Project “Squirrel Out”; Day One: FAIL
Known Status: Squirrel living in roof above front porch. Hole located.
Objective: Chase out squirrel and seal hole temporarily with hardware cloth.
Mission: FAIL
I had been hearing some strange noises, scratching, etc, while I am siting in the living room near the front window. Last Sat, the noises change. Scattering. I enter the porch and listen. The skitter scatter of little rodent feet!! I have a snow shovel (sad and lonely this season so far, fine by me) propped near the door. I pick it up and bang on the ceiling and the thing runs like mad. I bang and bang and chase the thing. My neighbor walking by: “Got a squirrel problem?” Witness, Lovely. She sees it take off up the roof and into the big fir tree. A little red one she says. Terrors they are. I walk around the corner to the side he vacated from and sure enough, there is a whole. Right under where the roof of the house hangs over the porch roof.
FABULOUS.
Like any smart and motivated girl of my generation I jump to the task: I call Dad and hop online for my squirrel solution.
I need a few things: staples for my staple gun . . . how am I always out? Why does it feel like I am constantly buying staples for this things? And hardware cloth. That’s what the roofer dude online said. Stronger and thinner mesh than chicken wire. Ok!
Well, I was loosing sun pretty quick on Sat, and Sunday was in no condition . . . so Monday I get all my supplies and Dad comes over with his big Werner multi-purpose ladder. GAME ON!
I show him where I saw the hole. Which is funny, cause we just looked at that spot a couple of months ago when we thought we saw a squirrel run up in that corner. No hole then. And Dad did my gutters just a few weeks ago. No hole then either. Apparently these guys work fast.
Dad asks about the other side. So glad he did. YEPPP! We have a matching set. I also have a hole in the bag that is old. I do not know if it is being used. Plan there is to stuff the hole with newspaper and watch for it to be disturbed. No disruption? No activity, can go right ahead and seal it up.
With all holes located, Dad stands outside while I start banging on the ceiling. Definitely in there! but not for long. Thing takes off out of the north corner.
We get to work. Seal up the larger south corner hole first. Then move on to the second hole. finish up with the stuffing job in the back. Dad heads home. I make tea and curl up on the couch. Mission accomplished.
Oh, if I only knew then . . .
I start to here scratching noises over in the north corner. I step out and sure enough, I hear the metal mesh being clawed at. I go inside and grab the flash light to see if I can catch the critter trying to get in. Maybe if I scare him a few time that would discourage his attempts to get back in for the night.
I step out shine the light up there . . . nothing. Must have scared him off. Go back inside . .. here comes the noise again, louder this time, sounds more frantic. Again I grab the flash light and head out side. Shine the light up . . .
NO! no no no no no !
What have I done?
The poor thing is STILL INSIDE!! Trapped inside. Trying desperately to get out. Or had been. With the light shining right on him he is frozen still.
The poor thing had sandwiched itself between the netting and the roof. Squeezed flat. I could tell the head end only because I could tell the tail end. Pressing against that wire grid his fur pushed out in all sorts of directions. MAN they are teeny. Flat as a pancake he was. Looked like road kill. I thought for two seconds that it had actually squeezed himself to death getting in that position. But alas, i moved the light for a split second and he was gone. Back into his hole.
How did this happen?!! So stupid. Should have given a bang on the ceiling before in between holes. He must have slipped back in. But it just seemed so unlikely he would run back in with all the noise. We were really noisy,
What’s a girl to do?
DAAAAADDDDD!!!!!!!!!! I am sure he loves these phone calls.
Now of corse my father is not burdened by the “I have done harm to a fuzzy thing” panic I am experiencing. Not that my father has a disrespect for life, I would guess he would say I just have an over sensitivity. We discuss the options and he strongly feels it could and should wait til morning.
If I give the guy a way out tonight, he will just be relieved to have a way out and will not leave. Its sleep time. He is where he wants to be right now. Dad assures me he will settle down and it can be dealt with in the morning. At which point being trapped for over 12 hours might give the guy second thoughts from going back in.
Ok. Father knows best. I hunker down and try not to think of that image of the poor creature trapped against the hardware cloth.
He was quiet for a while. Pretty sure the flashlight right into his eyes gave him an extra scare.
But then he started making noise again. Surprisingly not vocal. No screeching or clucking, just banging, scratching and gnawing. Hate the gnawing sounds. It’s like a broken record tormenting you with the repeating words: more damage, more damage, more damage, more damage. And now the noises are not near either exit point. He’s just gnawing on stuff up there. Well, that’s fine (not really). . . but you keep it up there my friend. No chewing your way inside. Got it?
oh, now he moved back to the exit. Oh! No . . . now he is in the middle of the ceiling . . . Yeah, he is pretty freaked out. Actually, as I listened I started think: He is. He actually is trying to chew his way out. AT THE CEILING LIGHT!! I pop my head out and listen. Sure enough, he is directly at the light. And he is busy.
I am torn at this. I don’t want the damage. I don’t want a squirrel in my porch. Should I bang on the ceiling to discourage him? or will that freak the trapped creature out even more? yeah, I think I should leave him alone. Just in case I however prop the outer door open a few inches so he can get out. I don’t want to walk out into a squirrel attack in the morning.
I can’t help think this would be an ideal time to rip open an escape hole for him in the netting, while he is busy else where. But I stick to the plan. Amanda and ladders are a bad mix. Amanda and ladders in the dark? Yeah I just can’t go there.
As I think about it, it really isn’t a complete failure. I had asked Dad who won today, us or the squirrel. His response: Its a draw. And truly it is. Our patch job was good enough he wasn’t getting out. So had be been out . . . he wouldn’t have been getting back in. He just happened to be in . . . which isn’t what I want. But I don’t think this is what he wanted either.
And now I am jumpy. I hear noise coming from the complete opposite side of the house and I freak out. “It got in! It’s the squirrel!!” Nope, that would be flipper, the roommate’s bird down in the basement. Yeah . . . I think it is time to retire to the bedroom. Stop listening to and for the squirrel. Only one of us needs to be this worked up.
