Travel on my mind

 Having knee surgery does not lend itself to travel.  Hell, it's sometimes too painful to walk out the front door and get a whiff of fresh air, let alone hobble down corridors in an airport. But even without the ways and means, the desire is always there. 

Sometimes I stop myself from looking at hotel websites when I get the "too-long-in-the-house-jitters" but usually I succumb and indulge in the pleasure of vicarious living. Mind you, I don't usually look at hotels I can actually afford (where's the fun in that?) so it is all fantasy and I can live with that.  What's the harm in checking for availability at the Hotel Plaza Athenee in Paris or the St. Regis in Rome?  Seeing the Christmas trees in the lobbies, the fine dining options, the $2500 per night suites with outstanding views, it all makes me happy and not too envious of those who can afford it. But I do wonder: if you can afford that price, what do you look at and drool over? 

The answer is this: you google "worlds most expensive hotel rooms" and you get a look at suites around the world that cost upwards of $30,000 a night, all the way to $150,000 for an underwater hotel in the Maldives.  But seriously, looking at photos of those incredibly pricey places, they all look like hotel lobbies, not rooms. They are huge, yes, and have great views and wonderful amenities (private butlers, private chefs, free massages, free booze) but they don't look as inviting as the $3,000 per night room at the Four Seasons in New York.

Hey, a girl can dream, right?  And a girl can scale back that dream to a $200 a night room in a cozy hotel in Oregon or Chicago or along the Mendocino coast.  As the knee heals, so my travel world will turn.

The Mess We're In

Not only are we experiencing wars, terrorist attacks and devastating natural disasters, we now have an evangelical christian as House speaker.  And this means an evangelical christian is second in line to the presidency.  If Biden and Harris are assassinated or somehow vanish from the planet, Mike Johnson will be president of the United States.  Think on that for a minute.  A man who supported overturning the 2020 election, a man who is a Trump toady, a man who opposes abortion and any discussion of gay rights, a man who will vote against any aid to Ukraine: this is the man that could be president. Not that a situation like that is likely, but the thought that our country has devolved this far is frightening and disgusting. How did we get to this point?

The better question is: how do we get out of this? 

More to follow.

Finally! Back in print!

 For the past several weeks I have had no internet connection on my laptop.  No access to anything.  My phone connected 85% of the time, my TV the same for streaming stuff. Quite frustrating, but here we are, back again!

Three weeks ago I had knee replacement surgery, which enforced upon me a great deal of free time.  A lot of boring free time. For the first two weeks, one's life revolves around icing the knee many times during the day, reading, doing exercises for the knee (painful!) and staring at the TV or out the window or into one's soul. (Short-lived.) Very boring. Even having unlimited time to read was tiresome and it's amazing how much junk there is on television, junk that I either had already seen or had no desire to ever watch. 

After two weeks, the highlight of my day was hobbling down the path and walking around the pool several times, just to get outside. (It's 60 steps around the pool, in case you were wondering.)

This past Monday I had reached the limit of my incarceration and decided to get in the car and drive to the post office.  HA!  What a joke that was because the car wouldn't start! Another enforced confinement. Once it a new battery was installed (after 3 calls in two days to AAA) driving became much more enjoyable.  I now can hobble into the post office, into a grocery store, into the library, using my trusty cane that I bought for $6 at the thrift store.

Knee replacements are quite common, especially in my Baby Boom generation, but that doesn't make them easy or convenient or desired. No one ever thought "perhaps it would be nice to have my leg sliced open, battered around a bit, bones sawed off, fake bones screwed on, then stapled back together." Because it isn't nice. Necessary, maybe, but nice? No. It hurts. Having parts of the body sliced open and poked about with sharp instruments is always going to result in pain.

Three weeks after the surgery I am still icing the knee and leg several times a day (with an amazing ice machine provided by Kaiser) and doing exercises to increase mobility and prevent scar tissue.  But I am still hobbling around with the cane, not striding purposefully down the path. The hobbling will get better, of course, and at some point the pain will back off. 

At least that's the plan.

More Mortality Consciouness

 Five and a half years ago I had a partial knee replacement on my right leg. The surgery and the recovery went very well, there were no complications and no bad outcomes. Retrospectively, I should have had it done months sooner and I should have kept up with the physical therapy better, but hey... shoulda, woulda, coulda. 

Next week I am having the same partial knee replacement surgery on my left leg. Same hospital, same surgeon, same everything.  Except I am five and a half years older. And therein lies the trepidation. 

Five years isn't much in a 73 year life time, but these five years aren't when I was in my 40's or 50's or even 60's. I am older. I am not as strong, my body does strange and unusual things all the time. Will this surgery be as swift and uncomplicated as the last one? Will my recovery be as simple and easy? Will I code on the table and die?

Yes, melodramatic I suppose but these are things I am thinking about.  Mortality looms large, of course.  I mean, fuck, Jimmy Buffett just died!  Jimmy Buffett! The king of "if it isn't fun, it shouldn't be done." How can I not think about dying?

It's not that I am afraid of this surgery. I am not. I look forward to being able to walk more than a half mile without pain.  A few weeks ago I took the ferry into SF, walked the two miles to my seat at a Giants game, walked the two miles back and my knee was wrecked for a week. I want that to go away, to be erased. Walking is my meditation and I need that back. So bring on the surgery!  Just don't let anything weird happen along the way or under the knife or in the few days after it.

And as Jimmy said: Yesterday's over my shoulder, I can't look back for too long. There's just too much to see waiting in front of me and I know I just can't go wrong.

Thanks for listening.  And listen here:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oR2KkwAVGHo

Half-and-half vs CREAM

Trivial, yes, but why does half-and-half even exist? What is the purpose of this stuff?  Yes, most people buy it to put in their coffee, but that's it.  It is a one-use product. What else in your refrigerator has only one use? Probably nothing. Everything else can be used alone or mixed with something else to create a new kind of taste treat or piled on top of a sandwich or put into an omelet or licked off of a spoon or spread on toast or so many other things. But h-and-h has only one use: to make your coffee taste less harsh. And you know what works so much better?  Real CREAM!  Yes, cream. A tiny dash makes your coffee taste richer and indulgent but it doesn't dilute your coffee.  If the cream is too much, you can mix it with regular milk and make your own h-and-h but why bother?

Cream has so many uses, a small container of it should be in your fridge at all times.  With cream you can have a biscuit in the oven in two minutes without all the bother of chopping in cold butter. With cream you can make a butterscotch sauce (with butter and brown sugar) that takes six minutes, start to finish and there is no way h-and-h can do that.  A tablespoon of cream into a bowl of soup makes that soup luscious without a ton of calories. Two tablespoons can be added to a pasta dish and transform that dish from good to excellent. If one is feeling particularly indulgent (or sad and needs a lift) cream can be used to make a sauce all on its own because once it boils down, it thickens and turns light golden. Pour that over sautéed chicken breast or a sautéed pork cutlet with some sautéed mushrooms and you are in heaven.

If you are a h-and-h aficionado, then ignore my advice.  I know that it can be used in making some sauces and is good in..... maybe mashed potatoes, but cream is better, in my opinion. But hey, just my opinion.  I could be wrong.

But you cannot make this with h-and-h, just saying:

 

My Saints. Not the football team.

OK, this is going to sound crazy and I am fine with that because it is a little crazy to the uninitiated. By that I mean, those who do not believe in the power of Saints.

I am not a believer in "God" or whatever you might call that person in the heavens who passes judgement and who could easily fix the crap in the world if he/she wanted to but chooses, instead, to let children be killed by bullets in their kindergarten classes and to let people die of starvation in a world that could produce enough food for everyone and let families be terrorized and killed in a small country that is plagued by war because of a brutal dictator next door and who lets people, in his/her name, do unspeakable evil to regular everyday people because those people think he/she is on their side and I could go on and on.  But no, I don't believe in any sort of god like that.

