O, The Devastation

   I can't decide which was the greater disaster, seeing the mess in Troy, with ruptured water lines undermining the city, or watching the ACM awards honoring the award winners., and annihilating what is left of the genre of country music. 

    In truth, I missed the opening part of the show, but settled in front of the tv for the bulk of the performances. I sat through what could have been the worst song ever sung, "The Shirt."  When I was a young child, I was brought to tears whenever I heard the song, "Old Shep." Of course, that was a maudlin enough tale, of most likely fictional origin. But at least it was about a man's love for an animal, his boyhood companion. But how desperate must one be to fall in love with a shirt, recount its history, and have listeners believe it is still being worn, even after a litter of kittens was born in it, with one even dying. I tend to save things, but I would have disposed of the shirt right there and then. 

  Then there was a song called "80's Ladies" with  a youngish singer recounting a lookback at all the fun and adventures the girls experienced, from the viewpoint of being "All grown up."  No kidding.

 Nelly, renowned country star, sang something. I don't know what. Following was The War and Treaty, another famed country duo who sang--I've already forgotten, or else couldn't understand. I was hoping for maybe a more traditional closing act. That was some newcomer Barbie-inspired  cutie dressed all in pink and mouthing the words to some tuneless number. Country Music has been buried on the lone prairie.

Medical Care---Or Not

 I don't needlessly complain or harass my medical providers, and I do have a rather involved medical history. Most of the doctors who treated those fairly recent conditions are no longer practicing, or withdrew from the practices I visited:  Doctors Almonte, Agrawal, Carrozza, Constantino, Goldstein, Mastrianni, Petersen, Pietracola... All of whom provided care in a satisfactory, courteous, seemingly caring manner. 

 Of late, not so much. Dr. Gupta, gastroenterologist,  admitted he was unable to perform a necessary procedure. Dr. Bloss, gynocologist, advised, following unfounded reason for surgery he recommended, that I would not need to follow up any further. (No kidding). Dr. Bourla, nephrologist,  advised in July, that I no longer needed his services, though Dr. Ubaid, neurologist, disagrees. Dr. Shuman, urologist, advised in May, that he "unfortunately" has no further suggestions and that "The girls" in his office would contact me in future.*   (No, thanks,  to that offer.)  Primary referred me to another urologist, whose earliest appointment is February 2024. Cardiologist Papaleo has evidently negated the need for any routine testing, including eeg, and mostly addresses from his computer, which is in the back of the room, and he exits in less than 7 minutes, if that. My primary, McNeil, believes that breast cancer has been over-diagnosed, though she did consent to writing a script if I wanted, and evidently sees no need for any follow-up blood labs. 

  Gastroenterology is of most concern, and is presently at  a standstill. Lesson: After you have successful treatment at the hands of a highly rated surgeon, your follow-up care and concerns are delegated to the old farts or young morons.

  * The Girls, speaking possibly on behalf of the doctor, see no difference between a finding of "may enhance" and "is enhanced."  I maintain there is indeed a difference. As did Doctors Almonte, Marshal,  and  Amirbekian, for which I underwent surgical intervention several years ago.

 Ophthalmic care is another convoluted issue. To be resolved (or not) later.

No mas!

 Enough with the sentiment and nostalgia. The  1970's are over. My attempt at preparing the retro Sweet Potato Salad ended as one might expect. I did substitute some ingredients, walnuts for pecans, and nothing for celery, as the celery in the fridge had seen better days. I will say the blend of cubed sweet potatoes with Mandarin oranges was  quite tasty, as were the walnuts and potentially the celery. If I were ever to make this dish again, I would omit the mayonnaise. I like mayo, but it made this recipe too soupy. I guess mayo was an essential back then in pretty much everything. All in all, this was probably a more nutritious lunch than a sleeve of Chocolate Peanut Butter Oreos. On a scale of 1-5, this dish rated 2; Choc/ PB  Oreos rated 5.

Revenge of the Garden Hose

 One of the things I've never liked to do is coil up the garden hose. We had various aids for this, including the self-retractable hose. I even remember Kathy Lee Gifford exclaiming about its virtues, and demonstrating how neatly it worked. It seems she didn't like that task either. It was miraculous, she said, and so it was. I bought the same hose and it worked its magic, but to dwindling degrees. The first time, swish! The next few times, much slower, and after that, the hose just lay there, lifeless as before. We had the mobile hose cart, so you could roll out the cart and use the handle to roll or unroll the hose wherever was most convenient.  I found this tiresome, attending to the needs of a hose. So we settled on the attachment to the house itself, to neatly store the hose after use. I still avoid rolling up the hose onto its designated resting place. Ugh! So I usually just leave it lying loose, shoving it under the metal ramp. . 

