Birki

My family's recently deceased golden retriever loved rhyme.  She adored water, but hated to swim.  She was the most loyal, lovable dog I've ever known.

One of Birki's favorite things to do was to take walks around the neighborhood wearing her purple leash and collar.  She knew the route, and if one strayed from that route, she would pull in the correct direction to avoid being led astray.  Any rhyming variation of "Birki, want to go for a walk?!" got her excited.  My personal favorite is, "Turkey, we need to have a talk."  And then we'd walk.  And Birki was happy.  She was well-behaved and only made bathroom breaks in the barren field on Ashline Drive.

Oh, and Birki loved puddles: the muddier the better.  She also liked shallow streams where she could prance around and lap up the water and saturate the curly hairs on her belly.  I only saw Birki swim once, and that was when she made one step too far in a lake, hit a deep pocket and gave one little doggie paddle to get her back to shallower waters.  I could tell she was nervous.

Named after one of the most comfortable and reliable brands of shoes -- Birkenstock -- our dog was also reliable and a comfort to the family.  She was the most perceptive and loving creature I've ever met.  She was stubborn, but only in ways that made her more lovable.  She will be missed, but I'm happy to know she lived a happy, long life.  I'll miss my Birk Tirk.

Disease of the mind

I spent a good part of today in the psych ward of a nursing home, giving eye exams to those suffering from Alzheimer's Disease, Dementia, Schizophrenia, and other diseases of the mind.

Disease of the mind.  What a horrible thing.  Aside from making an eye exam incredibly difficult (forget "better one or two"; it was challenging enough to get the patients to keep their eyes open); I can't even imagine how difficult it is for the families of these elderly patients.

The first patient of the day was a woman in her late 80s named Helen.  She kept asking, "Why am I here?"  Assuming she was referring to the closet-sized room they had set aside for us to use as an examination lane, I replied: "To have your eyes checked" in a cheerful voice.  After we re-hashed this conversation several times, she changed her inquiry slightly to "Why did my son leave me here?" and I wanted to cry.

Not that this particular nursing home mistreated or neglected its residents in any way, but I could never imagine a life for myself or for others close to me within the realms of a nursing home, especially in the psych ward of a nursing home.  The hallways are filled with confused wandering souls, some on so many psychotropic medications, one wonders if they are completely aloof because of their underlying neurological condition or because of the medications themselves.  Many are unable to stand, and some cannot even sit comfortably; several eye exams were conducted while the patient lay in bed.  Some rooms lend a subtle stench of urine.  There are toys in others: boards that light up and shiny holographic pictures on the wall, that are more suggestive of a daycare facility for toddlers than a home for those well into their eighties and nineties.  I guess there is very little difference between needy toddlers and the elderly who can no longer care for themselves.  Except the extensive medications.

Medication after medication, and they're not just psychotropic medications.  I flip through the hundreds of pages of the residents' health records to include important health history as part of the eye exam.  Medications for diabetes, high cholesterol, high blood pressure, osteoporosis, heart disease, skin conditions, et cetera, et cetera.  While the medications alone are overwhelming, the disease of the mind is what scares me the most.

I worry less about those in the nursing home than those who are their closest family members.  What about Helen's son?  I'm sure every time he visits his mother, he feels remorse and probably a great deal of guilt.  But, what options does he have?  In Helen's condition, it is highly unlikely she could live on her own and probably does need a full time staff to ensure that she is adequately fed, bathed, and medicated.

And the blank stare you get from those who have lost the great majority of their memories: those that look their loved ones in the eye and say "Who are you?"  That is probably worse.


The human brain is an incredibly complex organ; however, it is often only when it starts to fail that one recognizes just quite how astonishing it is, especially in regard to its plasticity and memory capabilities.  This may be selfish, but I hope I keep my mind and my sanity until the end, and I hope those close to me do as well.  I never want to experience what these nursing home residents and their families deal with on a daily basis.

[I AM NOT A] Material Girl

I'm craving material things: new shoes, new clothes, a new purse.  Maybe it's because the wireless function on my router has finally been fixed, so I can now sit comfortably in my rocking chair and not nestled up against the modem connected via a very short cable, which has allowed me to do a little online shopping today (window shopping, or whatever it's called in internet language, as I have not made any purchases).  Or, more likely, it's because my life has been inundated with so many NEW things as of late: a new apartment; a new job with new responsibilities and respect (which is new to me after been an intern for the past two years), a new neighborhood, a new pet, some new decorative things, and many new acquaintances.  I guess somehow in the back of my head, a new wardrobe seems like the next logical step.