But I do believe in Saints. (I capitalize that word because the Saints are important to me.)  Especially Saint Anthony, the Patron Saint of Lost Things. St. Anthony has found things for me for my entire life, or at least for the past 50 years.  (Before that, I can't remember anything.) When something is lost, and I mean lost for not just ten minutes but lost after searching and digging and plowing through crap to find the lost thing, I ask St. Anthony to help. I always promise money, of course, because it's a transaction and the St. Anthony Foundation in SF does tons of work for people who need  help.  

St. Anthony has rarely failed me. Sometimes it takes a while, like a couple of weeks, but he always comes through and he always finds me what I need.  And I ALWAYS pay what I promised because, really, how could you not? Once, when I was very close to having zero money in my bank account and a large money-pit house (which I loved) on the market and I had been renting out the house on the weekends to strangers just to make the mortgage, I promised St. Anthony a bucket of money to find me a buyer for the house.  And he did!   It was a lot of money (for me) but once I asked, he found the buyer within a couple of days and it was totally worth it because it kept me out of defaulting on my mortgage, and we all know how crappy that turns out.

Honestly, I don't even like writing about this in case it jinxes my relationship with St. Anthony but I don't think he's that kind of Saint.  I think he would understand that I am telling you this from a sense of joy and gratitude.

There are other Saints and Spirits that I ask for help now and then, and I do ask the Universe for help as well. I am fairly certain that there are powers out there, roaming around, wanting to help but they need to be asked.  (Or so I believe.)  But who knows?  The only proof I have is in the things that have happened that have no logical explanation, things that have appeared when those things were not in that place ten minutes prior.   

That's all, not going to tell you concrete details. Trust me. The Saints have power that we mortals do not. ......  And this is beginning to sound like  I also believe in Leprechauns and Unicorns and Dungeons and Dragons.

Here's a story:  in 2000  I spent 4 nights in Padua, Italy. There is a cathedral in Padua dedicated to St. Anthony of Padua, Patron Saint of Lost Things.  In this cathedral there is a small room on the side of the nave where there are thousands of notes pinned on the wall thanking St. Anthony for what he found for that person.  Thousands of notes. Clearly, St. Anthony is not just my Saint. It was so consoling to see all those tiny pieces of paper, a community of people who St. Anthony helped.  Wishes asked, wishes granted, hope restored.

What I don't like about travel

 It's so lame, but I HATE unpacking my suitcase. There is no reason for this but over the past .... 40 years (yikes!) it has been a thing. I arrive home, search for ants and spiders, never find them, adjust the temperature of wherever I am living, and plop down. Usually with an alcoholic beverage, tired from the journey, happy to be home, totally enthused about where I was. That's it.

Case in point: I went on a short jaunt to Flagstaff, Arizona. Left my place Tuesday morning, came home Friday early evening. It is now Sunday night and my little suitcase is still sitting where I dropped it upon my arrival. I have removed nothing. It hasn't even been unzipped. 

Don't ask why because I have no answer. I don't mind packing, I am quick about it and fairly frugal about what I take. The size of the suitcase depends on the length of the trip, so this was  my medium-sized carry-on which is pretty small. It can be stowed under the seat in front of me if necessary, so it's not like a steamer trunk that needs to be unpacked. There are no linens in it, no pillows, no overcoats, no hiking boots.  And yet it still sits there on the floor, fully packed.

The thing about unpacking a suitcase is this: it's unsettling. There are dirty clothes and semi-dirty/semi-clean clothes. There are completely clean clothes and shoes and some toiletries and maybe a tiny, folding umbrella or a raincoat in a 3-inch pouch. I hate that some things need to go into the laundry basket, some could get hung up and then worn again, some things are clean and can go back on the shelf but some of the stuff has that aura of not-clean-enough-but-for-no-reason. It all just bugs me.

What would be the best scenario is this: I exit the airplane and before I leave the airport I unzip the suitcase, take out the toiletry container (I have no problem with that) and hold the suitcase over a garbage container and dump everything into the trash. Even the almost-clean stuff, even the Levi's I just purchased, even the sleeping t-shirt I love. Everything. The unpacking dilemma would then be gone. I would be happy.