Elevator Etiquette.
Why are there no standards for behavior in an elevator? People act very selfishly in an elevator. I wonder if it is related to how we don’t want to look at someone else in an elevator, let alone talk to them, so we completely disregard their presence. If they are not there, and you think you are alone in the elevator that might excuse your behavior, but you aren’t alone. So show some manners!
Top Ten Rude Behaviors On An Elevator:
1 ) Walk in and stop. Right in front of the doors. And then turn around ready for the ride. They do not go to the back of the elevator or even clear room for you to get inside, even though there are a half a dozen more folks waiting to get on. So WE are forced to squeeze around them to the back. Are they secretly hoping we will think “gee, maybe I will take the next one. This guy apparently wants to ride alone.” If that ‘s the case people, VOMIT when you enter. You will have the entire place to yourself. Don’t worry, we will, under those circumstances, wait another 10 minutes, or hour, for the next one. Hell, I’ll just take the stairs.
2 ) Release the kids! Riding an elevator should be like crossing the street, or trying to manage your way through a crowded place. Hold your child’s hand, and keep them next to you. AT ALL TIMES. Little pig tailed monsters bumping into other passengers because they have not learned the term “personal space” and you fed them a coke just before getting on and the sugar makes them bounce off the walls are not very nice.
3 ) Shoulder Bag Bullies. Oh, you know who you are. You are the woman with a shoulder bag too big for carry on luggage. Maybe you even have two. You would think women who carried these things on a daily basis would have expanded their conscious personal parameters to include that bag. But you haven’t. You still think you take up only as much room as your body. Because of life’s little necessities and your need to have this monstrosity tossed over your shoulder the rest of us now have bruises. What is in there anyway? You industrial strength hair dryer? Here’s a tip for you: take the bag off your shoulder and hold it from the hands in front of you. Better yet, leave the hair dryer at home.
4 ) Talking on the cellphone. I am not going to bring up a discussion on whether it is rude to talk on your phone in a public place. Whatever. BUT IT’S AN ELEVATOR. I do not care how big the elevator is, it is still a metal box. METAL. BOX. Box as in confined small space. Metal as in loud and reverberating. It is not big enough for you to carry on a phone conversation. Why? you ask. It has to do with the idea of shared space. This elevator is not yours. And even if it’s just you and me, you do not have the right to subject me or anyone else to your one-sided conversation. No logical person, in a rational moment, has ever been offended by the words: “can I call you right back?” And if you are not having a rational conversation on the cell phone, you definitely have no business bringing THAT on to an elevator.
5 ) Singing. The only more annoying than being forced to overhear half of someone else’s conversation is the kid singing along to music you can’t hear. Maybe they have their ipod with them, or maybe they are just grooving to music in their own head, either way, no one wants to hear it. This is not your shower, this is not karaoke night. This is an elevator. You have your ear buds in, head phones on, fine, that’s great. Enjoy your little world with your own personal soundtrack. Don’t share it.
6 ) Standing in the doorway. Oh, no we have not talked about this guy yet. He’s different. He is already ON the elevator when the doors open. He is going up or down past the floor you are now attempting to leave. And they don’t move. What? You think this elevator stopped on a technical error? GETTING ON PLEASE!
7 ) Button Hogging. The only thing more annoying than the jerk standing directly in the door way not moving for others, is the jerk standing right in front of the control panel blocking anyone else’s access to the buttons when there is a whole empty elevator to stand in. Do you think your destination is the only one? Are you actively preventing people from selecting a different floor? No. You are just completely unaware and inconsiderate. The idea that you might be hindering someone else by your position of choice has not even crossed your mind. And more than likely, even when three people say “excuse me” and reach over you to push buttons, you still will have no clue.
8 ) Perfume (Cologne). Truly there should be perfume alarms in one’s bedroom just like smoke detectors. They would monitor the amount of perfume or cologne sprayed or placed on the human before they leave the house alerting the user to possible offensive overload. This is a concern for more than just an elevator ride. It is rude period. However, in an elevator, I have no where in the world to go to get away from you. Would you feel badly if you caused an asthma attack or a migraine for someone else? Somehow I don’t think so . . .
9 ) Getting on before others get off. It is an elevator. There is one door that functions both as an exit and an entrance. There is an order to things. Common sense. The elevator has arrived at this floor, you think it is here only because of you. The doors open and you charge in. Worst is when there are a dozen of you rude self-centered idiots flooding the elevator while one single person already riding is trying to get off. Let people off the elevator before proceeding on and no one will get trapped or trampled.
10 ) Not holding the elevator. This gets me. Oh, man, does this drive me mad. You can pretend like you didn’t see me three steps shy of the doors, you can make like you tried but oh, the doors are closing . . . . sorry . . . Don’t know where the door open button is? That’s okay. Try blocking the doors with your arm. I promise you it is not going to chop your arm off. The elevator isn’t going to start to move with your arm out the door. Not that that is what you are thinking. NO! You are just being rude. You think you are in a hurry and it is too inconvenient for you to wait on someone else. Already late? Guess what! You are already late. It is not my fault, it is yours, and getting there one minute less late isn’t going to buy you props from the boss. Give one moment of your time, hold the door. Let one more person on. It won’t ruin your day. If it did, your day was bound to be ruined by something else menial and stupid. And that is, again, your fault. “Think of all the times when others have to wait for you . . . ”
Overall I think an elevator ride is a condensed version of how our world functions. People who behave rudely on an elevator don’t get into an elevator and suddenly turn into jerks. They are most likely rude outside of the elevator. Putting people close together like that, for even so short of a time gives them the opportunity to showcase a concentrated version of our unconscious behavior, good or bad. Our best and our worst traits come shining through. You are either considerate or you aren’t. Next time you ride an elevator, think what kind of person you want to be.
Worthy of Love
There have been a lot quotes floating around out there these last few days about the whole idea of loving oneself. No one can love you til you love yourself . . . Love yourself and all else falls into place . . . . and so on and so forth. You all know them. And these things are true. Always have been.
