Elaine Smith Writes

Anything She Wants

Monthly Archives: October 2012

And then you’re afraid you won’t.

Why I got a flu shot.

[Note:  This post was intended to appear on Oct 11.  I’ve just noticed that I apparently never hit the Publish button.  Ruined my perfect record!]

 

I got my flu shot the other day.

I’ve been getting them every year around this time for the past couple of years.  Never bothered before then because I thought I’d had the flu many times.  I had all kinds of illnesses over the years with flu-like symptoms.  I was pretty miserable each time, but no big deal.  Better than a poke in the arm with a sharp needle, anyway.

Or so it seemed.

And then, I got the flu.

At that point, I realized all those other illnesses were something else.  The flu is to those other ailments as an anaconda is to a garter snake.  You don’t want to fool around with the flu.

When I had the actual flu, I was out of commission for about a week.  Fever, chills, and an aching in the bones that just wouldn’t quit.  It was exactly like that old joke:  First, you’re afraid you’re gonna die.  And then you’re afraid you won’t.

What a misery!  I understood for the first time how it was that the 1918 pandemic killed so many people.  Estimates are as high as 50 million.  I’m sure whatever strain of the flu it was that I had was nowhere near as virulent as the 1918 version.  It was bad enough, though.

Consequently, I get a flu shot every year.  I don’t want to go through that again.  Better a poke in the arm with a sharp needle.

I highly recommend a flu shot if you haven’t already gotten one.  It only hurts for a minute.  (Obviously, you should check with a doctor before taking any kind of medication you’ve never taken previously.  But it’s worth checking.)

Today, I am thankful that I have access to modern immunization procedures.  And I am thankful that I have medical insurance that covers a yearly flu shot.

And I am more than thankful that I do not have the flu!

 

The rules don’t apply to me

Except they do.

I was wondering yesterday, for the umpteenth time, why it is I think I can go without eating?

I get all involved in something, and I don’t want to stop.  Just let me mow this one more patch of grass, pull this one more weed.  Let me check Facebook and then answer this email.  Let me figure out why this WordPress plugin isn’t working the way it should.

Just one more minute.

And then it’s two o’clock, and I haven’t had breakfast or lunch.

My head hurts, I’m tired, I’m making mistakes, and I am grouchier than a grizzly bear.

Everybody has had that happen, right?

Only, I am way old enough to know better—so why?

There are laws of physics, biology, gravity.  Nobody is immune.

The truth is I—and every other human being on the planet—function better with a blood sugar level that hasn’t dropped below 70 and some reasonable amount of sleep.

It’s a fact.  We know this. Why do so many of us ignore it?

It’s like we’re walking around thinking, Okay, I know if I drop this anvil on my foot, it’s going to crash down and break my toes, but today, I’d rather throw it up in the air and watch it float away, and it’s going to do that because that’s what I want it to do.

Yeah.  Right.

One of the things they say in AA—I’ve heard—is you should never let yourself get too hungry or too tired.  It undermines your sobriety.

Here’s another thing.

It undermines your creativity.

Art takes energy.  Your brain needs to be sharp and alert when those brilliant ideas come along.  At the very least, you can’t afford to make the dumb mistakes like not saving your novel before the computer crashes or having your hand tremble as your paintbrush is just about to finish the hat.*

So, why is it that I think I can go without eating?  I really do wonder.

* Stephen Sondheim, Sunday in the Park with George

It’s only slightly related to this post, but I wanted you to understand the reference. Enjoy!

You can do everything

Just not all at once.

Here’s a tip for you.

Multi-tasking is a myth.  So, there’s no point in wishing for that third hand.  Your brain can’t manage as much as you are already giving it, let alone more.

The modern world—and, for all I know, the ancient one—has led us to believe that we are faster and more efficient if we try to do more than one thing at a time.  Check your email while you make phone calls.  Write the report while you watch 60 Minutes.  (Trying to be charitable there.  Most of us are watching Dallas—or Honey Boo Boo, I guess.)

It’s all a juggling act, we say.

The truth is even a juggler is only handling one thing at a time:  a ball, a bowling pin, a fire baton.  The juggler is handling each one quickly, to be sure, and switching her attention more rapidly than most of us to the next, but she’s only handling one.  (I know.  I learned how to juggle in college. Don’t get me started on what my dad said when he realized that’s where my tuition dollars were going!)

Think about it.

Your computer multi-tasks.

Or does it?