As much as I like the song and Madonna, I am by no means a "material girl."  I like nice things, yes, but I prefer simpler things, and usually opt for experiences over purchases -- exploratory "adventure" runs in my new neighborhood, curling up with a good book and a glass of wine (or pumpkin beer, 'tis {almost} the season!), cooking like a madman of my day off, and spending time with people close to me.  And that is why this crave for buying things is truly bothering me.  It's partially the money; even though I now actually make money, I don't want to blow it all just so I can get that Portofino shirt from Express and those crocheted Toms and all the components of the "outfits we love" on the Banana Republic website.  Gahhh.  It's also the fact that I don't really like to buy things without seeing them in person, and the last thing I want to do in the world right now is trek to the mall.  Don't even get me started on the mall; it stresses me out with its crowds and needy preteens and overwhelming food courts, and I can never seem to find a water fountain when I need one.  I used to be excited by malls; now I'm excited by the prepared food bar at Wegman's.  Personalities and priorities change, apparently.

And so, I'm hoping I've blogged some sense into myself.  There's a retirement community across the street with outdoor picnic tables and benches that I have yet to see a resident using (maybe retired people don't go outside???  Just kidding, Mom and Dad).  Anyway, I think I'll take advantage of the nice day and borrow their space to relax and read.  Then I'll make muffins.  And I won't go shopping, or buy anything.  Except maybe eggs...so I can make muffins.

The end.



 

Salt and Pepper Shakers

I used to collect salt and pepper shakers.  While I haven't acquired any new sets in many years, I'm pretty sure the entire collection still rests somewhere in my parents' attic. 

My parents were (and still are) big into antiquing.  I remember taking long car trips to visit my grandparents once a year, taking the back roads and stopping at antique shops along the way.  We'd listen to "Buddy Songs," a cassette tape of songs from Disney movies the entire ride; my brother would insist on playing the "Alphabet Game," a competition to be the first to work one's way through the alphabet by identifying words on road signs that start with the appropriate letter (license plates don't count, fyi); and I would invariably get car sick, usually about 1.5 hours into an eight hour trip.

Whenever we would stop at one of these antique shops, I'd get my hopes up.  I sought the next addition to my collection, a reward for surviving the car trip and winning the alphabet game.  I'd search for the most unique salt and pepper shakers I could find.  Animal sets were my favorite; I probably owned six sets of shakers featuring cats and dogs, and I even had more obscure animals like sheep, chickens, squirrels, and unicorns (if these count as animals).  I had a set of shakers of a farmer and his cow; one of Mr. and Mrs. Clause; one featuring the Pillsbury Doughboy; and a wooden set I believe to be from Morocco.

I was thinking about my collection today, as I was taking the big Morton Salt container from my cupboard, pouring a small portion into my palm, and sprinkling it on my food.  How do I not have a set of salt and pepper shakers in my current apartment?  As sad as it may seem, I have not had a set of shakers in my possession for the past eight years, ever since I moved out of my childhood home.  It dawned on me that perhaps I should acquire one more set for my current home, or visit my parents' attic to pick out the set that will match most nicely with my red kitchen.  It would be so gratifying to stylishly sprinkle these condiments on my food.  Don't get me wrong; the Morton Salt girl is cute.  But, she's no match for the set of bright red cardinals I have hidden somewhere in the depths of my parents' attic.

Weather

It's officially summer.  The expected high of 95 with 85% humidity in New England today ensures all the poor souls who venture outdoors risk the very probable chance that they will melt into a puddle.

Weather is an interesting thing.  We all experience it and react to it.  For those of us unfortunate enough to have fine curly long hair, it makes for adventurous hair on humid days.  It's a safe topic for small talk while waiting in line at the grocery store and an adequate fall-back on a first or second date that is lacking in coversation.

It is destructive.  It is the hurricanes, the tornados, the ice storms that wreak havoc and cause hardship.  No one is immune.  There are many things within the realm of control of the human race, but not the weather - never the weather.  We can't control it; we likely can prevent the radical shifts in extreme weather patterns and global warming if we stop burning fossil fuels and decrease carbon emissions, but I doubt we'll see a day where we can convince the hurricane gods to settle down. 

I do wonder, however, if we could make a tornado vacuum.  A huge vacuum that would hover around a funnel cloud and suck it up into oblivion.  That would be cool.

I, personally, have a hard time staying indoors all day.  On days like today, however, it is too hot outside for comfort.  Most things that I like to do involve fresh air and sunshine, and for some reason an obnoxious little voice inside of me criticizes me when I choose to watch a midday movie or bake cookies instead of "enjoying" summer.  So, what's a girl to do?

Well, blog for one.  Also, run at 7am (and still come close to melting in the already unbearable temperatures).  Maybe I'll conquer my inner demon and watch a movie on Netflix.  Or, maybe I'll find a friend and head to a body of water or the frozen food section of the grocery store.  My only hope is that I'll stay in the solid form, and that I will maintain at least some control over my frizz-prone hair.

 

Big Words

It is so irritating when I have a whole afternoon free and am exceedingly motivated to write a blog about some incredible event, full of wit and insight on life's greatest secrets, then start blogging only to delete intro paragraph after intro paragraph.  It is somewhat intimidating to think that what I write could potentially be read by total strangers (I have noticed on the traffic sources link that I have a few readers from Ukraine and Russia.... By the way, who are you guys?).  It is possibly even more intimidating to think that this could be read by mere acquaintances (you know, those people you shared a bench with in orgo lab or those friends of friends you met briefly at a concert you went to years ago that you're still friends with on Facebook who you actually haven't seen or talked to in five to ten years but see no reason to de-friend?).  Sometimes when I write, I don't really think: I just type whatever my brain communicates to my fingers.  My high school English teachers would probably be disappointed (and might be reading this, because we probably have mutual friends on facebook... Oh no!).  I hope they'll excuse the occasional sentence fragment and run-on sentence.  I tend to blog the way I would talk, excluding the occasional big word I feel the need to throw in, mostly to prove to myself that I haven't forgotten its meaning.

Speaking of big words.  (sentence fragment!)  One of my favorite books of all time is To Kill a Mockingbird.  I know what you're thinking: "How lame, everyone and her sister was at one point in time assigned that book in a middle school or high school English class."  I've read this book three times; the first time was as assigned reading my sophomore year of high school.  But, what's interesting is this: while reading this book in high school, we were responsible for learning the meaning to certain words from its pages deemed "vocabulary words."  Using the words in the context of the story, it was an easier and a more practical way to derive the meanings.  Now, To Kill a Mockingbird is by no means the most verbose novel in the world, but to this day I still associate certain "big words" with its story.  I still recall that Alexandra married a taciturn man, the precise definition of tenet, as given in my vocabulary notebook: "principle, axiom, dogma," as well as associate words like "umbrage," "temerity," and "chiffarobe" to its pages.  It's strange (or should I say uncanny/perplexing/idiosyncratic/atypical) that things like this can stick for so long.

Anyway, I guess today's blog started as a frustrated rant and ended with some thoughts on vocabulary.  I can only hope that my audience in Russia will appreciate my efforts, those long-lost acquaintances may want to be re-acquainted, and my high school English teachers won't be too offended.

Lists

Today I bought a chalkboard.  I've been on the lookout for one because I like making lists: to-do lists; grocery lists; packing lists; lists of topics I feel the need to google.  I also don't keep a planner or calendar of any sort, so sometimes I make lists of reminders: dates of events, appointments, birthdays, etc.  But only if I feel my memory won't serve me well.

I'm really excited about my chalkboard. 

I'm not a "neat freak," but I hate it when I find old to-do lists lying around, especially if I neglected to cross off items after their completion, and even more so if I realize that I never even did one or two items on a list that is a month old.  Now I have a fully eraseable list.  There is no chance of it piling up on my end table; it will never turn into a cat toy, and end up swatted under the sofa only to end up as a point of attachment for dust bunnies.

And, it's in plain site.  I can study my list as I make coffee.  I can jot the ingredients down for a new recipe.  I can doodle, which I sometimes do when I think.  I won't waste paper. 

This is fantastic.