Formerly, I believed the purpose of such quotes were for those melancholy lonely romantics that have no self worth without love in their life. Focus on loving yourself and Mr. or Miss Wonderful will fall in your lap. Well, that’s bogus. Not the whole “love your self before others can truly love you” bit. I get that. Whatever. That message isn’t for me. I am not really concerned about other people loving me right now. Not really high on my priority list. Especially romantic love. Ish. No room in my life for that crap right now.
But, I really need to listen to the preachy “love yourself” propaganda. Because it truly is about more than how other people see you. How you see yourself, feel about yourself influences every aspect of your life. Your life is based on perception. How you feel about yourself alters how you perceive EVERYTHING. I am a true believer in this. I believe in this more now than I ever did when I did indeed have love for myself. Funny how now that it is gone, I can see how it truly affects my life. I didnt see how I benefitted from self love when I had it.
Having your identity wiped from your life, hitting the reset button on your sense of self, alters how you see, accept, and love yourself. The standards you hold yourself to, the criteria you judged yourself by, they do not change over night, even when your person does. Those things lag behind. Dramatically.
So, with the journey of rebuilding your life and figuring out who you are again, you have the added struggle of relearning how to love yourself. For most of us it took the better part of two decades to form our identities and build self-esteem. Even though they continue to grow and change, you did the hard work, progressed over developing years like everyone else. To do that all over again, with a sense of urgency ( I need to accept myself NOW!!) . . . well, lets just say it is a very different process.
A big chunk of it becomes a choice. Mental gymnastics. Choose the proper perspective. Think the right way. But no matter how you spin it, deciding you love yourself and doing so are very different things. Its a bit more complicated . . . and yet fundamentally simple all the same. Simple. Not easy.
If you pull yourself out of the equation for a minute and look at why we love. Value. We love because we value. Simple concept. We value our friends, our family, our pets. Because they have value to us, we love them. For those of us that love life and believe in the preservation of wildlife, and the environment, and people, we do so because we see the value in all life. For those that love their money and their cars: its all about what one values. Screwed up priorities not withstanding.
Bring yourself back into the picture. What does it mean for those of us living life without love for ourselves? We hold no value in ourselves. For those that do love themselves they know themselves to be of value.
Its kind of a scary thought to know that truly, deep down, I see no value in myself what so ever. The realization of something like that is far scarier than the oppressive life style of not loving yourself. The understanding of that simple concept is ground shaking. This is where I was when it hit me: There is something very wrong with that.
It changed my battle tactics. I have been hanging on to the excuses . . .the reasons why i do not love myself, with a mile long list of all the things I wasnt anymore. sabotaging my progress. The reality of it is . . . well . . . i am not what i am not. I am what i still am.
The people that love me, still love me, do because of what I am. And the reality is, they never loved me for the things I was and am no longer, anyways. Those things I lost, the career, the organization, the cooking, the reading, the running, the eating, did not define my worth, my value. They did not make people love me.
What things in people are of value? What things make some one loveable? What are the things that others have seen in me? Can I see those things in myself?
I am sure I could. If i looked. I just need to start looking at those things. Need to take the time to evaluate myself on truthful and worthy characteristics, like loyalty, honesty, charity, kindness. Those are the things that make a person up from the inside. Its not about what job they go to everyday or how clean their house is, or how healthy one is. The unhealthy, messy, under-employed people of the world still deserve to be loved. And so do I. I deserve to be measured in the same ways I measure those around me. Need to determine my actual value. My worthiness of love.
It is in there. I will find it. After all, Amanda means “worthy of love.”
Sine Sine Qua Non
Sine Qua Non
“Without Which Not”
Traditionaly a legal term, but also used in medical terminology, philosophy, and just plain English. Though, its not English. It is Latin.
Sine qua non, a noun, or a condition . . . often translated as “without which cause not”.
The essential element. Without this thing. . . it just isn’t.
Cheese in the macaroni.
Chocolate chip in the Tollhouse cookie.
The pig in the bacon.
Yes, I just stated all food. Very important foods . . . . if you will: they would be the sine quibus non (plural) of my diet. Ah, I wish this was true. What is true is that those three things are on my favorite food list, I just don’t need them, they are not vital, and I do not eat them with regularity.
In all seriousness, I did not want to talk about food. I wanted to talk about life . . . purpose.
There is an episode of Battlestar Galactica (this century, not last) entitled the same: Sine Qua Non. Their definition, quoting a line from the show:
“those things we deem essential that without which we cannot bear living. Without which life in general loses its specific value . . . . becomes abstract.”
Most of the time I feel I am living sine “sine qua non”. Life has become abstract. A more accurate statement I would be pressed to find. I have lost my sine qua non. I have lost my essential element that makes life feel worth living. What was my sine qua non? Perhaps what it might be for most of us: Purpose.
One’s purpose is not the same as another’s. Our drives are not the same. Whether it is love, family, charity, country, money, sport, or even self, we all have a driving force. Some more noble than others.
Perhaps my former purpose was not so noble. Perhaps its specific loss should not be mourned, or sought. Perhaps endeavors such as efficiency, perfection, control were driving forces building a life that would have left me empty, alone, unsatisfied. I truly never was satisfied. I felt satisfaction and complacency were the same. And complacency was death.
Perhaps now my journey has flipped. Emptiness is now . . . at the beginning. Sparing me from a life of empty at the end. A second chance to find a better purpose. A more noble, fullfilling one. To live a fuller more promising life.
in the mean time: emptiness. purposelessness . . . . sine sine qua non.
Do you know your sine quibus non? ask yourself . . .
Bat-tastic
Well, the wonders of home ownership never cease. The adventures of Amanda and Luna never get old around here either.
Sitting on the couch in the living room, staring at the tree, watching some hulu . . . drinking some egg nog, there is a very familiar sound of Luna running down the stairs, followed by a highly unusual sight of something dark flying through the air coming out the doorway from the stair well. And of corse the thing looks HUGE. It circles once around the dinning room and swooshes right into the dinning room curtains. That I JUST hung.
