worries about unequal health care and expanding populations competing for dwindling resources amid name-calling politicians, suspicious citizenry, and fearful doomsday announcers, there are plenty of other aspects that nag at me as parts of the larger knotty problem. (Aside: is it knotty of me to point that out in the first place?) How do we reconcile the desire for a well-balanced, healthy, safe, educated, and relatively comfortable populace with those ever growing numbers?

This planet is finite. I hear highly educated people saying that we have both the brain power among the best of our species to make our equally finite natural resources capable of stretching to serve the needs of the whole world’s population. I hear some of these same bright lights claiming that the potential is here and now ready to enable humans to live far longer than the current average. I’ve no delusions of mathematical or scientific adequacy, let alone grandeur. But my limited powers of discernment and logic make me skeptical of the veracity and practicability of these claims; even more so, dubious of their desirability. Explain to me why I’m supposed to be so excited to live 300 years.

I’m not too enthralled with the idea of outliving many of my beloved family, friends, and favorite connections, whether the latter are places or experiences that eventually become outmoded or impossible for any reason. Not crazy about having to expand my thinking to find ways to occupy and better myself for not just decades but tens of them. And where’s the appeal in living a zillion years if I have to work three-quarters of a zillion to keep myself in milk and cookies? I have little faith that the American Social Security system will sustain me through the span of a now-typical life in comfort, let alone the attenuated sort being proposed. Where is the food, water, shelter, and acreage necessary to support more of us for so much longer going to be found? If I don’t die for lack of some such thing, will I languish in boredom until I wish I could die? No, really, I’m asking.

If even a sizable handful of humans live that long, I’m inclined to think their wish for such expansive longevity has less to do with all of the additional goodness they can shower on the world and its inhabitants than with how much more they believe the world and all of its inhabitants can do for or give to them. If even a couple of those millegenarians succeeded, I don’t imagine them skipping around the globe and tossing vials of AIDS cures like rose petals out to the milling crowds of children who have been born infected, or composing chorales so mystically entrancing that everyone in earshot will suddenly burst into united song and lay down their enmities, forgotten for eternity. I have more of a pessimistic image of them spending their length of days and years figuring out ways to acquire, win, or steal more, to hoard more, use more, and waste more—without being called to account for it all. Oligarchy is the longest socioeconomic tradition I can discern in human history, and I don’t think any opportunist able to spend more years perfecting that pursuit would likely be inclined to do otherwise. In fact, I would guess that those best able to push their way first in line to receive the treatment and support it will take to live 300 years will already be wealthier than the vast majority.

So what might we get? A rebellion from the planet’s resources themselves, perhaps, like the accelerated depletion of space for the competing needs of farming, manufacture, and residence that outstrip the miniaturization and optimization of those physical systems. What happens is not inevitably so, but historically speaking, it’s typically competition and division. Somebody wins, and more somebodies, both human and other, animate and not, lose. And, also in the long historical tradition, it’s the rich and privileged who win and the poor and disadvantaged who lose. No matter what you think of Darwin and evolution, by the way, there’s plenty of recorded and even remembered history to demonstrate that riches and privilege are no more a guarantee of moral fitness and communal palatability than poverty or lack of resources ever proved that one was inherently rotten or nasty.

Do we just lie back and let chance decide everyone’s fate, with a good shove from the encouraging hand of whoever can afford it to favor their own interests? Sounds to me like a good starter recipe for fomenting an increased appetite for eugenics and eventual genocide. I would hope that we could learn to prefer a taste for a good, balanced stew of self-restraint, collective and collaborative work for the widest benefit, compassion for the weak, and the kind of independence that’s less about cache-building and stockpiling and fortresses, more about how each of us can supply more of our own needs without denying others’, and how one person’s brilliance can be harnessed to shed light on the widest possible sectors of life.

If we’re too preoccupied with how to get other people to conform to our beliefs and ideas, how to keep our Stuff safe from anyone else using or benefiting from it, and how to make more room for more and better Stuff solely for ourselves, none of this is going to happen. I tend to think that few of us who are safe and well-fed and educated and privileged spend enough mindful time recognizing that we are so only because of all the other living beings who work and sacrifice to make it possible. I can’t fix basic household plumbing. I can live without it, I expect, but probably only until I start to get too cold, hungry, scared, ill, weary, or lost to manage one more trip to the nearest stream for semi-safe drinking water or one more trip to a quiet spot where I can relieve myself far enough from the same drinking stream. I can’t find my way from my own front porch to where my spouse works without constantly consulting GPS, so getting from home to the nearest place I could safely forage for food not tainted by the traffic and household waste of suburbia would be quite the stretch indeed, especially on foot. I rely on so many others to keep me alive and functional that I can’t even wrap my brain around the gap between my abilities and the comfort in which I live, and I suspect that most other middle-class persons, never mind the much-maligned One Percenters, would struggle in the same way.