If you’ve got any of those tools that analyze its performance, you know that it really doesn’t.  Resource allocation is the term.  Your computer is switching resources rapidly between tasks.  It looks like it’s doing more than one at a time, but it really isn’t.

Thus, the extremely annoying paradox of modern life that you have to do less to do more.  You either have to set things up so that you can focus exclusively on your most important task—which is likely to be impractical—or you have to allocate your resources so that you can focus serially on several important things.

There are things you can do to help make that easier—and some of them are sure to come up later in this blog—but they all tend to involve a few tasks in themselves.

Scheduling.  Prioritization.  Organization. Automation.

I’m sorry.

That’s just the way it is.

Stay tuned for more suggestions, but for now. . .just slow down.

Moving back

It helps to know where things are.

Y’all know I recently moved to Florida.  (Well, okay, it’s been two years—but that’s recent when considered as a percentage of years I’ve been alive.)

What some of you may not know is that I was born here.  And the area to which I moved is the same area I spent many a summer when I was much, much younger than I am now.

And therein lies this Monday’s Miracle.

Because Saturday night, the MotH* got a fish hook stuck in his thumb.  We’ll set aside all the nonsense about how I didn’t respond quickly enough when he told me he wanted me to come out to the garage—because, really, who would think just telling me what the problem was when I asked would take any more time than yelling about how I should just do what he said?  We’ll set that aside.  Mitigating circumstances, and all that.  A fish hook in the thumb can be pretty painful. So he gets a pass on that—although I would like to point out, for future reference, that I respond better in an emergency if it is clear to me that something is an emergency and what the exact nature of it is.

And let’s consider, when we are adding up my crisis management skills, that I did manage to cut the lure, thereby releasing him from the fish, at least, without fainting at the sight of blood.  That’s something I’ve never been sure I was immune to since the one and only time I’ve ever fainted was during a first aid lecture.  (Mitigating circumstances there, as well.  Long story. Maybe some other post.)

And let’s consider that I got him to the emergency room pretty quickly.

That’s the miracle.  Not that I got him there, exactly, but rather that I know where an emergency room is around here.  It’s not like I scope out all urgent care facilities whenever I go anywhere.  (I know some people do that.  I’ve never been sure if they are taking that scouting motto of “Be Prepared” —or hypochondria—to a whole new level.)

I don’t think it has ever occurred to me, in anything other than a vague ‘it might be good to know this’ kind of way, to acquire that kind of data.  It’s possible I always had a vague idea that an emergency needing an emergency room would also need an ambulance, and I feel 99% certain that the ambulance driver will know where to go.

So, this could have been a bad thing.  I might have had to call that ambulance.

But I spent a lot of time here intermittently many years ago.  I know where a hospital is!  I know the way well enough to find it in the dark!  (And I hate to drive in the dark.)  So this is a miracle.

And the thumb is fine.

* MotH = Man of the House

 

What a dump!*

 Where does your trash go?

I’m not entirely sure where the weekly garbage pickup ends up, but out here in the boonies, we make regular trips to the dump.

Anything outside of ordinary household refuse or those things designated as recyclable, must be disposed of by the homeowner.  Either we have to make special arrangements with the disposal company, or we make a trip to the dump.  Consequently, I have a more intimate knowledge of the amount of trash people generate than those who just lug things to the basement for a city super to handle.

It’s amazing—and somewhat horrifying.  I live in Florida, remember.  Where a restaurant is known as Hilltop throughout many management and actual name changes because it sits on what is essentially a bump in the road.  Flat.  The land is flat, flat, flat.

Out at the dump, though, there is a definite—and big—hill.

Landfill.

Every time I go there I think of future archaeologists excavating this giant mound to find out what the people of the twentieth and twenty-first century were like.  And I feel it’s good we have written words.  Although possibly, we might want to get some stone tablets out and do a little better than paper and ink and electrons to preserve our history.

All that aside, though, the dump is a strikingly well-organized place.  You drive in right onto a scale where your whole car— contents, passengers and all—is weighed, and the checker-in gives you a card with a number on it.  Then you make the rounds:  hazardous waste over here, construction debris there.  Metal, plastic, glass, ordinary garbage—all have their own areas.  You empty your vehicle and drive out over another scale.  You  hand in your numbered card, and the checker-out cheerfully announces the poundage you’ve left behind.  Each family is allowed 500 pounds per week.

500 pounds!  Per week!

We’re going to be buried in trash if we can’t figure out better ways to recycle it.