I am getting desensitized. I didn’t jump. I didn’t make a sound. I watched these brief seconds unfold. . . and thought to myself: “great. just great. This is not how I wanted to spend my night off.”
Luna is at the base of the curtains, reaching as high up as she can on her two chubby fuzzy back legs. She gets the curtain in her claws and starts to shake, trying to knock the creature down. I think: pretty smart. Still just watching. Now, the bat does not dislodge like Luna hopes . . . so she now tries to climb the curtains.
Yep, this game is over.
I am up, off the couch and into the other room before both back feet are off the floor. “Luna, No!” She knows “no”. like I said, smart. She also knows that tone . . . No yelling. A very low, “don’t you even think about it” kind of tone. She lets go, gives a mew . . . and sits and stares at me and the then the curtains.
I look at the curtains. See nothing.
Great. Now where did it crawl off to? Cuz I know it didn’t fly off.
I lean over to the wall and look through the curtains. oh, yeah, there he is. Positioned snugly between the sheers and the drapes.
Now how in the world am I going to peel back the drapes without sending this thing flying?
I take one look at Luna, who is waiting anxiously for more live action play, and realize first things first. The cat has GOT to go. I see rabies and falling over Christmas Trees in my instant future and will have none of that.
I head up the stairs and call the fuzzy one . . . she follows. This is easier than expected because the bat came from upstairs, and what I learned with the mice is if she “looses” it or it just doesn’t come out from hiding in two seconds, she gets bored really easily and back tracks to where she saw it before. She follows me right upstairs, and in to my bedroom and she is sniffing all around like a blood hound.
Great. Came from the bedroom. Probably the shoe closet. Which I actually go into and grab a shoe box, dump the shoes, and proceed to shut the cat in the room. I tell her I am sorry. But that she is not invited. I would come back for her soon. She is such a good girl.
My bat-in-the-house instincts kick in and I go open the front door, and go prop open the porch door. I know how this works. Bats don’t want to be in your house. He starts flying around again, he will leave.
Oh, please, Amanda . . . such an idiot!! ITS THE MIDDLE OF DECEMBER!!! HE’S IN HIBERNATION!! He wants to be in your house a lot more than he wants to be out THERE!!!
Doors get shut.
I unhook the drapes from around the tie back, let them fall and start pulling the drapes along the rod from the opposite side thinking to draw back the first set and expose the little guy. Something’s not right. Something is not working here . . . the sheer (on a totally different rod) starts to come with the outer set of drapes.
OH! MAN! I take the two steps to the other side of the window and peak. Sure enough, the little bugger is latched on to both sets. he’s got three of his four little bat claws into the sheers and the last hanging onto the drapes.
But amazingly, this little guy did not move. I tug a little bit more on the drapes til he is more exposed and spread eagle on top of my curtains. and still . . he does not move. He is SOUND asleep. huh.
AW . . . you’re super pretty! Such a handsome coat! (who am I, really?) but yes, these words came out of my mouth. He was beautiful. Chestnut colored fur, bright sheen to it. He was good sized, four inches in body length. And had a bright white belly. I didn’t know bats could have white bellies. Makes him cuter. Like Bambi.

Well, this I have to document. I grab my camera, not that he is out in the open and snap a couple of shots.
And then looking at this guys hanging position, there is no way I am going to nudge him into the box while he’s hanging between my curtains. huh again.
The only thing I can think of to get this guy down is to . . . swallow . . . remove him with my hands.
Well, I know better than to touch a bat with my bare hands. i need gloves, preferrably leather. Their teeth are small and won’t bite through leather. I get the gloves. When I get back. The thing is gone.
WHAT?!! HELL NO!!!
Hello?
Where did you go?
Please don’t be somewhere I can’t find you . . .
I lift the curtains . . . looking at the rod, the floor . . . I panic and look in the garland and the Christmas tree. I think: he didn’t go far. The dude is sleepy. I go back to the curtains, looking and looking. Dude found good camo.
As I am calling to this little creature and lifting the curtains my roommate walks into the room. “What are you doing?” John asked, just as I found the little guy. Peeling back the curtain I said, “John, meet our new house guest.”
“What?” he steps closer . . . . ” your kidding me. Is that bat?”
“I know right?”
“What are you going to do?”
I don’t know John. Get a second one so I can have a pair and start a trend decorating with bats? I told him I had grabbed gloves, and had an empty shoe box. I asked if he would do me a favor and help. “Sure”, he says.
AWESOME!! I hand him the box. I get on my step stool, put on the gloves, point at the little guy who still looks sounds asleep and said “Now don’t you dare come flying at my face!”
And I hesitate. “Oooohhh!”
And John, God bless him . . . and forgive me for all the bad thought and judgments and frustration . . . John asks if I want him to do it. “Are you sure?” “Yeah,” he says.
I ask him if he thinks his hands will fit in my little girl gloves (not that I am a little girl, my gloves just happen to be slender and made for women) and he is not a big dude at all and says yeah. So he puts on my pink leather gloves (don’t ask me why I have pink leather gloves, I don’t know. I don’t even know if they are really mine) and hops on that stool. Without hesitation he takes both hands, cupping gently takes the bat between his hands and tugs just enough to free his grasp from the curtain. I had the shoe box held up and ready, lid positioned just so. John places his hands inside the box and I closed the lid around his hands, and John slides them out of the box.
It was slick. easy. sweet. expert.
The dude is a manager at PetCo. LOVE IT!! For once this is a good thing. He has a magic touch with little critters.
Well, the bat doesn’t think so. He is SCREAMING. Man bats are loud. John even comments on how loud he is. We take the box outside; all through the house I am saying “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I am sooooo sorry!”
I set it on a bush, and flip the lid.