   Last night as I was going to bed, I looked out the front window, part of my nightly routine. I saw that the security light was on. That indicates a presence.  I turned on the outside porch light and could see that no car or human figures were  in  the driveway or at the front of the house. I stood there, thinking. Maybe an animal was on the ramp,  but I waited and the light stayed constant. The wind might be a factor, or  a branch blown down or leaning into the driveway. But that seemed unlikely; all was relatively calm. I wracked what remains of my brain, and finally, that AHA! moment. That afternoon I had been sweeping the top of the ramp and underneath it, trying to rid it of old leaves and other junk. To get the broom under the ramp, I had looped the hose onto the rails of ramp to keep it out of the way of the broom. That heretofore unrecognized object triggered the security light. Lesson learned: I should show more respect and deal with matters  properly.  P.S. Another task I dislike is following the protocol of inserting the plastic refill bag into the kitchen garbage container. I just stick it in there and shove the lid back on, but so far the garbage can has not retaliated.

 

When Boys (Ick) Ruled the Playground Games

   Marbles was the game. You could win all the marbles  by rolling your marble closest to the fence, even knocking other marbles out of the way to do so. The other option, instead of a fence was to dig a small hole in  the ground and aim your marbles into the "pot."  The older bossy boys had most of the marbles. We younger girls could play if we had  any marbles. At one point we girls came into possession of a quantity of those dull clay marbles, which I believe used to be Uncle Matt's. So we had the means to play. But those bullying boys did not like those "inferior"  marbles and they went on a campaign to rid our world of them. When those horribly icky beings won our modest little offerings, they ruthlessly collected them and dropped them off the bridge into the river. I can still recall the brains behind this cleansing; we thought of him as cruel. (He's dead now.

Breakage

   The other day, I changed a light bulb, of the  curly CFL type. I dropped it and it shattered into countless shards, large and small. Next day, while I was vacuuming the rug,  the telephone cord interfered and a small pottery vase fell on the floor and broke in half.

   In between those days, I had one of those ordinary but vivid dreams. Dave was moving some small items in the kitchen and placed a small green vase atop another dish. The vase slid off and broke. The vase, probably of depression glass, had been in the family a long time, and I've  always liked the looks of it. I felt a little bad when it broke, as did Dave, but at this point, no big deal. It was not very important, but the dream about the  broken little green vase, ordinary as it was, seemed so real that when  morning came I had to get up and go look in the kitchen to see if it was still there.   It still is, unbroken.

The Olden College Days

 We studied then what was the clinical history of psychological classification. The various levels, as I recall answering on some test or exam, were Idiot, Imbecile, and Moron. We use the term idiot inappropriately, as an insult,  to refer to "stupid" behavior or ideas to which we're opposed. We call fools imbeciles, though clinically they probably don't fit the definition. But maybe the classification of moron is underused. It seems a number of them are posing as normal or above.

 A recent visit to a doctor resulted in her saying that many diagnoses of breast cancer are "over-diagnosed." I asked her to explain and she cited "statistics" that showed not as many deaths due to breast cancer as projected following breast cancer diagnosis and treatment, with the conclusion  being that many of those who had been treated for breast cancer did not really have it. They were over-diagnosed, inaccurately  it seems. 

   But, asked I, what if the unexpectedly low incidences of deaths from breast cancer were the result of better treatments for the disease, rather than false diagnoses.   "Hmmm"

Post Script:  I can't recall a single case of a person mis-diagnosed for breast cancer, but then if they had been treated for breast cancer and are now dead, even if from another cause, who could say they had not been breast cancer positive at some point?  And why am I hearing this in a medical office? My only sister died after an almost 15 year struggle with breast cancer, when it had spread to her brain, despite vigorous treatment. I myself had a full year of 3 surgeries, chemotherapy, and radiation, followed by prescribed drugs,  for a Triple Negative horror story.  It is true each of us had to convince our doctors of our concerns, my sister too late to get early, possibly life-preserving treatment. Even back then, doctors may have been influenced by  insurance company greed to be wary of providing "unnecessary" treatment. Those entities who fund the  drivel looking into "over-diagnosing" breast cancer could do better by pouring their funding into  research and more successful treatment.  I guess it's the source of the funding that drives the final result. Those who pay have  the say.

The Early Marriage Days

 When we were first married, we both worked. I got home first so I did the cooking, most of the time. I was not an accomplished cook, but I did all right. Dave loved to eat, and never complained about the meals----except once. It was weekend lunch and the menu was hot dogs and beans.  He took one bite and actually gagged. He had never before been served Campbell's Baked Beans straight out of the can.  What could I say; that's the way my mother had served them. You heat beans!!!

Glitches Redux

 To add to the list of things that only recently quit functioning---computer chair, toaster oven, kitchen faucet spray, both  my vintage blender and electric skillet, my formerly faithful blood pressure monitor, the Window World kitchen window lowering mechanism,  a groaning dishwasher--- yesterday my favorite vintage lamp blacked out, and today, when I stopped to refuel my car at Stewart's, the gas cap fell off. I realize it can probably be re-attached, but of all the things I've taken for granted, a straying gas cap might be tops on my list. And, and and, there's more. As I was unloading my once-trusty grocery bag from my car, the same bag I've been using since the infamous plastic-bag ban, the bag the SNS employee carefully packed, much like legos, the canvas strap snapped right off, fortunately spilling only some of the contents  onto my driveway. O The Horror!