LOFT LIFE: Thank you for serving

It’s May 30, sunny, and I decide to take a walk, happy that the sun is shining brightly, but still in the low 80s so I can breathe deeply and enjoy the mile.

Six yellow school buses, a blue tour bus, two police cars line Main Street, where I walk by the pond. I wonder. A sporting event? They don’t have a tour bus for that.

Then I see a parade, flags, a marching band, a float, and hear a male chorus belt out: From the halls of Montezuma, to the shores of Tripoli, we will fight our country’s battles, in the air, on land, and sea; first to fight for right and freedom, and to keep our honor clean; we are proud to claim the title, of United States Marines. I can’t hear all the words. These may not even be right. I used to know them by heart. Now, I can’t remember them.

It dawns on me, of course, that this is Memorial Day weekend, and these people have not, as I have, forgotten. Especially the Marines. They have not forgotten, I did. At least for today--the very time when we have a national day set aside to remember.

I don’t want to forget this day, and really, on any day, these soldiers, the price of our freedom. A deep prayer rises in my soul. I want to thank them. I want to tell them I won’t forget. 

For two years I have been distributing a bookmark to remind people to pray for the military. I have only had one person, a woman who found me asking for any kind of prayer, repugnant, refuse to donate their dollar, take the bookmark, and promise to pray. Many have donated $10 and promised to hand out nine to family and friends. They seem almost eager to have this token reminder. They also don’t want to forget. Librarians, postal workers, mechanics, church people, hotel staff, bankers, construction workers--it doesn’t matter where they are. They care.

A group running in the Chicago Marathon for the troops asked for 50 bookmarks to hand out to the crowd. Some church women in Florida have asked for 100 to put into their care packages to their loved ones overseas, serving for our freedom.

So, maybe I think I'm trying to do my little something to remember, to remind. But, today I forgot--today of all days. Something in me realized I can never do enough to really pay back these men and women who represent the hundreds of thousands who have protected me, my family, my county, our freedoms. I cannot repay the thousands and thousands who have died, been wounded, physically and emotionally, and who are forever changed by war because they believe it matters.

The least I can do is pray, say thank you, and in my small way, gently remind those I meet to do the same.

I am glad I took my walk today. The sun was shining, the air was clean, the sky was blue, the clouds puffy and white. And, the Marines' chorus reminded me they will continue to protect me, and they, along with the Air Force, the Navy, the Army, the Coast Guard, the National Guard, and the Special Forces--and if I have left any out, they too, are there for us.  

I say a prayer. I am still free to do that. Lord, protect them as they protect us. Keep them safe to return to their families. And, please Lord, tell them I say, “Thank you.”

LOFT LIFE: Love and grace

We’re allowed to love everybody. That’s right!  We’re becoming Episcopalian, and what an eye-opening experience. You would think the communicant’s class would be dry and irrelevant, like what so many believe about “training” classes in churches.

Instead of irrelevant, it is inspiring, vibrant and challenging. I have never been a liberal. I am a conservative, in every sense of the word, except maybe where love is concerned. There I am a convert.

When I was around 12, I was afraid of love. I thought of it like those fund-raising charts with the thermometer and a heart at the top (or was it at the bottom?). I believed, somewhere in my tiny little heart, that if I loved too much or too many, I'd use up in that red zone (Was it blood?). So, I was conservative even in love at 12. Then I discovered God. He made it clear that the more I loved, the more love I would get. That sounded like a good deal, so I converted. I became a liberal in love.

Now, I find I'm also a liberal in grace. The more I give, the more I get. Amazing. Thanks to Father B for teaching how much this can mean.

Before you go drawing conclusions about churches, liberals, conservatives, and even love and grace, consider this:

One communicant related how he felt abandoned by his church after divorce. He wasn’t permitted to partake of the church’s sacraments, or even to continue membership. 

Our teacher paused for a long moment--not wanting to put down any other church, even when they may be mistaken in their mission. After his pause he said something that rang into my heart, and will become part of my meditation for the rest of my life:

“It's not that we (Episcopalians) have a lower view of marriage,” he said. “It's just that we have a higher view of grace.”

Wow. Is there anything more powerful than that? 

I don’t normally use this forum to express views on faith and church. But, this statement captured my attention, my soul, in such a way, I just had to share it.

I’m still a conservative in many areas: I love what our forefathers did in our Constitution, and I don’t think it needs much updating, if any. I think our Constitution may be in jeopardy these days. I think our fundamental American values are being bandied about and juggled for political power and control. But, I believe that God is still in charge.

I agree with taking care of people, things, earth, and whatever else requires us to conserve and maintain what we are stewards of. We must care about health and productivity.  I believe in free enterprise, and I guess that means capitalism. I don’t believe in greed, but I think God is capable of regulating that too. I don't need government to intervene unless a crime is committed.