I have psyched myself up so much for this thing to come flying out I pre-emptively squeal like a girl and jump back like three feet. Yeah . . . that was embarrassing. The thing doesn’t even get out of the box right away. It just SCREAMS. And we watch it. And my heart sinks. This little guy isn’t going anywhere. He tries to fly a bit and lands in the bush wings spread, all the time still screaming. I know that bats don’t take off from a seated position really well, that they tend to drop from a hanging position and take flight while falling. But . . . he looked so sad . . . and John I questioned if he was gonna try to go anywhere.
My heart sinks even more. . . knowing I have essentially just killed this bat. It is 16 degrees outside, and will drop to 3 tonight. This little mammal will not make it. Why did it leave its little nest for the winter? It should be hibernating!! Yes, it was probably hibernating in my attic . . . possibly with a few of its good friends. Like I said: fun never stops here!
Perhaps he is sick. John thought he could be, he was not moving well . . . but the thing is in hibernation mode, too. Acting drunk and slumberish seems appropriate for the season. But again, flying around the house is not. If is it sick, forbid has rabies, I won’t feel so bad having just sentenced it to freeze to death. Well . . . yes, I still feel terrible. But it couldn’t just spend the winter in my dinning room curtains. I just really hope I don’t find a bat carcass come spring. I will bawl my eyes out.
Meantime, I released Luna. She sits at the base of the curtains crying for a while. Reaching up on her hind legs every once in a while and running away as fast as she can with a single look from me or snap of the fingers. Only to return to the base of the curtain when she think I’m not looking. She doesn’t quite get the fact that its gone. Once again Mommy has taken away her toy. I’m a mean mommy.
And apparently a rodent hostel. Mice, Squirrels, Bats . . . any other rodent out there that needs a home? Apparently my house is your house!
Yeah . . bats are going to be a problem. They give birth in the spring . . . have to wait for the babies to be air born before I can bat proof. But then I am planning on having my roof done, which will probably only drive them into the walls or worse . . . into the house. First things first: time to seal that hole in the shoe closet!
The Tragedy of CTE and those that do not care if they get it.
An interesting episode of A Gifted Man on CBS from a couple of weeks ago, “In Case of Memory Loss”, deals with the subject of CTE, Chronic Traumatic Encephalopathy, a sad progressive degenerative disease most common in professional contact sport athletes who sustain concussion or head injury after concussion or head injury. The episode is about an NFL player who has no idea who he is, lost, confused, damaged. Nothing shows up on the MRI, and the tech says, “Since when is a normal MRI mean bad news?”
One of the most scary things about CTE, like many head injuries, they do not appear on scans or MRIs. The scariest thing about CTE is that it can appear months after repeated injury. . . . or decades later. You’re fine, you’re fine, you’re fine . . . then you’re not fine. And you will never again be fine.
Right now the only physical proof that one suffer(ed) from CTE is autopsy. There is a movement in the professional sport world where athletes are donating their brains to science. Upon their death, many of those suspected to have CTE are turning over their brains in hopes that we will one day better understand it.
I would like to know what it will take to better respect and fear it.
American football players, hockey players, boxers and even professional wrestlers sustain head injuries and get right back out there and play, putting themselves at further risk. With every head injury your risk for further injury increases. But they do not care. They can work with a head injury. Hell, they would rather have their heads bashed than their knees blown. Because they know they wouldn’t be able to work afterward, and their lifestyle for their families would disappear. I much prefer having my brain in one piece than my knees to be honest.
Yes, they do take the one or two weeks off to prevent Second Impact Syndrome, which can be fatal. This is where the first concussion has not healed before receiving a second, causing the brain to massively swell. But the risk to one’s cognitive facilities do not magically end at two weeks. They are at risk for life.
There has been much news lately about Pittsburgh Steeler Troy Polamalu who has sustained multiple head injuries during his career. He and his wife have been told the severe long-term risks of his continued playing. He was actually fined $10,000 last month after calling his wife on the sidelines during a game to assure her he was alright after taking another hit to the head. Yeah, he’s alright . . . for now.
I find it ironic that the Pittsburgh Steelers are having so much news lately of head injuries. In ’09 there was lots of buzz about their star quarterback receiving his third concussion at that time. Hines Ward suffered a concussion late in the season last year. And this year fans hold their breath hoping Polamalu is ok. . . The irony comes from and interview one of their own, LB James Harrison, did a year ago for Showtime. One I have brought up before. In this interview he states he’s okay with the idea of being a blubbering vegetable later in life, as long as he was able to work long enough and make enough money so his kids are ok. WHAT?!!
“And though the league’s intention is to curb head injuries and the devastating consequences they can have, the potential trade-off of suffering a degenerative mental condition later in life is worth it to Harrison.
‘To be honest with you, I’m not too concerned with it,’ he said. ‘If that happens, you know, it’s gonna suck. But hopefully I’ll (have) made enough money and put in enough time that my kids don’t have to worry about it. And if I got to go through a little bit of hell so that they don’t have to, I’m fine with it.’ ”
SHAME ON HIM. Shame on all of them . . .
All I can think is 1) he is talking about and accepting a hell he does not understand, and 2) his seemingly selfless mindset is entirely backwards. A decade or two from now, I am sure his children would rather have their father, than money in the bank. If the money is still in the bank.
What’s the big deal? you ask . . . CTE and the hell it brings. That’s the big deal. Dementia, Memory Loss, and not the where did I put my keys kind, depression, aggression, and the complete alteration of the person. What is so sad is we spend billions of dollars trying to figure out cures for diseases like Alzheimer’s . . . while diseases like CTE are PREVENTABLE.
Knowledge in the world of head injuries is growing dramatically. So is awareness. But acceptance as a real and formidable and dangerous life altering injury . . .we are far from it. Back to the Steelers again, Roethlisberger has gone on record stating he believes a lot of players go to great lengths to hide their head injuries. They don’t want to be taken out of the game. Attitudes like that, and like Harrison’s, what does that teach the millions of kids that idolize these sports heroes?
A half million sports related head injuries are reported in US hospital emergency rooms annually. 70% of football related deaths are due to head injury. Highschool football accounts for the majority of all football head injury related deaths. This isn’t just concern for national football “heroes”.