Seems like an opportune point in our history to pause and reflect on why it is not only a benevolence but a necessity that we do our best to feed, clothe, educate, heal, and make very good friends indeed with the rest of our kind, and perhaps most of all, those we too easily forget to think of as our kind at all. We’ll pay for the privilege one way or another. I, for one, would rather do so by choice and with the hope of friendship as its basis than by force and in fear, knowing that I have stepped on too many backs on my way upward to have hope of anything in the end besides a very, very long fall.

I’m feeling better already, just thinking about it.

Going Viral, Part 1: The Texas Sore Throat Massacre

Posted on May 3, 2015 by kathryningrid

I’m sorry if I breathed on you. I was unknowingly the “I” of the storm. Patient Zero. One hand on the door knob; ten thousand infected. The maker of monsters, incubator for incubi. Thankfully, I have not yet come across a single one of my hundreds and thousands of contacts throughout this winter who was evidently poisoned into illness through contact with me. I never had any of the usual indicators of being contagious during the whole time I had my various and numerous waves of feeling lousy: no fever, no evidence of strange-colored, pungent crud emerging from anywhere in or on my person…unless you count the slightly hallucinatory character of my thoughts in their natural state. My doctors, when I finally saw them, didn’t seem to think I had been particularly dangerous.

So I wasn’t quarantined. I didn’t get hermetically sealed in a makeshift NASA bubble-style ICU. I didn’t even get quite miserable enough to go to the doctor with my complaints until about ten days ago, despite having felt uncharacteristically unwell so many times through the winter, when I generally manage to go the whole year without suffering more than, at most, one cold. I just dragged myself around with a wan little, pasted-on smile.

But here’s the thing: that’s how Bad Stuff can get passed around. Not every little germy critter that sneaks its way into our bodies, even in this very knowledgeable, clever day and age, is necessarily that easy to spot, let alone to treat. Just because modern medicine can recognize so many more diseases and injuries and conditions than previous generations knew doesn’t mean that every medically trained person everywhere would recognize even the majority of them quickly and easily, never mind how unlikely any of us commoners are to notice and understand them ourselves. So for all I know, while I thought I was being the appropriate combination of careful for others’ safety and stoically dedicated to keeping up my own commitments during the whole fun winter, I might as well have been opening the door to unleash Pandora’s Pandemic. I might have been Typhoid Mary the Second.

Let me be clear about a couple of other things, too, though.

First, I grew up thinking that the nickname of Mary Mallon was as good an epithet for a vile and deliberate criminal mastermind as any. But in more recent years I’ve had reason to revisit that idea and wonder if she mightn’t possibly have been as much victim as villain, after all. The current political climate of preferring divisive self-righteousness and sniffy dudgeon on all sides of any issue about all of the evils perpetrated, always, by Them, not Us, makes it remarkably hard to establish and enforce any policies that do any genuinely positive things to make societal problems any better—poverty, education and healthcare being always top of the list. They’re always somebody else’s fault and everyone else’s problem. I can easily imagine a modern plague getting the better of this entire country as much because we refuse to cooperate with each other and pay attention to some basic survival instincts and practicalities as because anything were especially virulent or unusual.

If we refuse to converse and cooperate, we have no one to blame but our own desire not to be subservient to any greater good. The law of unintended consequences visits its ugly repercussions on us all at times, and most of all when we are busy wishing everybody who isn’t in our happy little 100%-shared-view groups would just stay quiet and out of the way.

Reality works quite differently, as history should have taught us all long ago. If, for example, (a) we don’t provide health care for the indigent/impecunious and (b) they become ill but must find some way to pay for health care, then (c) those able to do so will continue to work when ill. They have no other clear way to pay bills, feed families, and get tasks done than to do the work themselves as always. If (d) the only kinds of work that marginalized populations tend to be able to get are in servitude, then (e) their work will most often be in service work like hourly hire positions as housekeepers, janitors, maintenance workers, food service employees, day laborers, child care workers, and personal health assistants in private homes, nursing care or rehab facilities, and hospitals.

That’s right: if we don’t take care of the poor unless they pay, they will continue to work as long as they can drag themselves there, and the work they do is often both the lowest paid—where, as a bonus, it takes longer to earn enough, while sick, for their own care—and the highest social contact-oriented in all of society. If we want to be truly Dickensian, we can repeat the Typhoid Mary solution as well and imprison the ill to keep them from working; at least in that instance, we can make the choice to either care for that new prisoner or risk his/her infecting the prison population, which again in Dickensian terms could “decrease the surplus population,” but of course containment will remain an ever-growing issue, if the prisoners are dying in droves and the staff either succumb or, more likely, refuse to return.

Meanwhile, let’s just imagine, as some folk are inclined to do, that the majority of the poor anywhere are illegal immigrants and layabouts who only take jobs away from natural-born citizens and live as criminals by choice. We certainly wouldn’t want to either train and motivate any natural-born citizens who are layabouts to do any of these highly desirable jobs that have been stolen from them or, perish the thought!, educate and give incentive to both groups. Thankfully, we have a whole crew of people in many sectors of the political realm working hard to see that there’s plenty of money allocated to such progressive and humane and productive activities as developing larger PACs and private donation coffers to better control election results, and keeping business strong in the blessed US economy by letting larger and larger mega-corporations swallow up dwindling independents until they resemble nothing so much as a snake that has snacked on a water buffalo. I know that I, for one, am greatly relieved that we are nationally so opposed to monopolies, or I might mistakenly think they were popping up by the dozens. It’s also comforting that the same herd of politicos of all stripes have among their numbers plenty who think that the best way to finance such boons to humanity is to cut budget waste in areas like state funded universities, social services, and other massive boondoggles like universal health care. Clearly, educating, mediating, and healing larger groups of people to interact and live in good health, productivity, and harmony is an evil conspiracy.

You could say that feeling unwell makes me, unlike the hardworking poor, prone to lying around and getting irritable, misanthropic, pessimistic, snarky, and critical of the state of this so-called Union. I certainly won’t argue if you accuse me of thinking we’re a lot of selfish, under-informed, entitled rich people and a counterbalance of too many people who can’t support themselves and their families with the paltry resources left for them after the top feeders have had their fill. If, as some social commentators and economists and even scientists claim, the concept of surplus population and limited resources is a fallacious or at least far from inevitable construct, since we theoretically have the brain power to make what already exists on this planet into resources and better distribute them, then I can think of few better, more immediate, or more visible places than health care, civility, and education in which to begin this process. And I can’t think of any valid excuse for anyone who believes in the value of a single human being not believing in the potential value of each human being and thinking all worthy of the effort. Good citizenship and care for others should not be a partisan Issue.

Knowing thus full well that we’re all capable of being stupid, lazy, entitled, paranoid, or just plain bad (just read or listen to the news, if you’ve somehow forgotten this), I still don’t think we should just assume that anyone is any or all of those. Isn’t it better to encourage and defend kindness, generosity, trust, humility, respect for differences, and joy in our commonalities?

Even I, at my most crabby old complainer moments, think it worth a try to do better. To be better. I would hope others might think me worth the effort.

Full Medical Coverage

Posted on May 1, 2015 by kathryningrid

I told you that I’ve had medical stuff on my mind lately. One of the reasons is that, among my collection of Adjunct Sisters (you didn’t know that was a Thing, did you? It is, and a very important one at that.), one member is battling a disease I’d never even heard of until her doctors diagnosed her: Neuromyelitis Optica (NMO) or Devic’s Disease. Not funny, as you can tell if you look at the link. But the lady I know who is learning firsthand what that ugly condition is, she is funny. She’s fabulous in so many ways, and not least of them is her wildly adorable sense of humor, one of the many characteristics that has endeared her to our family since she joined the gang years ago as a friend and sometimes college-roommate of both of my younger sisters and laughed and loved her way into the whole family’s hearts.

So when I send her love and “advice,” since I am ill (no pun intended)-equipped to offer her anything of medical value, I try to give her, if not a belly laugh, at least a little smirk of silliness to help distract her way through the tough times. Today’s topic was medical masks and the myriad purposes they can serve. Perhaps those of you undergoing health challenges of your own can benefit from this utterly useless but well-meant meandering as well. And I do mean well. Forthwith! Here’s what I sent her today:

I think you know that Sister #3 is sharing your email updates with the other three of your sisters here, and I hope that you don’t mind terribly, because it’s so important for all of us to know what’s up with you and what we can be studying on your behalf and all of that. And of course, keeping you extra tightly in our arms, interwebbian though they may be. At least the latter makes us sound like friendly aliens, which of course is exactly what we are. You’ve known that all along.

Rituxan [the treatment proposed by her medical care team], as I understand it, is a chemotherapeutic drug. With that, I would guess it means that the intent is to kill off targeted invasive tissue, like those lesions of yours. I would also assume, especially with the liver toxicity warnings, that it means your immune system will be working extra-extra hard while you’re being treated, so I say, don’t be shy about watching out particularly vigilantly for your own health and protection during all of this time, whether it’s fending off a “mild” cold or dealing with any infusion side effects. Go ahead and take any old extreme prophylactic measure if your mood or the occasion warrants it.

Those who love you can and will support you in this adventure of yours if you let them learn how to be truly on your team by keeping them as informed as they can handle; I’m betting that those who do care about you deeply know or guess much more than they let on both that this is serious business and that it’s very stressful for you. No doubt everyone has frustrations and impatience that are surely exacerbated by seeing what stress you’re under. I can’t imagine there are too many parents, for example, no matter what the relationship with their kids, who don’t get a little extra crazy when they think their child is under attack and they can’t do that much about it.

As for protection, I can’t speak to the medicinal side of it, but I can offer my two (or two hundred) cents about some practical/tactical issues for protecting yourself from a few flying germs, and possibly, from a few unwanted attentions during the treatment and recovery process. Or how to get more attention, if that’s what you need.

In one word: masks. Medical masks aren’t as commonly used in the US as they maybe should be when what’s floating around us in our breathing air—whether of our making or someone else’s—poses a danger. Asia has been much more forward-thinking on this particular medical front, having had a couple of national crises with flus and other public health problems that resulted in some remarkably fashionable fashion shows, cultural events, and general public expressions of the usefulness of the mask.

A quick web search offers a wide range of options in this regard, and you may choose to consider using some of them either merely while hanging around in the clinic or hospital where you get your doses of Rituxan or as ways to visibly express your current state of being so you don’t have to make constant update reports to everybody when you’re already tired. If you want to go classic, there’s always the familiar rectangular style but with the slight upgrade of some dainty pastel colors for a little fashion flair. The shape and texture tell me that if you want to go classic but super cheap you could always find some vintage style maxi pads and tie them on around your head. This would, of course, have the bonus effect of startling others into leaving you alone.

For the classic style with, well, more style, you can find lots of fashion prints online, or you could do as has many a stylish stagecoach robber or gang member of yore, and use your standard medical mask with a bandanna or scarf artfully covering it. This could provide an added benefit in making the nice people at the admitting desk respect you more, and possibly feel compelled to offer you a sudden, steep discount on your treatment, although eventually this latter effect could be hard to defend in court if the security cameras in the facility happen to show you in a poor light.

Perhaps a more glamorous treatment of the above effect, and with good germ-averse coverage as well, this little combo can instantly turn you into the health-conscious chef/superspy you’ve always dreamt you could be.

While designed to wear one at a time, these babies have the obvious secondary option of being combined as a uniquely-you bra or swimsuit after you’ve recovered from your illness, and for those of the younger set, the advantage of those screw-top central covers for infant-nursing convenience. Or a hot new pole-dancing uniform, should that be preferred.

Sometimes just affecting a more cuddly mien (or meow) can help one to feel more cuddly. A touch of ‘kawaii,’ that delicate cuteness our Japanese friends treasure so deeply, could be just the solution. Hello Kitty is a good choice, although I personally would endorse the Hello Miss Kitty line in deference to my favorite writer-artist.

There are lots of other cute options out there if you like the idea of others comforting you with a gentle pat on the head or scratch behind the ears, or perhaps a handful of immunity-boosting kibble.

When you’re finding it hard to smile and put on a show of concern for your normal beauty regime, you can opt for the Marilyn look. Whether you choose Monroe or Manson is up to your taste and your mood, naturally.

Other expressions may be more appropriate for some occasions than others. I like the bronze hat with which this is shown, as you can use it to bonk people over the head smartly if they should refuse to respect your feelings with appropriate alacrity. An alternative version of the hat would of course be one like the legendary bowler sported by Oddjob, who knew how to handle disrespect very directly and succinctly as well.

Perhaps a little facial hair would serve to embolden you or divert attention from your sense of feminine vulnerability? Here’s your mask!

For those who might prefer to project other ideas than mere germicidal ones, there are numerous elegant choices on the market. Or the black market, depending on how other those ideas may be. The shaven head is not only a good-looking addition to this particular mask format but also offers an excellent location for attaching a temporary thought balloon if you have something on your mind but aren’t sure just how to say it aloud.

Just want to embody a fierce opponent to your symptoms? Or to the nosy parkers who insist on offering medical advice like mine? A good wild beastie muzzle is sure to get you fired up and ready for battle.

And you should never underestimate the versatility and expressive power of a full face mask, if you want nothing more than to keep your real facial expressions to yourself, along with the veil of separation from the viral vicissitudes of the world. A traditional Plague Doctor mask can be ideal for some persons, but there are numerous other beautiful variants out there.

This one comes complete with eye patch in addition to the full-face coverage, a plus for optical injury and illness care, and remarkably self-explanatory facial presentation that says, “Yes, I’m feeling Fabulous, thank you, and I do so appreciate your contribution to the beauty of my day today!”

Well, that’s enough high-powered medical advice for today. If I can ever be of actual support, I hope you’ll let me know, but in the meantime, I wish you amazingly speedy and thorough healing, and lots of love and laughter along the way. All of you!

Hordes of Hoards

Posted on April 27, 2015 by kathryningrid

I just had some heartwarming reminders of how wealthy I am and how rich most of us are, without even thinking about it much of the time. First, there was this odd item I came across on a fashion/shopping site that startled me. “R13 Denim & Plaid Combo Vest.”

Saks Fifth Avenue Photo: R13 Denim & Plaid Combo Vest

Photo from Saks Fifth Avenue online: R13 Denim & Plaid Combo Vest.

Available at Saks Fifth Avenue for $695. Yes. Now, imagine this: one could buy a denim shirt + a plaid one at the local thrift store for a combined hundredth of the price (yes, it can still be done, with relatively little hunting), tear off the sleeves and lower portions of both, layer them together, and give the remaining $680+ to the poor, many of whom can’t afford a single one of the thrift store shirts. If a few people who wanted to buy the SFA garment did the latter instead of, or even in addition to, buying the Saks combo for themselves, what might the world look like then? Better dressed at more price points, I’ll wager. My personal taste would argue for not doing any of the ripping and faux-aging of clothes, as I live a life wherein my clothes get naturally beat up more than quickly enough for my taste, but that’s irrelevant to this train of thought.

Am I declaring Saks Fifth Avenue or people who shop there terrible? Certainly not. For one thing, I know plenty of people of moderate-to-massive wealth who are incredibly thoughtful and generous in their philanthropy, regardless of how they spend on themselves. Today I have been wearing a brand name denim dress, still in pristine condition, that I bought at one of the aforementioned thrift stores for $5 USD several years ago because someone well-to-do enough to own and no longer need it donated it while it was still in great shape for further use. Even major businesses, those often characterized as heartless, soulless, and solely dollar driven, can be usefully attentive to the needs of the larger world at times, and if they didn’t make those large amounts of money in the first place, how would they give away any such amounts of largesse?

Am I ranting against materialism because I despise wealth or hate acquisitive people? Far from it. If you’ve been around this blog for more than two minutes, you know I’m a highly dedicated magpie myself, loving Things and Stuff, and sometimes, the shinier and more pointlessly beautiful the better. Nature herself is great at promoting such things, and if you can open your eyes and mind to the view, even the urban ‘wasteland’ or the middle of a massive landfill can offer amazing perspectives on color, texture, pattern, and any number of other sensory attractions that comprise what a person might perceive as beautiful and even useful. But why should it all be consigned to the landfill, then, or just as sadly, to hidden stashes and caches of forgotten junk in our homes and offices and storage spaces? One person’s trash, as it’s said….

On top of the commercial reminder I fell upon today, my friend Switters recently put up a couple of fantastic posts about dealing with the aftermath of getting, keeping, and trying to part with large quantities of the Stuff of life, and I was moved to revisit my own experiences of that process. His commenter Jenny’s recommendations are outstanding. I’ve done most of what she suggests myself, and with great success. Somewhere along the line I imagine I’ve posted about it here, too, but it’s never an outdated topic among us rich folk, we who have anything more than barely enough. And I have learned—most importantly, for me—that decluttering and reviewing my belongings and responsibilities is an ongoing process. I’ll never stop needing to ‘rinse and repeat‘ periodically so that the big buildup never gets overwhelming for me. My original successful foray into the practice has made every subsequent one that much easier and more desirable.

I did learn from my mother and other influential family members and friends that no matter how high the sentimental value of a Thing, it’s increased rather than diminished by use. If Mom had kept her best china and silver like untouchable trophies for Special Occasions only, I’d have been terrified of using them, and I would have missed out on innumerable events that gave them additional mnemonic value through my own experiences. So what if a plate gets chipped or a sterling spoon gets bent? That in itself may add story, character, and relevance to the object. Otherwise, it’s just taking up physical and psychic space while waiting for Specialness that might never happen. So the Venetian wine decanter here holds mouthwash right now, because it comes off of the shelf where I forget it that it even exists to occupy the bathroom counter where, if I’m honest, it’ll get seen and enjoyed much more: every morning and evening at the least.

The great Venetian Mouthwash Decanter!

Being a highly visual person, while decluttering I’ve clung particularly to the strategy of documentation-before-disposition and photographed—digitally only, to avoid adding photos to the Stuff already requiring management (talk about Unintended Consequences!)—every little thing in great detail, preferably ‘in situ‘ or as I remembered loving or using it most, before parting with it. What I discovered: out of the hundreds, maybe thousands, of things I’ve given away or sold or discarded in the years since my first great household purge, I can think of literally two or three that I’ve ever subsequently missed, let alone replaced. The latter, upgraded, of course. I can barely remember any times I’ve even actually looked at those memory-jogging photos. Knowing that they’re available should I become wistful is enough. For a sentimental softie like me, that was a shocker. Definitely a lesson well worth learning.

A peripheral item that turned out to be helpful to me is my recollection of what meant a great deal to me in years past: my grandmothers were both dedicated to the idea that anything they wanted us grandkids to treasure, they gave us when they were still around to tell us the stories and help us appreciate the context, so that there was a much greater chance we’d invest equivalent interest in their beloved belongings. I don’t even still own all of those items; much as I appreciated the gifts, it was the interaction that gave them the most meaning, and so the memories are the most significant part of the package. Any of those things that were part of that kind of transaction I in turn passed along to treasured people—niece, nephews, beloved friends, neighbors, and former students who became family—with the same story attached, and my own layer of the experience added on. The delight with which these are received is the center of the gift, and makes it irrelevant if they are, in turn, passed on to yet other dear ones, because the items become connectors of history and community that far surpass the inherent value of any of the objects.

That was the bottom line, for me. The realization that what I have loved most in any object is its emotional content and its connection to important people and events in my life makes the keeping of the objects less necessary than the honoring of the love they’ve contained. I will continue to buy, accept, and bear the caretaker burdens of Things. But I think it’s safe to say that the collection will continue to be more sharply curated, limited, and specialized with the passing of time and changes in my values and occupations, too. I have found that some of the beauty in objects arises from their not having cost much or taken a lot of care over the years. I love having my drawing and writing tools organized and readily available, but I don’t much care to store them in lead crystal vases and leather-bound boxes. A clean soup tin does very nicely. And in a pleasing nod to magpie-ism, tin cans are shiny. For the double win.

Photo: Shiny Objects Holding Other Objects

Shiny objects holding other objects. Bonus points.

Party Crashing Parson

Posted on April 26, 2015 by kathryningrid

At some point, romance is the catalyst of many a fall from grace. The higher the starting point, the more spectacular the tumble can be. Of course, some people on this goofy planet are just constitutionally unable to be graceful, no matter what the circumstances. Me, for example. But being sympathetic doesn’t mean I’ll let anyone else off the hook over it. Good material for silly stories don’t grow on trees, you know.

Art-Colored Glasses

Original poetry, essays, artworks, photographs & musings on whatever moves me…

Category Archives: Human Nature

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Going Viral, Part 1: The Texas Sore Throat Massacre

Full Medical Coverage

Hordes of Hoards

Party Crashing Parson

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