* One of the iconic lines used by Bette Davis impersonators–from Beyond the Forest, based on the novel by Stuart Engstrand, screenplay by Lenore J. Coffee.

Fern and Dina

Sometimes I like what I don’t like.

So, I was in an antique store yesterday.

In addition to antiques, there were a variety of art works on display and for sale.  My eye was caught by a colorful square painting of two sunglassed, bikini-clad women sitting in beach chairs under a bright tropical sky.

I’m not much of a art connoisseur.  In fact, I’m one of those terrible people artists hate because I could say—although I don’t, because I know they  hate it—that I don’t know much about art, but I know what I like.

This painting was not something I particularly liked.  The draftsmanship seemed clumsy, the colors too garish, there were almost no shadows, no perspective.  To be honest, I’m only certain the figures were women because of the title and because the work was so unsubtle as to make me feel that the depiction of long hair could safely be assumed to be an indication of femaleness.

So…in my admittedly uneducated and probably philistine opinion, and only my opinion, I’d have to say it was not a good picture.  I won’t say it was the worst picture I have ever seen. . .but. . .it wasn’t the best.

It did, however, make me laugh out loud and consider, for about half a second, purchasing it.

Because in addition to the beach babes and the bright blue sky, there was something else painted into the picture.  Its title.  In a sort of orangey-red.

Fern and Dina

You probably don’t know why that appealed to me so much.  That’s because you’re missing one critical piece of information.  When I told you I was in an antique store yesterday, I neglected to tell you where.

A little Saturday suggestion here.  Always get the full story.

The reason Fern and Dina, in all their acrylic glory—.  I think they were painted in acrylics.  In fact, I’m almost certain.  The reason Fern and Dina appealed to me so much is I was standing in an antique store.

In Fernandina.

The essence of comedy is the unexpected.

I think I’m going to write “Fern and Dina” up in big letters and post it over my desk to remind me to turn things upside down and inside out and try to look at them through other eyes.

The nut catcher

That’s right.

I said “catcher,” not “cracker.”

Today’s Friday Find is fudging it a little bit, since I haven’t actually found this.  I mean, I have found it—a link to it, anyway—but I haven’t used it.  We’ll call it a future find, okay?

I’m talking about an item that I discovered through an article in last month’s issue of This Old House.  Just as an aside, I’ll mention that I prefer Family Handyman to This Old House—but that’s just me, and this last issue did have a couple of good tips.

One of them was a recommendation for the nut catcher. Actually, its real name is “nut gatherer,” but I prefer “nut catcher”—even though it conjures up a vision, in a totally non-politically correct way, of some little man in a white coat chasing me with an over-sized butterfly net.

This nut catcher, however, has nothing to do with the balance of my mind.  Except in so far as the number of acorns and sweet gum balls that fall into my yard drive me crazy.  To say nothing of the safety issue of the spiky gum balls rocketing out of the side of the lawn mower at some exorbitant number of miles per hour.

The nut catcher looks like it would work—in a highly low tech way.  It may not, of course, and the concept of ‘easy’ might be a relative term—but it doesn’t seem too expensive to take the chance.  I’m thinking I might get one and try it out.

Meanwhile, for your listening pleasure. . .a little ditty that was extremely popular when I was in junior high school.  (Please do not do the math.  It was recorded some years earlier!)

It’s all over

By the time you read this…

…the first Presidential debate of the 2012 election season will be over–which makes this an overwhelmingly thankful Thursday.

The candidates, I’m sure, are thankful to have it behind them.

Their supporters are thankful that, all in all, they can continue supporting their chosen candidate and hoping, praying, working for the defeat of the other guy.  (In all likelihood, neither man did anything so overwhelmingly outrageous during the debate as to cut the legs out from under his campaign.  If one of them did, I’ll have to come back and edit this scheduled post!)

The political pundits and newscasters are thankful that the amount of attention they’ve gotten in the past few hours has ratcheted up significantly.

If an informal poll of my friends is any indication, popcorn makers are thankful that sales increased as folks prepared to enjoy the show.

And I am thankful that we live in a country where debate is allowed, encouraged and even celebrated.  Where we are free to voice our opinions, however partisan, however well- or ill-informed.  Where we are free to judge our leaders loudly, openly, and harshly.  Where we get to see some part of this wacky, nearly always almost broken system play itself out in public, with the freedom to watch it or to ignore it.

The system is, indeed, nearly always almost broken, and yet it seems to survive.  I’m thankful that I get to hope it will survive this time, too.

As Winston Churchill said, “Democracy is the worst form of government. . .except for all those others that have been tried.”

So, I’m thankful for the Greeks and the Athenian democracy, for the Barons at Runnymede and the Magna Carta, and–although their influence on our founders has been disputed–for the Iroquois League of Peace and Power.  (I will step outside my original intention in this post not to take sides, for just a moment, and say that if we’d been influenced a little more by the Iroquois’ reported inclusion of women in our governing processes, we might be better off today!)

It’s an amazing thing we do every four years.

It’s maddening, hilarious, expensive, lofty and idealistic, down and dirty, boring, fascinating. totally insane and immensely important.

Thankful may not be a strong enough word.

Holy Moly!

Where has my mind gone?

It’s Wondering Wednesday, and I’m wondering how—after 118 days in a row and 119 blog posts—I got to 10:15 pm last night without remembering that I had to do a post for today!

Kind of frightening.

And I even had a topic all picked out.

It’s going to have to wait, though, because it’s a much more important “wonder” to wonder what has actually happened to my mind.

Here’s what I hope it is.  I hope it’s just that I haven’t spent the time needed to triage all the projects I have going.  Consequently, everything is of equal importance and urgency.  So, I jump around from one thing to another in a less than organized manner.  It’s a kind of situational ADD.

The answer, of course, is to stop rushing around doing a little bit of this and a little bit of that.  The answer is to slow down, figure out what’s really important–as opposed to what is urgent—and focus on those things.

It’s counter-intuitive.  It feels like I really have to try to make progress on as many fronts as possible.  The truth is the only way to make progress is to concentrate both attention and time in a concerted effort.  It’s not that I can’t accomplish more than one thing in a day.  It’s just that I can’t accomplish more than one thing at a time.

Serial tasking, not multi-tasking.

For that to work, however, I have to have some systems in place.  I have to triage and prioritize.  I have to have lists.  I have to actually look at the lists.

Because all that getting to 10 pm without having done a blog post means, really, is that my systems failed me.  Clearly, this is one of those tasks that needs to have a reminder set, with a loud and recurring alarm.

Because the answer to the question “Where has my mind gone?” is that it hasn’t gone anywhere.  It’s standing in the middle of chaos, bouncing from one thing to another.

I just need to take a deep breath and go back to the basics.

I hope.

A wacky weight loss tip

…or maybe not.

Maybe it’s not so wacky.  And maybe it’s not a weight loss tip.  And maybe everybody else already knew this.

But maybe somebody else will find it useful.

Who knows?
Here goes.  (little poem)

It suddenly occurred to me, a few years ago, and just as suddenly recurred to me this week, that you don’t have to eat breakfast food for breakfast.

“Duh,” you say.

But hold on a minute, and let me explain.

I’ve been reading all kinds of things all my life that say breakfast is the most important meal of the day.  When I was a kid, there were all kinds of articles and little news stories about helping your kid do better in school.

Then, just a few years ago, the Readers’ Digest ran a story about how most people’s weight loss programs fail because they try to make too many changes all at once.  The story advocated making one small change a week.  (I think it was a week—maybe it was a month—but you get the idea, right?)  And the very first change they recommended was to have a good breakfast.

And we’re back to “Duh.”

The thing is—I’m not that wild about breakfast food.  I don’t like oatmeal, eggs—yeah, okay, sometimes but that involves cooking and it doesn’t usually go well for me, soggy cereal—not a big culinary delight, and most other breakfast foods seem way too sweet for early in the morning.  Toast and bagels, I do like, but no one could argue they provide a solid nutritious meal.

But I was reading about this “change one” idea and lamenting the fact that I don’t really like breakfast food when I remembered that runners “carb up” before a marathon by eating pasta.

Pasta!

In the morning.

“Well, why not?” I thought.

So, for a while there, I would have pasta for breakfast. Or a smoked turkey sandwich.  Or, sometimes, a warmed up plate of gaucho chicken, lemon chive potatoes and broccoli from the previous night’s dinner.

It all tasted much better than donuts and pop-tarts.

I had more energy throughout the day.

And I was skinnier.

That last may be a prost hoc ergo propter hoc* fallacy, but it hasn’t been disproven yet.  So, now, in addition to being back on the treadmill, I’m back to having dinner for breakfast.

Try it.

 

* Latin for ‘after this, therefore because of this‘ which is the kind of faulty logic that lets you assume that you broke your favorite glass because a black cat crossed your path earlier. (If that’s one of your superstitions, I’m sorry, but it’s just not true.)


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