One of the scariest pieces of information I wish to share with you is about a 21 year old junior lineman at the University of Pennsylvania that committed suicide in 2010. His name was Owen Thomas. Owen was the youngest person to be found with CTE, and only the second non-professional. Don;t thinking they’ve been doing much looking there . . . The medical experts believe his suicide was directly related to the CTE. The saddest part of this all is that Owen never missed any play time due to concussion. Never any record of one. They believe he played through concussions and potentially suffered thousands of sub-concussive impacts to the brain. at 21.
You have never heard of Owen Thomas. So he might not be of any interest to you . . . But you might know names like Lou Creekmur, Chris Henry, John Grinsley, Tom McHale and for my Chicago friends, Dave Duerson, all post mortem diagnosed with CTE. For NHL fans you might recognize the names of Reggie Fleming or Bob Probert.
One of the most famous deaths of recent years in the sports world, Chris Benoit, a WWE professional wrestler, who killed his wife and his son before committing suicide in 2007, was also diagnose with CTE upon autopsy. I am sure his son was really glad his daddy had made a lot of money during his sports career, too!
My apologies for the bad attitude. I might be a tad biased being thrust into the world of brain injury by no control of my own. And I do admit the NFL is trying to change regulation to protect their players, tightening down on helmet to helmet contact. But the players and the fans need to take it seriously, too. The way I see it, this issue should be a game changer. Literally.
I give a lot of props to John Mackey’s wife who is still advocating for awareness and change inside the NFL. John Mackey died after battling with dementia for ten years. He died at 69. They founded a program called the “88 plan” which provides help for former players with their nursing home or adult care bills. For a lot of former players, when they need it the most . . . the money’s gone.
But more needs to be done, not just for the guys that are now living through that terrible hell. . . But for those that could be preventing it. But I somehow have little faith in a $5 billion dollar industry, such as the NFL, making much change.
But you parents out there . . . your awareness, and your kids’ awareness on the subject could be life saving. Teach them to respect their bodies, the importance of them being sound for their entire lives, teach them there is more to life than the game. Teach them the courageous thing is not to get up and keep playing, to push on, but to live long. You can make a difference in this young generation. I don’t think any parent wants to have the next Owen Thomas in their future.
Peace, Health, and Wisdom be with you.
Accessory Envy
I have an accessory problem. It started as shoes when I was very young. There was a whole semester in high school where I was dared to go everyday without repeating the same pair of shoes. And I did . . . I even kept a journal of the shoes I wore on what day. Kinda wish I knew where that was. Man, I was crazy.
It grew into jewelry when I started to work for a jewelry store, and then eventually I got into coat and jackets. Never got into purses, but I am young yet. I have asked myself on several occasions if I really need to have all that I do. Lets be honest, there are people out that don’t have shoes . . . and I have hundreds. Yes, I just said hundreds. I actually have a shoe closet. Don’t judge.
I ridicule myself when I look through half a dozen pairs of black heals and still feel I don’t have the exact look for my outfit. Or I look at a pair of black boots that are SOOOO different from anything I have, when I have 14 pairs. Now . . . one is patent leather, one are Docs, a pair of cowboy boots, knee-high suede, and then plain leather with a square toe and chunky heal, the biker boots, the ankle boots, the platforms . . . . the point is, they are all so different!! Not interchangeable at all.
And then you have to ask, am I justifying my old habits?
The jacket issue, I began to feel was a little ridiculous. Last year I couldn’t fit into more than like four of them because of the weight I gained on crazy medication. And I had all these gorgeous coats stuffed in the back of the front closet just sitting there. How many you ask? I have no idea.
The major contributor to the bulk would be the light outerwear, transitional jackets. I don’t have a lot of winter coats. Just a Pea Coat and a Columbia. oh,. . . wait . . . full length cream wool, and the full length one from grandma . . . nevermind. Most are all for fall and spring accessorizing!
Honestly, shamefully, we are talking dozens of jackets. Maybe upwards of three dozen. And even more shamefully, there are more jackets I would like to own. I do not have a tradition trench. I would LOVE to have one. Where do you cut yourself off?
I am a deal hunter. Many of the coats are second-hand or bought at steals. I am justifying myself again. Ugh . . . It really is silly on some levels. I have a whole bunch of jackets just for running!! And I don’t even do that anymore! I took a good hard look at them the other day asking myself if I could weed through them. Nope . . . at least not right now.
I have lost almost all the weight I gained and now fit back into my glorious collection! So its kinda fun and a big deal right now as I plot my entire ensemble, coat included!!
And then, I have met a woman here at work. One of the residents, who has, it would seem, a similar problem. I think a much worse problem. And I do not judge!!! I think that woman wears a different jacket everyday! I am constantly complimenting her on her coats! It is mind boggling the jackets this woman has. And they have to be EXPENSIVE!!
She has done two things for me:
1) made me very comfortable with the amount of coats I own.
2) makes me want to go shopping for more!
I can resist the second. I can’t afford to go shopping at this point in my life. But I am kind of pleased with the resulting number one conclusion. I love my outerwear! And I will wear them happily, guilt free, feeling lovely in them! Thanks to the woman who has more coats than me!
As for my shoes . . . don’t even think about mentioning it! I wont think I have a problem until I lose count of them in the thousands and need a custom-built closet. Like these ladies!
Class Act on Metro Transit
It must have been classy night on the southbound 18 tonight. I think I missed the memo. Good thing I was coming from work, or I would have felt underdressed!
It took me a few minutes of looking around to notice that this wasnt the regular crowd. It was my bus. Same time, same bus driver. . . but not the type of people I am used to. Nothing against folk that take the bus, but you know the people who are riding at 12:30 in the morning. The angry old homeless man, the dirty old man, the middle aged dude that talks to himself, the young little skinny hoodlum way in the back, the black lady talking too loud on her cell phone (well, she’s always on the bus), the young artsy girl who says hello to everybody (and you wonder if she is old enough to be out that late), and the super quiet tiny latino man. Always have one super quiet latino, especially on the 18 which travels down Nicollet stopping midway on its trek out of downtown on Lake Street.
These are my late night travelers stuffed into their faceless, nameless stereotype boxes. And I like that crowd. That time of night, everyone is generally really nice. Well . . . not the angry homeless guy . . . And everyone is so quiet . . . well not the loud lady on the phone . . . BUT sooooo much quieter than any other time of day. Its almost peaceful. . . relatively . . .
But tonight there was no one talking on their cell phone. There was no hoodlum in the back. No scary old man, no homeless, and no artsy chic. There was a latino, but he was BIG, and wore really nice close, nice shoes. . . evidently coming from work somewhere as I was. There was a gorgeous black couple way up the front with their little, and I mean LITTLE, girl in a stroller completely passed out. It must have been her birthday. They had two mylar balloons attached to her stroller, a gift bag reading “Happy Birthday” with some sort of stuffed thing trying to fall out of it. If it was her birthday she must have turned two. But she was a little two. And her winter coat with the fur lined hood was WAAAAYYY too big for her. But she will probably grow into it nicely as the winter comes and goes.
Mom was passed out too, leaning with her back to the window, head thrown back. She was a beautiful woman. And her little girl the cutest thing I have seen since Mariam went back to the big dessert land on the other side of the world. Dad was also a good looking fellow. Had the most lovely corn rows I have seen on a guy and a perfectly groomed mustache. He was trying to stay awake, but kept nodding off, his head lolling forward every few minutes. They must have had one fun night!
Woman across the way from me had magnificent hair!!! Braided until the middle of her crown, then left natural and long!! Except for the color. A mahogany, or more of a black cherry really, but not all was colored, it was fused in with her black hair, but way more than highlights. May have been a weave . . . a really really nice one. I want to use the word stippled, but I really have no idea how to describe it. Such a great look.
A few minutes in to my ride another black woman gets on and she put everyone else on the bus to shame as far as class goes! She was an older woman, heavier. But lovely! Probably in her 50’s, though so hard to tell because African Americans age so well! Her hair in a flawless french twist, large tasteful gold hoops and matching bangles on her wrist. Brown boots I would kill to have in my closet and wrapped up in this shawl in the most gorgeous copper and gold tones.
There was a middle aged man who talked to himself, but even he was cute. Not in the hot way, but in the arent you adorable I want to know you name and be your secret santa so I can get you something really fun, kind a way. He was not annoying. He was super respectful, and seemed to be on good terms with the driver. Driver spoke to him all familiar as he left and the guy who had been rocking in his seat talking to himself wished the driver a good night as he left. He was also very clean, clean cut. Just wearing shorts when it was 50 degrees out, no coat, and had the general demeanor of a 12 year old kid. A very well mannered 12 year old.
As I pulled the line to request my stop, the super classy lady also stood to get off. I followed her, exiting the bus and actually called to her, “Ma’am,” I said, “I just want to say how classy you look . . .” And she just walks off. I notice she has ear buds in. She can’t hear me. I actually give an audible “oh” in disappointment. When someone looks that good, they should be told. As I crossed the street heading east, she crossed the street heading south and I thought: I hope someone told her that today.
Actually hope everyone on that bus knows how cool, or adorable, or classy they are.
Shoe School For Men
I have GOT to go on record here . . . I have stayed silent far too long. I have watched the disasterous footwear out there for so long, I have admitedly grown partially complacent over the bad desicions and ingnorance out there, mostly from men, on what they should put on their feet.
NO MORE!! Be warned. The fashion police are coming to get you!!! Men, Listen up!!
Just because this world has grown more casual, and in many cases lost respect for appropriate dress, does not mean that when a man wears a suit he can neglect his foot wear. Something I do not understand: if you are going to spend good money, or even medicore money, on a man’s suit . . . why would you not carry your attention down to the detail of your footwear? Don’t just look in the mirror from the waist up. What about your shoes?
The choice of footwear is just as important as the choice of hemline, pant style, and the width of your tie. Things that have also started to slip, if you ask me . . . YES, people do look at your feet. You can tell a lot about somneone by their shoes.
There are many things to consider in a shoe and when it is appropriate to wear certain shoes. There are fine details of a shoe that make or break it in the formal department. There is a difinitive scale from casual to most formal. Pay attention to the upper, the quality of the leather, the shine. AND POLISH YOUR SHOES!!! A general rule to remember: the higher the shine, the more formal the shoe. Patent leather is very formal.
Pay attention to the laces, how close they are, and for all that is holy in fashion, DO NOT lace them cris-cross like one does with sneakers. A dress shoe with a suit should be staright-laced (yes that is wear that comes from), as in laced horizontally. If you do not know how, look it up! Ian can help you.
The distance between the laces is also a determination of how formal the shoe is. The distance between the laces is called the crossover. A wider crossover is a less formal shoe. That said, a formal shoe has laces!! A slip on shoe is less dressy. Now I am a sucker for sexy, modern shoes with a smooth upper, no laces. And in some environments they work perfectly. The same goes for a loafer. A loafer is decidedly casual wear. You can wear them with a suit, but be selective on the occasion. The office, maybe a meeting, never dinner. Add a tassle to that loafer and it just moved down a notch on the casual wear.
Wingtips: famous, highly common shoe known by the rest of the world as Brogues, that made its way into the everyday scene here in America during the mid 20th century. The wingtip is a semi-formal shoe. Zappos.com weighs in, “It’s appropriate for a business casual or suited office look, but not for a formal dinner or with a tuxedo. In such circumstances the Oxford is required, although this distinction is often lost in an increasingly casual society.” A sentiment I highly agree with.
Cap toes are more formal than a wingtip. A tradition Oxford is the more formal option. Another easy to remember tip: the less embelishment on the shoe, the more formal the shoe. If you do not know what these terms and shoes are AskMen.com has a great easy to understand guide to the five most common dress shoe.
As plush as suede might be, as a shoe material, suede is very casual and should NEVER be worn with a suit. I will repeat this: Suede shoes should NEVER be worn with a suit. Wear them as much as you like with trousers and a sport coat . . . NEVER a suit.
And the big thing that really gets me . . . the thing that actually spurred on this tutorial: THINK TWICE BEFORE GRABBING YOUR BROWN SHOES!!!!
Brown is not the new black. It never will be. Black is always black. And black is always the more formal shoe. And the most versitile. Hogwash to the idea that you cannot wear black with a navy suit. My father put me straight before I was ten years old. That saying applies to women, not men, and according to Donna Karan, it doesnt apply to women’s fashion anymore either (though I will be a tough convert). Black is for most of you men who own three pairs of shoes, is your BEST choice.
The darker the shoe, the more formal. If you have a navy suit, get a pair of shoes that REALLY look nice with them. If you do not want to go black, try a dark burgundy, or an oxblood. Leave the brown at home. There are people out there that will tell you a dark brown is ok. It would have to be REALLY dark, like an espresso. General rule #3: The shoe should always be darker than the pant.
Leave your brown shoes for brown and tan and olive suits.
The most ignored aspect of a shoe? What is the bottom of the shoe made from? Look at the heal, the arch, and the thickness of the sole. A rubber soled shoe should never be warn with a suit. Do I need to repeat that one, or is that common sense enough? Men all over where clunky, ugly, heavy soled shoes with their suits. No. Actually, just get rid of those . . .
No matter what shoe choice you make, solidify it with a matching belt. Your belt should be as close to the color of your shoes as humanly possible. In the world of men, you can find a match. Your color options are not that extensive!
And then when you have the right shoe and matching belt, pay one more ounce of energy to the attention of your socks. Your socks should match your pant, unless you are wearing a tan suit, or lighter suit, in that case, match your socks to your shoes.
I am sure I have left some things out. But over all, this should help make your entire look a polished one. And women, don’t leave it up to your men! They have no idea what is going on. Their dad’s didnt teach them, their mother’s didnt teach them. It is your job. Don’t you want him to look nice when he’s trying to look nice?
Again, if the effort is being made to put on a suit, make it count.
“The Elderly”
Why do we use the term “elderly”, or “the elderly”, to talk about old people? The true definition of elderly is not really “old”. Dictionary.com’s definition reads: “somewhat old; near old age” AND “of or pertaining to persons in later life.” The second definition . . . how did that come about if the word “elderly” means basically “almost old.” Have we created a classification of people under the term because its more PC than calling them Blue Haireds or Old People? Let’s face it, we do not use the term for people who are almost old. That is reserved for “middle aged.”
I suppose it is important to note there really aren’t good terms to choose in place of “old”. The thesaurus at Dictionary.com lists:
“aged, along in years,ancient, broken down,debilitated,decrepit,elderly, enfeebled, experienced, fossil, geriatric, getting on, gray-haired, grizzled,hoary, infirm,mature, matured, notyoung, olden, oldish, over the hill, past one’sprime,seasoned,senile,senior, skilled,superannuated, venerable, versed, veteran, wasted”
Not so pretty . . . These terms for the most part are awkward, incorrect, clinical or just plain rude. Can you imagine us referring to the lot as “The Superannuated”? Not really.
Maybe it has a lot to do with our inability to accept aging. Or how “old” is so very relative. There are people of a certain age that it is nearly impossible to see as old or to come close to reconciling them with their age. Just take one good look at William Shatner. The man turned 80 this year. 80!! And he looks 65.
Whether due to botox, plastic surgery, longer life span, more activity in later life, or people’s refusal to grow old, people are staying “younger” longer. My mother’s parents were OLD when I was little. My grandparents in their early sixties were OLD. They looked old, they acted old, they were the proverbial old grandparents. They spent the last 20 plus years of their lives being old. My father who hit 62 last year isn’t as old as they were at that age.
Now there is something very cute about the few really old people you run into. The “elderly”. They hang on to so many of their habits from yesteryears. Mom and I were just silly about the cuteness of the old lady we saw on Sunday driving her old car. I don’t remember what the car was but it was 25 or 30 years old. And like new!!! And like a mint green! Bleck! Mom pointed out that she more than likely bought that car brand new. She was so adorable just moseying along, putting her way through the parking lot, driving with her clear plastic rain bonnet on her head tied under her chin. My grandmother use to wear those! Goodness . . . only the elderly . . .
And last night at the restaurant, in comes this OLD couple, shuffling in. She is just this little thing with white poofy hair, and he is hunched over, now shorter than she, all decked out in his kelly green pants and matching green and pink plaid blazer. They were so cute!!
And our senior resident had stashed a cookie in her purse for the office manger to take home to her husband. She is 98, I believe, French, walks with a walker, and deaf as all can be. She knew she had the cookie in her purse, but could not locate it by just sifting through. So! Out comes the contents of the purse! She splays the items on the counter and it’s like Wakko’s bag from Animaniacs. Out of this tiny bag comes a huge pile of not so small things. This in itself is comical.
First thing she pulls out, two dinner rolls wrapped in a paper napkin. She has just come in from being out. I can assume she had eaten out and wrapped the uneaten bread up, shoved it in her purse to take it home. Another thing my grandmother did with frequency. Bread, baked potatoes. . . . anything. And no doggie bags, just straight into the purse!
The second thing to be pulled out? A clear plastic rain bonnet!!! I do not remember all what else was in that purse, but everything was big and bulky and both seemingly out of place and completely perfect. She was just too adorable for words in that moment.
I wonder if that genre is a dying bread. I know my mother won’t be driving a 30 year old vehicle in a rain bonnet, EVER. The baby boomer generation will probably never turn old as we know it. We will watch them age, but not the same as we have seen before. The largest, and noted as the most powerful, generation in American history, have spent their lives completely changing the world around them. They are activists, having lived through, and built a new world from, the civil rights movement, the anti-war movement during Vietnam, