The Visible Woman...April 25, 2003

unexpected

Up this morning a little fuzzy with the driving dreams. [See yesterday.] I figure I'll go work out and then come back and accomplish something, I'm not sure what.

FFP asks me to run an errand, though. To get some tapes of TV commercials from a downtown production company and deliver them to a TV station at Steck and Shoal Creek. I shower up and get dressed and think "yeah, I'll do that then go to the club and do my workout."

I am not a good courier. I forget my intended exit on Mopac, forget which streets are one-way, etc. But I get there, get the tapes and get them to the other place by 9:45. The reason he didn't use a real courier is that the tapes weren't supposed to be ready until nine and then had to be there, at the other place by noon. Not difficult if you do it yourself, but maybe dicey with a service. FFP says adverstising is all 'checking things.' And deadlines and meeting them. The commodities are perishable. The thing advertised on the tape, in this case, will come and go.

Done with my important errand, I think, "you know, I need some court shoes and it would be so easy to stop at Karavel and see if they have any."

So, I do. I take Burnet back from the TV station and stop. I get waited on, fitted and get some. I pay more than I would on the WEB but I have them in hand. If they work well tonight, I may order another pair on the WEB. I also saw that they had a country walker in black...ooh...I need that. That would make me look less dorky on trips. But I don't try anything else on. I'll go to the WEB or stick with the brown ones. I do succumb to some New Balance socks. I call FFP from the parking lot and confess my purchase and ask if there are any other errands. He asks me to go back in and get him some Nike socks for him. They don't have any but I get some New Balance ones I think he will like. I'm on the border of M and L socks so if he doesn't....I'll wear them.

I decide to go work out. But first I go home to check on things. The pergola is going well, FFP has gotten a lot done by avoiding the errand. So...I go to the club.

It's a nice day when I arrive at Westwood. The pool looks inviting. Maybe after my workout. I do fifteen minutes or so of bike and then I do the routine described as 'upper body' by my esteemed workout consultant, our fitness director. (Heck, he has a PhD or almost one anyway. He haas actually done studies of 'two sets or three in the old lady exercise program?' or something like that. I do the routine pretty much as intended in spite of running interference with a woman and her personal trainer. These sessions appear to be as much psychological as physical and discussion of 'how to get your kid in the right programs and schools' as a workout. The duo grabbed weights I was using, jumped on a machine I was about to use. Which is fine except they have to stop before, during and after to continue these little 'heart-to-hearts.' Finally, I got finished, rode the bike twenty minues and left. No, I didn't do any ab work. A little back exercise. God, I hate ab stuff. I skip the swimming. It still looks tempting. though. Feel I needed to be doing something. But what?

I go home and eat some salad and drank water and check out the pergola progress. Going well, but slow.

Oh, and I eat a piece of salami, too. And I think I ate a banana in there somewhere.

I wanted to be productive. I did finish up a few cleaning tasks in the office. (I actually put away a box. Put it in the closet. So there is a two-square-foot space on my floor. Yeah!) I do a couple of things for Forrest, real minor office jobs. I look through the mail and play renegade stockholder for another proxy. I look at some WEB sites and I look at CNBC a bit.

One of the clean up tasks I've been doing has no visible effect on the environment around here. Justs bits and bytes on the computer. I've been cleaning up my old e-mail. Seemed like something I should do given the switch to a new provider. This task takes longer than you might think. I do want to save some of them. In some cases the e-mail I sent about my mother my mother's descent into the symptoms of Multiple Myeloma and death are my only solid record of it. Clipping the responses I got with my comments quoted is providing material for what I hope will be a little article on it. I've already presented a five minute (or so) monologue on the illness, a compression of instense notes I took while she hallucinated. Admitting and embracing her hallucinations was a way for me to deal with what was happening to her without turning away.

In October 2001, when I was away on a trip (right after 9/11 and while we were going to war in Afghanistan...remember that war...doesn't it seem worlds away?), my mother wrote to me: "Can't seem to get into the specilest [sic]. Maybe something will change. Don't worry I don't think it is life threating [sic]." Because she complained of chest pain (which was her ribs developing tiny fractures) and because she had a shadow in lung x-rays (that was probably a small, benign tumor that wasn't growing and couldn't have caused this much pain), they were sending her to a pulmonary specialist. He was going to mostly blow her off, insult her. I know. I was there when he saw her. And, heck, he was right, wasn't he? The lung wasn't a problem. Shortness of breath, amenia, infections, her pain...not his specialty. And the GP? He did his job. He sent her to a specialist! It's hard to look back at her own words and realize she was dying and we had no idea. Not just dying in the sense that we all are but dying of this disease before our very eyes.

Anyway saving these old e-mails in an orderly fashion is something I've been doing. Saving them as possible material for my writing. For example, the following excerpt would be good material for an essay on her illness or a short story using the experience.

The first half of the evening was largely devoted to making cookies and bread. She kept opening her eyes and asking how many cookies we needed and then grabbing the rail and trying to get up to make them. She 'rolled dough' only it was the sheet. (I'm hoping this desire to cook for folks isn't related to me asking her to get well for my birthday and give me a party. Only she can't remember when my birthday is.)

So, while you've been thinking "she's doing nothing but reading, working out, playing tennis" I've really been organizing to do some writing. Really.

The day drifts away. I get hungry again and have some cheese, hot sauce, chopped green onions and chips. It is about four.

The club has this thing once a month called Margarita mixed doubles. I get there early. They are actually passing out margaritas. I don't have one though. I can't do it, I can't drink and sweat in the sun. We play 'pro sets' (eight games) and switch courts and partners each time. I think I play 32 games, maybe 40. Even though I make the men (especially the young pros filling in) chase all over for balls, I get tired. But I won't be sore. My workout is working in the sense that I can play tennis without pain. My new shoes work pretty well. My feet feel a little tired but are mainly OK.

We usually have the kitchen make some fajitas for after the tennis. Initially there weren't that many people signed up so they have opted to have the willing go to Tres Amigos in Twenty Six Doors. Haven't been there in ages. I don't think others will go but four couples decide to go and FFP meets us there even though he's eaten a salad at the club. We have a nice time talking. The thing about Westwood is that everyone seems to have children. Grown daughters, son graduating from West Point, small twins. One couple doesn't have kids but they are quite young and new members---maybe twenty-eight, tops. In spite of this family focus, or maybe because of it, people aren't snooty here. It's real hard to find anyone who isn't friendly.

At home, in spite of a late hour, I work on the e-mail cleanup, read in my chair while David Letterman stumbles through an interview with Lisa Marie Pressley (and lets her sing...travesty). I feel sticky and need a shower but I don't take one so I toss and turn because I feel sticky.

How is it that I have no time to eat, to cook, to clean or, sometimes even to shower?

How is it that picking a book to read is so hard?? I know I'll get around to others but I feel like it is important to read the right ones and read them now and not waste my time. Isn't reading just an indolent pleasure? Yes, it is. And once I've picked one, I give myself over to it especially if it's pretty good. Each book inspires the need to read others, too. Either other books are mentioned or times or places or you know the same person has written many others you haven't read. Or maybe you could read a biography of the author or his journals.

a bendable posable figure I do not own...but I should don't you think?

"They also serve who stand and wait, unless they're playing tennis. "

unattributed, 20,000 Quips and Quotes edited by Evan Esar

JUST TYPING
ambling through a day
making it up
happy to be relatively
free, day after day

			unexpected Up this morning a little fuzzy with the driving dreams. [See yesterday.] I figure I'll go work out and then come back and accomplish something, I'm not sure what. FFP asks me to run an errand, though. To get some tapes of TV commercials from a downtown production company and deliver them to a TV station at Steck and Shoal Creek. I shower up and get dressed and think "yeah, I'll do that then go to the club and do my workout." I am not a good courier. I forget my intended exit on Mopac, forget which streets are one-way, etc. But I get there, get the tapes and get them to the other place by 9:45. The reason he didn't use a real courier is that the tapes weren't supposed to be ready until nine and then had to be there, at the other place by noon. Not difficult if you do it yourself, but maybe dicey with a service. FFP says adverstising is all 'checking things.' And deadlines and meeting them. The commodities are perishable. The thing advertised on the tape, in this case, will come and go. Done with my important errand, I think, "you know, I need some court shoes and it would be so easy to stop at Karavel and see if they have any." So, I do. I take Burnet back from the TV station and stop. I get waited on, fitted and get some. I pay more than I would on the WEB but I have them in hand. If they work well tonight, I may order another pair on the WEB. I also saw that they had a country walker in black...ooh...I need that. That would make me look less dorky on trips. But I don't try anything else on. I'll go to the WEB or stick with the brown ones. I do succumb to some New Balance socks. I call FFP from the parking lot and confess my purchase and ask if there are any other errands. He asks me to go back in and get him some Nike socks for him. They don't have any but I get some New Balance ones I think he will like. I'm on the border of M and L socks so if he doesn't....I'll wear them. I decide to go work out. But first I go home to check on things. The pergola is going well, FFP has gotten a lot done by avoiding the errand. So...I go to the club. It's a nice day when I arrive at Westwood. The pool looks inviting. Maybe after my workout. I do fifteen minutes or so of bike and then I do the routine described as 'upper body' by my esteemed workout consultant, our fitness director. (Heck, he has a PhD or almost one anyway. He haas actually done studies of 'two sets or three in the old lady exercise program?' or something like that. I do the routine pretty much as intended in spite of running interference with a woman and her personal trainer. These sessions appear to be as much psychological as physical and discussion of 'how to get your kid in the right programs and schools' as a workout. The duo grabbed weights I was using, jumped on a machine I was about to use. Which is fine except they have to stop before, during and after to continue these little 'heart-to-hearts.' Finally, I got finished, rode the bike twenty minues and left. No, I didn't do any ab work. A little back exercise. God, I hate ab stuff. I skip the swimming. It still looks tempting. though. Feel I needed to be doing something. But what? I go home and eat some salad and drank water and check out the pergola progress. Going well, but slow. Oh, and I eat a piece of salami, too. And I think I ate a banana in there somewhere. I wanted to be productive. I did finish up a few cleaning tasks in the office. (I actually put away a box. Put it in the closet. So there is a two-square-foot space on my floor. Yeah!) I do a couple of things for Forrest, real minor office jobs. I look through the mail and play renegade stockholder for another proxy. I look at some WEB sites and I look at CNBC a bit. One of the clean up tasks I've been doing has no visible effect on the environment around here. Justs bits and bytes on the computer. I've been cleaning up my old e-mail. Seemed like something I should do given the switch to a new provider. This task takes longer than you might think. I do want to save some of them. In some cases the e-mail I sent about my mother my mother's descent into the symptoms of Multiple Myeloma and death are my only solid record of it. Clipping the responses I got with my comments quoted is providing material for what I hope will be a little article on it. I've already presented a five minute (or so) monologue on the illness, a compression of instense notes I took while she hallucinated. Admitting and embracing her hallucinations was a way for me to deal with what was happening to her without turning away. In October 2001, when I was away on a trip (right after 9/11 and while we were going to war in Afghanistan...remember that war...doesn't it seem worlds away?), my mother wrote to me: "Can't seem to get into the specilest [sic]. Maybe something will change. Don't worry I don't think it is life threating [sic]." Because she complained of chest pain (which was her ribs developing tiny fractures) and because she had a shadow in lung x-rays (that was probably a small, benign tumor that wasn't growing and couldn't have caused this much pain), they were sending her to a pulmonary specialist. He was going to mostly blow her off, insult her. I know. I was there when he saw her. And, heck, he was right, wasn't he? The lung wasn't a problem. Shortness of breath, amenia, infections, her pain...not his specialty. And the GP? He did his job. He sent her to a specialist! It's hard to look back at her own words and realize she was dying and we had no idea. Not just dying in the sense that we all are but dying of this disease before our very eyes. Anyway saving these old e-mails in an orderly fashion is something I've been doing. Saving them as possible material for my writing. For example, the following excerpt would be good material for an essay on her illness or a short story using the experience. The first half of the evening was largely devoted to making cookies and bread. She kept opening her eyes and asking how many cookies we needed and then grabbing the rail and trying to get up to make them. She 'rolled dough' only it was the sheet. (I'm hoping this desire to cook for folks isn't related to me asking her to get well for my birthday and give me a party. Only she can't remember when my birthday is.) So, while you've been thinking "she's doing nothing but reading, working out, playing tennis" I've really been organizing to do some writing. Really. The day drifts away. I get hungry again and have some cheese, hot sauce, chopped green onions and chips. It is about four. The club has this thing once a month called Margarita mixed doubles. I get there early. They are actually passing out margaritas. I don't have one though. I can't do it, I can't drink and sweat in the sun. We play 'pro sets' (eight games) and switch courts and partners each time. I think I play 32 games, maybe 40. Even though I make the men (especially the young pros filling in) chase all over for balls, I get tired. But I won't be sore. My workout is working in the sense that I can play tennis without pain. My new shoes work pretty well. My feet feel a little tired but are mainly OK. We usually have the kitchen make some fajitas for after the tennis. Initially there weren't that many people signed up so they have opted to have the willing go to Tres Amigos in Twenty Six Doors. Haven't been there in ages. I don't think others will go but four couples decide to go and FFP meets us there even though he's eaten a salad at the club. We have a nice time talking. The thing about Westwood is that everyone seems to have children. Grown daughters, son graduating from West Point, small twins. One couple doesn't have kids but they are quite young and new members---maybe twenty-eight, tops. In spite of this family focus, or maybe because of it, people aren't snooty here. It's real hard to find anyone who isn't friendly. At home, in spite of a late hour, I work on the e-mail cleanup, read in my chair while David Letterman stumbles through an interview with Lisa Marie Pressley (and lets her sing...travesty). I feel sticky and need a shower but I don't take one so I toss and turn because I feel sticky. How is it that I have no time to eat, to cook, to clean or, sometimes even to shower? How is it that picking a book to read is so hard?? I know I'll get around to others but I feel like it is important to read the right ones and read them now and not waste my time. Isn't reading just an indolent pleasure? Yes, it is. And once I've picked one, I give myself over to it especially if it's pretty good. Each book inspires the need to read others, too. Either other books are mentioned or times or places or you know the same person has written many others you haven't read. Or maybe you could read a biography of the author or his journals.

	a bendable posable figure I do not own...but I should don't you think? "They also serve who stand and wait, unless they're playing tennis. " unattributed, 20,000 Quips and Quotes edited by Evan Esar
	JUST TYPING ambling through a day making it up happy to be relatively free, day after day

Friday, April 25, 2003