I believe that local governments do a better job of working and serving in their communities than big government does. I believe that states do a better job of assessing and responding to particular state’s needs than distant federal government does. So in these things, too, I am conservative. 

I don’t think conservatives care less about people and their needs. I just think conservatives have a more efficient and hands-on view of helping than their more liberal, big governments advocates have.

These views do not require my hating anyone--even liberals. My liberal stance on love and grace demands that I pray for and love everyone God loves--and He doesn’t always choose some of the people I might have selected as friends.

So there I am. I have to either do what I believe: love covers a multitude of sins, or, become dogmatic and rigid in my response to someone I disagree with, thus abandoning my faith. I can’t do that. I want a higher view of grace, even when it requires considering another point of view. I want to maintain a high view of my principles, and still leave room for grace.

Please consider this: when you have a gripe, a prejudice, a grievance, a bad experience with someone, a judgement, or even a hurt. Consider yourself as, possibly, the only emissary of grace that situation or person may ever experience.

Shout it from the housetops. Spread the good news. Grace. That’s what my faith is all about.

Thank you so much, Father B. for enlarging my heart.

LOFT LIFE: I’m sorry I’m a woman

Until yesterday, I was feeling apologetic that I consciously plan to find some willing male to assist me in lifting my carryon into the overhead bin on every flight where my hubby does not accompany me.   

I’ve been congratulating myself on having learned from George Clooney (Up in the Air) how to pack, now putting my laptop into my rollaway. Though the quantity of clothing I can fit into my luggage has diminished, my lower back pain has also. I bragged about this reasoning to the last man who helped me, and as he lifted my twelve extra pounds of bag, he commented a bit sardonically, “George Clooney taught you this, huh,” as  even he, with his extra testosterone, noticed the weight.

The fact is, packing the laptop in the carryon has a few inconveniences, even beyond the extra weight: having to unzip my rollaway at security, remove the laptop to a tray, and then having to unzip the bag again to get the laptop back in while donning shoes, raincoat, purse, etc. before starting my trek to the gate--usually the farthest down the C or B terminal aisle. I do have to add, that I feel sorry, especially for businessmen, who have smartly dressed for their next high profile meeting, and now must remove all of the evidence of perfect wardrobe choices, to comply. It is humiliating for us all, but I think it hits some harder than others.

Once boarding, I must attempt to lift said rollaway into the overhead bin. My shoulders just won’t stretch that high without creaking and groaning, giving me a clear signal that this is not lifting I am made for.  

As I said, before yesterday, I did have guilt about this. I would eye the line, looking for a man with the same boarding number as I, friendly but not too friendly, if you know what I mean. I look for a fellow traveler because somewhere in my past travels, I learned that it is not the duty of the flight attendant to assist weaklings with any need concerning baggage.

But, yesterday, on my return flight to Connecticut from California, my whole perspective on this weakling thing changed when a male flight attendant (do they call themselves pursers these days? I just learned to stop saying steward and stewardess.) began scolding a young woman who couldn’t lift her bag.

“If you can’t handle your bag, you should consider checking it,” he chastised, gruffly. His tone was truly a reprimand.

She lowered her chin, looked appropriately shamed, and sat down while he finished her job for her.

I was dumbfounded. Luckily, I had found my willing gentleman right before this event, so the attendent didn’t know to scold me as well.

I wonder if he realizes the ramifications of his suggestion: there is a $15 fee each way for checking the carryon-sized bag, and, only those not strong enough to lift 35 pounds above shoulder height should be, in his perspective, forced to this consideration--even though smart travelers fudge this by waiting until the gate to get told to check the bag, because usually there is no charge at this juncture. Still, this shouldn’t happen with true carry on luggage.

Does being a woman, or being too short mean paying baggage fees is a given? I mean, I have just invested another $60 in luggage to reduce the size of my carryon from 24” to 20” specifically to allow me to enter the gangplank, or whatever that airplane walkout thing is called, without being subjected to placing my largish carryon into the too narrow device they use to convince you that you cannot carry it on. Been there, done that. When my larger carryon had bulging pockets, the gate attendants shook fingers at me, insisting I place my bulging bag within the framework of that structure which showed anyone with a brain the right size for a carryon. That would be any size but the one you are carrying. Surely the overhead bin is NOT as small as this thing they have to prove the point. And, pulling it back out of that structure is even  harder, if you can’t manage lifting the bag in the first place.

Now I have the smaller bag, and don’t fill the pockets to bulging, even though I still place my laptop into the bag, making it too heavy to lift. Mostly, I have trouble with that lift height even without the laptop. I tried removing the Mac to see if that would help, and it didn’t, so I saw no reason to compromise my back and shoulders for the effort. I reasoned that on no flight would the same gentleman be helping me, so it wouldn’t have that, “there she goes again” factor. Also, no flight attendant would be the same to remember my continuous weakness. See, I felt guilt. I felt shame.

So, when this middle-aged flight attendant berated this young woman, something inside me flipped a switch.

“Wait a minute,” I thought. “Just because I am a woman, lacking testosterone, should not mean I cannot have a carryon, and should not mean that all of my trips will automatically cost at least $30 more than my male counterparts. That’s discrimination, is it not? And, in a climate where combating a flight attendant would be a stupid, if not treacherous thing to do, even when it has nothing to do with security or safety, no intelligent woman, which I consider myself to be, would dare question his dictate, which puts us women at a further disadvantage. I am by no stretch of imagination a feminist. But. This is wrong!

So, now, after this event, I don’t feel guilty. Now I feel enabled to start a movement. I can’t decide whether it should be a movement for gentleman volunteers to help weak women, or for weak women banding together to lift carryon luggage. Either would work. I am not quite sure how to muster either group. Should it be a letter to the airline? A letter to the editor? A letter to the president? (I mean, he seems to care so much about all the downtrodden and helpless, surely this would add to his roster of causes.) Or should I just continue to keep a low profile and conscript one nice man per trip leg to assist with the bag, lifting into and out of the overhead bin? 

I admit, it is taxing to continue to come up with the litany of fake impromptu requests. Because whether I feel guilty or not, it is really premeditated, and it is embarrassing. 

This all may become a non-issue if rumors that carryon bags will also engender a fee transpire. But, then, at least, the rules would be gender-fair.   

Would love your input.

LOFT LIFE: The DMV

Avoidance of the dreaded DMV visit had to end. After all, legally, our transfer from Illinois to Connecticut should have happened in 30 days. But, that didn’t take into consideration hotel life for 17 months, the not-sale of our IL home, and the continued “temporary living” status we enjoyed for most of 2008 and 2009. 

But it was time. So on our first 80 degree day in April, the air-conditioned DMV seemed like a good place to escape the heat. :) Right?

My first DMV line happily placed me next to older teens who knew a lot more than I about DMV lines. They must have noticed my old-lady lost look, and they took pity, telling me I really didn’t have to do this particular line, and could go directly to kiosk (GO)--although no mention was made about collecting any salary--and in fact, the kiosk wanted me to swipe a card, get my picture taken (not for the license--who knows for what!) and obtain a receipt which would allow me the joy of skipping over to the inching centipede--thousand-legger line on the other side of the building. This line was for those wishing a CT drivers license, update, driving or eye test, or replacement license. Thank you teenagers! The pre-kiosk line had only cost me an initial ten minutes, rather than an additional hour.

But, this was still an hour and a half until my turn at the desk where I had to show ID, an address with my name on it, and surrender my passport and Illinois license. Didn’t know I needed a proof of address. Raced to my car, tore off a cardboard box address label that thank God was still in my car, raced back to the desk and presented it. Noooooo. It was NOT a piece of mail. 

“Oh come on!" I mistakenly called it a UPS box, instead of the legitimate USPS. They sound so similar, and after calling on an officer of the law to accept this--which he would not as UPS, but okayed as USPS I heaved a "whew!!" I was in.

I sat back down in the eye-test waiting area and listened in on various conversations--parents and teens, new residents, disgruntled people who didn't think it was a good idea to waste April's first 80 degree day. 

My turn at the eye test. I was really stressing out the binoculars. We already know from my trip to Holyoke that I have challenges with my amblyopic situation. My testing officer was a dear man, about my age. Don’t these police people have crimes to solve? Never been to a DMV that used police officers for eye tests.

“Um. Can’t do the binocular thing,” I confessed. “Which eye would you like me to use first?” I think my innocence was a plus.

“Left eye, please,” he said. “Okay, then.”  Numbers, not letters--aced it. Then the dreaded right eye, which is yellowing, according to my optometrist, but not enough for cataract surgery yet. :( “I slipped on prescription sunglasses.) Aced this one too.

Then he said, “Which sign is closer?”

“Oh-oh,” said I. “Also a binocular question. I have no idea.”

“Try again,” he prodded, not able to process my dilemma.

“Um. Ok. But, they all look the same.”

He gave me one of the most tender looks I have ever seen, even outside of a DMV. Well I have actually never seen a kind look inside a DMV until this day.

“But, then how do you see which car is closer?” he asked, totally genuine, concerned for my welfare (which we all know is well-placed concern. See Finding My Way--scroll back).

“Well, I compensate,” I told him. “And, I don’t drive at night, and I don’t do Interstates, and I don’t put myself in situations where this might be a problem,” to which he gave me a look of incredulity but still kind. 

“I probably don’t see it as well as you do,” I offered, hoping ego-boosting (for him, not me) would help my case.

In the meantime, dear Jay decided this was a good time to check in, and my cell phone blared Santa Baby by Eartha. Now the sign at the desk clearly says no one can have a cell phone on. I forgot to turn mine off. Santa Baby played its whole theme because I wasn’t audacious enough to answer it, or even reach to turn it off.

The USPS approver walked through our eye test area, leaned in, and exclaimed, “You have just made my day. I love that song.”

I was so happy to have made someone’s day!! Christmas in April. Who knew? Santa Baby on a contraband cell phone!! At the DMV!

My officer was writing some things on his paper, winding up my test report, when he threw me another curve (which I could see).

“Were you using prescription glasses?”

“Um. Only on my right eye. I assure you, I use my left eye more. So pleeeeease don’t put ‘Needs correction’ on that paper. I haven’t had an accident that was my fault in 40 years of driving,” I said, hoping this too would comfort him. (After leaving the DMV, I realized I have been driving a tad longer than 40 years. Oh well. I didn't get the math genes. And, that made me sound younger.)

He sighed. I wasn’t sure what he wrote, so I pushed my luck.

“You aren’t writing glasses on that, right? Cause, really, I mostly use my left eye.” I don’t think that had been a sigh of relief, but rather of resignation. 

“No,” he said, shaking his head, and still that look of, “I hope she’ll be alright.”

I took my seat for another wait--this time the real picture. Only two hours and I was more than half way through--so I imagined.

It only took a half hour to get to the picture--and these people are nice.

“You’re way too nice to work at a DMV,” I said to my final desk gal. “How do you explain them letting you work here?”

“They let us drink,” she said straight-faced.

“Nice, and a sense of humor!” Unbelievable.

It took six tries to get my picture with the hopes my left eye wouldn’t turn in, as it does when I am tired. The two hour wait wore me down. I was tired. My left eye turned in. :(

“So I have to wait till the renewal for a new picture?" I asked. “2016?”

She smiled. She had tried. I couldn’t ask for portrait quality, even from this obviously caring soul after her six tries to get my eye right.

Oh well. Only a final half hour to request the procedure for me saving Jay from this two and a half hours of waiting, which another very nice desk person explained and gathered forms for.

Armed with power of attorney, registration forms for two cars, a motorcycle, and a temporary registration for getting the motorcycle from Massachusetts to Connecticut for its real registration, all that remained was getting insurance on the vehicles, and double-checking the list of must-haves: copies of Jay’s license, address proofs that matched each vehicle, and bank checks in the names of all participating registerees. Sounds easy, easy as pie, right? But, then it’s the DMV, which I have to say was not as odious a visit as I had anticipated, but still not the way I usually spend the first 80 degree day in April.

LOFT LIFE: One moment please

 I know they’re trained to be polite, not to argue with the customer, to make every effort to decelerate combustible situations, but, I just don’t do well with what I call the Tape Recorder Voice (TRV), especially when it is not really a tape recorder. I know, I know, my expectations are way too high. I expect human beings to be actual thinking, reasoning persons, not pre-recorded, automated responses, which if they came from an actual robot, would at least not leak emotion.

I hope it doesn’t sound prejudiced, or lacking in multi-cultural savvy, but when this TRV is obviously in India or the Philippines, the obsequious attitude is even more annoying than were it a dripping courtesy from someone in my own country. Really, if this were a person from the U.S. who is originally from India or the Philippines, that wouldn’t faze me, because I would imagine they can better relate to my questions, predicaments or needs. What it comes down to is that I think this trans-oceanic person actually IS polite, and will go to any length to keep cool as I heat up, even if they don’t understand what I am saying. (I’m aware I’m using the word actual multiple times. It makes me feel better in this virtual world we live in.)

On this particular call to India (purported to be a United Airlines call center), I was merely inquiring about the actual cost of changing my ticket from a return trip to Hartford from Chicago and adding a third leg--a quick trip to Los Angeles, then back to CT.

I haven’t seen my eight grandchildren in two years due to trying to sell or rent our Illinois home during the whole years of 2008 and 2009 when we lived in the hotel in CT.

My call to United was just a question of cost. I wouldn’t book the change on the phone. That costs more. My never-to-be-challenged get-it-for-less skills wouldn’t tolerate that. I needed to know cost so I could make the changes online.

“I’d like to know the cost to change my ticket, add the Los Angeles trip and fly back to Connecticut,” I plied.

“One moment, please,” came the exotic accent from afar.

I waited many moments, only to be asked back my own question. We were still at the beginning. I looked at my watch. A moment is less than a minute. I was willing to grant at least three or four.

“One moment please,” he repeated. Oh, and his name, which we all believe, is Mike. I am certain UA doesn’t want to stress out American callers by forcing them to pronounce his real name. Once I actually asked a call center guy for his “real” name. He answered. They’re right, hard to pronounce without the spelling. 

They don’t want us stressed over this irrelevancy. They’re saving that energy for the reaction guaranteed by the end of the call, when none of the questions are actually answered, and the TRV continues the polite thing, knowing full well he isn’t answering the questions.

I felt my blood pressure rising as five and then seven minutes passed. There was a storm this Chicago evening; my phone needed charging. By the twelfth minute, I knew I was losing the battle. The storm raged, my phone died.

You already know what I did if you follow me here. I made a second call to India, ever-positive, sense of humor mostly intact, believing I might actually find a real human being, ask my questions, get an actual cost of changing a ticket, adding a leg. Ha ha. You also know that didn’t happen.

My second android was named Nick. (Do they choose their own names? Is this some film star they admire, or a name in a novel when they were perfecting English?)

Nick had the “one moment please” down pat, and seemed to love saying it, even adding the polite phrase, “I’m attempting to get the information for you.” That sounded hopeful.

Alas, my storms, the inner and outer ones, deepened. I was put on hold. On Nick’s return, we started anew. I was put on hold again, the TRV continuing to say, “One moment please.”

“A moment is not twenty minutes,” I blurted, realizing I was beginning my uncool journey.  “A moment is two, maybe three, at the most five minutes.” 

“Yes, ma’am. One moment please.” No emotion sounds. I suspect there was some.

Okay, now I was officially losing it. I don’t mind not getting my own way (well, of course I really do mind), and I understand the question was a tad complicated, but my cell was approaching its own red zone, the rain worsening. I knew this conversation would soon be curtailed.

“If I do change my ticket and don’t return to CT directly, will I lose my frequent flyer miles?” I interjected, hoping a new question would let me know if Nick was still paying attention.

“Yes,” he said. “You would not get the miles.”

I sighed.

“I just want to know the cost of the ticket,” I pleaded. “It’s the change fee, and then the cost of the additional destination, minus the credit from my already-purchased ticket, right? Is this a difficult question?” I hoped against hope, as Kierkegaard would say.

“One moment please,” Nick said, as though my ranting hadn’t bothered him in the least, and as though this was the first, not the fifteenth time he had said it.

The phone died, the rain belted, and even I have a point where I give up. I flew back to Hartford, booked a round trip to L.A. for the following day. It worked out--probably cheaper than the change ticket.

I’m wondering. I had 14 more hours in the air and a three hour layover in Chicago, to consider changing my approach. After all, I do not want to qualify for insanity.

So on my next call to India or the Philippines, or to any super-polite call center, what do you think of my answering the initial, “May I help you?” with “One moment please.” Of course I may have to give up wanting to get answers, but then I don’t usually succeed anyway. When they ask me a question, I could put them on hold, and return to them as if they had not already clearly asked me something. I could delay asking a question, get them really interested in what I have to say, and still keep cool as they do. Maybe it is a little passive-aggressive. That’s surely better than being all-aggressive. 

So, you know I am not really going to do this. It’s not Mike or Nick’s fault. They are mere cogs in the wheels of “progress.” But, when United Airlines sends me their survey (which I wonder if anyone actually reads), I am going to let them know exactly what I think about this attempt to remove the customer from customer service. Polite is good if it isn’t a cover for, “I can’t really help you, so I’m just going to keep saying, “One moment please.”

I just wanted a simple piece of information; the robotic system makes that almost impossible. Maybe it has nothing to do with language and culture differences. But, then why in a half hour isn’t there a simple answer? Does anyone else feel this level of frustration at the TRV?

LOFT LIFE: You (food) are always on my mind

OK, enough about lungs. One can only be passionate about a lung if one is in danger of losing one. Now that living is back on the front burner, so is food, my true passion, aside from Jay and my kids, and grandkids, of course. (Good thing no one can see inside my brain for the truth.) You may want to read my second hotel story (March 09) for my detailed perspective on packaged food and the American dilemma on finding fresh food.

It occurs to me how moving to a new locale really affects what and how we eat and what we buy.

In my neighborhood walkabout, (scroll back somewhere around November 09 of my blog stories), I talked about bread from Diana’s Italian bakery, and imported ham, turkey and cheese from Helen’s Polish deli, and then there’s Silvia’s, which is a one-of-a-kind experience each time we go there.

We did have Valentine’s brunch at Silvia’s with Thomas and Andi, and they enjoy the drama of the place as much as we do. We keep trying to figure out why there are usually so few cars in a place with such amazing food. Some of this may be due to Silvia herself, who seems a bit intimidating to some. We watched as one couple arrived for brunch, sat down, and then decided to leave. Silvia caught them just in time, and with her invisible shepherd’s crook, guided them back to their table, with them looking sheepish, and a bit disgruntled at the coercion. We had a hard time not gaping at the scene, but then, as I have said before, Silvia doesn’t behave how we would think of as professionally. She is a business woman as well as a hostess in her homey place, though hospitality may not be her gift. It feels like she just can’t stand to lose even one patron. I don’t think it’s about money. I think she truly believes that if she can get you to stay, and eat, you will come back. It ends up feeling less like an invitation than an order from a mom-like control freak. But, the food is great.

It turns out not all of Diana’s goods are raving successes with us, but we did love her fruit cake over the holiday (still some in the freezer), and we enjoy her multigrain bread, which is seldom available, and her multigrain ciabatta. That said, I still confess to sorely missing my Great Harvest Bread bakery, and even though there is one near Boston, and nearer, in Manchester, that surface street drive is more daunting than Holyoke (scroll back again), so I won’t be going there by myself. Multiple hints to hubby haven’t resulted in trips to Manchester. 

Helen’s deli is great, and obviously, from the clientele, a neighborhood pillar. Her imported deli meats, kilbasi, cheeses, and other Polish treats like chocolate and pirogues are special. But, one can only eat so much of lunchmeat and pirogues.

My big find has been the Turkish-owned discount produce store on Rte. 5 in Enfield. The small parking lot is always burgeoning with double-parked cars of shoppers who know they must get to this produce.

I took my daughter there. She was jealous and knows no place like this in the Chicago suburbs. It’s really like an enclosed European outdoor market, but no flies (so far). 

On my first few visits, I spent around $75, mindlessly throwing everything, which had been growing under the sun quite recently, into my smallish cart. I think it reminded me so much of Italy, I just couldn’t help myself. It was euphoric.

I started budgeting.  Though I could seldom stick to my list once I saw pineapples for $2.49, and clementines’s from Spain for $3.99 a box, and avocados, and ripe, but firm cucumbers and zucchinis, and so much more, I just had to get it to my fridge.

After four months, and the experience of some produce rotting in my fridge because we two couldn’t eat it fast enough, I have begun to shop with more discernment.

I now realize that I have to go there more often, buy only what I will prepare in a day or two, and really start thinking of this as a market, not a supermarket. I mean, what is the point of shopping here, if I still treat it like the place that delivers food already two or three weeks old to the chains?

And, I don’t need every jar of olives, or the big $16 aged cheese, or the exotic things I can’t even identify yet, or halvah, or the Turkish delight candies on every visit.

This week, I spent about $29 and got my pineapple, juices, fresh cream cheese, an amazing yogurt drink, some feta-like cheese (which the owner told me how to cook for breakfast. YUM!!), and the makings of tabouli. No more packaged tabouli in the box. I bought a 2lb. bag of bulgur wheat for the price of one (supermarket) box, and it will make portions equal to five or six boxes of inferior stuff at the supermarket. Then the grape tomatoes, cucumber, parsley (sooo fresh), and lemons were a steal as as well. I decided instead of using plain boiling water to inflate my tabouli wheat, I made mint tea and poured it over the grain. Wow. It popped. Then when I added the olive oil, lemon, and the produce, I had the freshest, most delicious tabouli I have ever tasted. It's robust grain morsels are chewy, flavorful even without that ridiculous little spice-packet, and it's healthful! 

This may not be what you eat, or want, but it is what I eat and want, and I am delighted that now I feel like I am eating similar food to my European friends, I am lowering my cholesterol, blood sugar and weight, and best of all, I am enjoying the freshness and quality of this incredibly cheap food. The Mediterranean diet has always made the most sense to me. Now with this store at hand, I don’t have to wait until I find produce that isn’t wilted or soft or spoiled. 

I still have to find a meat store. So far I’ve had the best luck buying online--steaks, chicken and salmon. Costco isn’t terrible, but I don’t always want the quantities. 

For now I have the market cornered for bread, deli goods, produce, dairy, grains and oils. I am eating like a princess, and soon, hopefully, will shed the hotel pounds that made me feel more like a sumo wrestler without the muscle tone. :(  Who knows, I may even start thinking about clothes, not just food.

LOFT LIFE: Finding my way

I figured since my alveoli have to re-puff, and since that happens with activity, I needed to get going. In my usual extremism, I planned a trip to the Holyoke Mall, 16 miles away, to begin my Apple workshops, where, in my fantasy life, I pictured myself becoming proficient, and even creative, thanks to my new MacBook Pro. But, 16 miles stood between me and my fantasy. 

Why is 16 miles extreme? Harrowing?

Well, for starters, I don’t do Interstates. I only see out of one eye at a time, and don’t process visual information very quickly, i.e. I enter an Interstate ramp, turn my head left to peruse oncoming traffic, turn my head back to the road (ramp) in front of me, and don’t really know what lane I'm accelerating into for a few seconds. Doing this with oncoming traffic isn't a good thing. 

Try it. Something, possibly less life-threatening. Cover one eye as softball flies at your face. Switch eyes. You won’t know where the ball is exactly. You get close. But, traffic isn’t softball. This is semis and fast cars. Close may not be good enough.

Suffice to say that the seconds finding out what lane oncoming traffic is in, and whether I will collide with them or not, isn't my idea of a good time.

Once I came to a dead stop, on I-57 in California, in front of a Greyhound bus. It was then, around 1981, I realized I didn’t belong on Interstates. The other convincing came on another ramp, with traffic chomping at my rear bumper and semis wheeling their 18 toward me. I stepped on the gas, lunged into traffic and somehow didn’t die.

When I told my husband I'd actually closed my eyes and accelerated, he said, “Well, you do everything that way. And. some people have skill, others angels. Either will work if you stick to your system.”

I take surface streets.

Heading for Holyoke Mall, I got to West Springfield, slowly realizing that New England roads are not perpendicular. It isn’t always clear where to turn. And, they don’t believe in signs. That street name on the Google map is not posted on the road, meaning at that bear left thing, you’re not sure it’s the road on the map. Mostly likely, it’s not.

And, rotary circles. If you haven’t experienced these, you must come visit Massachusetts. One cannot live a full life without this adventure. If you think ramps and accelerating onto Interstates were challenges please picture me circling the rotary, reading signs for multiple spoke-exits, then crossing over four rotary lanes when I do finally locate the exit. 


On this Holyoke Mall trip, it was raining; I had to circle twice before I ventured across the four lanes, and before seeing where the  5 N exit was; I couldn’t see signs very well in the rain.

I arrived at the mall, rattled, ten minutes late for my 10:30 a.m. workshop. It had taken me an hour and 20 minutes for the 16 miles. 

I was there for the “Marketing Your Business” training. The tech tried to volley between me and the other participant, but since I had arrived late, they were at work on her personal project. 

I thought I could work on beautifying my blog, since she was working on her blog. I also wanted to learn how to plug in my new microphone, turn it on, and record something. 

My microphone didn’t record, had to be replaced, and tapping on the mike, trying to make it work, pretty much took up the last 20 minutes of my time.

What I ended up learning was how to find the place on my blog to add pictures. Not sure that was worth the hour and 20-minute road trip. And, that was only one way.

By the time I got my microphone replaced, packed my things, and looked apprehensively toward the door, one of the lovely Apple techs decided he had better walk me to my car. I wasn’t positive where I had parked it. Armed with a return trip Google map, where I had made clear I needed a route with NO Interstates, and preferably smaller bridges. Gavin walked me to the elevator in the JC Penny store, and attempted to explain to me as we rode the elevator down and then up and then down again, that even though it looked different, this had to be the right elevator. Once he finally realized I had used an outside elevator in the parking structure, before walking across the parking lot to JC Penny, I realized I had forgotten that small walk outside, in the rain.  

“Oh yeah,” I confirmed. “Now I remember.”

I felt old; I felt blind; I felt handicapped. But, I felt cherished by this sweet man who implied I reminded him of his grandmother. That’s okay. 

It was about 2:30 p.m., the rainstorm worse, the sky dark with black clouds. I was not feeling confident at all.

My return trip involved some surface streets; I got lost and ended up crossing the BIG BRIDGE in Springfield, After a DIFFERENT ROTARY, which dumped me onto I-91, IN THE RAIN, where I almost had heart failure. Thankfully, Highway 5 was only a few feet to the right off the Interstate.

Not the right route at all. I did the whole accelerate without looking--didn’t close my eyes this time, but might as well have. I really don’t know how I did it, but at least they had lights on, so I could gauge car-length margin a bit better to jump into traffic.

Constant prayer, I arrived back in my own parking lot at 4:00 p.m. I had not shortened the trip and had not shortened my life. 

All I can say is those alveoli had better be re-puffing.

LOFT LIFE: Getting back to normal

Saw Dr. G last week, and expected him to tell me about the 2cm and 3cm nodules, and had rehearsed my “so what” speech. I was thrown a curve when he told me I had a partially collapsed lung! I really was speechless--not breathless, mind you.

So, of course, I had more questions--but not many, because, as I said, I was taken by surprise. In general, this thing should self-correct.

It is a blessing to have friends, and especially smart friends like Matt, who is an EMT. I gave him the scoop about how the radiologist found “ground glass opacity” on my CAT scan. I asked him what in the world that meant. I should have asked Dr. G. but in some ways Matt was better--more detailed. He guessed from my description that I do not really have a true pnuemothorax--collapsed lung, but the deflation of some alveoli, which he explained are the grape-like clusters (alveoli) of air in the lungs. Some of my grapes lost their puff. No problem, most likely. As I begin more normal life--instead of the cushy bedridden Mac-world I have been living in for 2 months, I am likely to have them re-inflate. I just love Matt. He turned around my fear in a second. I can just see those little alveoli puffing as I walk around the loft, to the mail box, around the mall, etc.

Matt says that saying I have a partially collapsed lung is like telling me I have a hemorrhage when it is a nosebleed. Isn’t that just like the medical community to put it the most terrifying language they can find. Collapsed alveoli are NOT the same thing as a collapsed LUNG.

In any case, I am now arising at 6:30 a.m. and going pretty strong till 10 p.m., with just a bit of congestion left, which Matt says getting rid of will dramatically speed up recovery. Coughing is good.

So for all you sweet friend who keep telling me to rest--the rest happened, and now I have to go, go, go--till right BEFORE I am short of breath. That is something like the directions I was given which told me to turn a block before the movie theatre. Think about it.

So our loft life continues, and believe me, I am grateful that my most challenging task is cooking. I am also back to “work” which amounts to writing, interviewing, and, of course, starting up as many new businesses as I can dream up. The most current is networking consulting I've wanted to continue from my workshops in 1981, after I wrote an article for Toastmaster Magazine on networking. It got some acclaim; I was still being asked for reprinting rights FOUR YEARS later--from Taiwan. No kidding. So I was ahead of my time--and am now behind the 8-ball to do something concrete with my ideas. Met this morning with a business owner and we will meet with some in the MA/CT stateline area to help each other learn about this. 

Thanks again to you all for your encouragement, comments and love during my two months of recovery from--well, let’s just say,  respiratory challenges.

LOFT LIFE: Winding up the medical stuff and re-visiting life

Only two days until I see Dr. G. and learn that, except for some continued chest pain (when I cough), and the feeling of fatigue if I run around doing things like shopping, I am mostly well. The CT scan came back with a radiologist’s report saying I have some small cysts in my lungs. They want another reading in six months, “just to be sure.” I am pretty sure what they want to be sure of is that I don’t sue them for missing something.

I have never sued a doctor, and believe me, I have had plenty of occasion to do so. It alarms and terrifies me how many doctor-mistakes cause thousands (250,000) of deaths every year. In fact, some statistics cite doctors as the third leading cause of death in the U.S. (Told you it was terrifying.)

But, to my thinking, doctors are humans, in spite of the myth circulating our society that they are deities. They just are not. And, frankly, I’d rather have the medical savings, health care cost reduction of NOT having outrageous malpractice suits, clearly causing doctors to up charges, than to have the human errors costing our health care system to skyrocket to the extent that some can be convinced government-run systems are a better answer. When a doctor has to literally pay millions for malpractice insurance, clearly there is some problem in the way we think. We do NOT need government to run things badly. We need people to stop thinking that a windfall of cash for an error is worth an overall costly health care system. Changing this one area, in my opinion, would make this whole health care cost thing cease to be a problem, and would correct most of what’s wrong: over-treatment and too many tests for instance. And, the other two areas would be for people to educate themselves and upgrade their healthful lifestyles. If they don't do that, they are going to get sick. As for me, I am positive that these cysts have been on my lung for years. And, yes, if there had been some malignancy, we would have caught it early, and I would be grateful. But, I knew it wasn’t that, and my usual intuitive self-diagnosis is dependable enough for me. I pray. God speaks. I will depend on that.

As for our society deifying doctors, it just has to change. Nurses may get close to deity, but not doctors. Most of my friends are nurses, or phlebotomists, or some other version of below-doctor status medical practitioner, and I can tell you, they are at least saints. (I always laugh when I call someone a saint, because, you do know that the Bible says every Christian is one.) But, I am using the Roman Catholic category of people who have performed at least three miracles, and who have been martyred--if not literally, at least in some fashion, like doctors yelling at them, when really they deserve medals.

OK. Back to me. :) Actually, I have some small cysts all over me. I am a cyst-maker! I know several people who are cyst-makers also. Now, I will have to devote my medical research to why some people make cysts and some don’t. My friend who is a doctor tells me no one knows, which, of course, makes me all the more sure I can discover this secret. In my next life I think I want to be a diagnostician. I have a knack for it. I could tell you stories of people I have helped with my intuitive ability to diagnose--unofficially, with disclaimers that I am not a doctor, and do not play one on television. Nonetheless, they were grateful, and they got well.

I especially am intrigued with Dr. Peter J. D’Adamo’s book on Eat Right 4 Your Type. Although I do not go with this 100 percent, I do think it is very interesting that the blood types I know seem to align with what he says, most of the time: O types get reactions of all kinds when they eat dairy; A types can’t have hot peppers or highly-acidic foods; B types eat most things with no problems, and seem to favor getting rare diseases rather than common ones. I don’t think I know any AB types, so I have no opinions on them. I will have to read the book again to brush up, and probably will have to find someone who represents that type, to round out my thoughts.

In any case, I am mostly back to normal and again heap on the thanksgiving for you all. It could have been worth losing two months of ambulatory life to have the followers and comments on my blog. It’s that important! So don’t make me get sick again to continue to have you all in my life--OK?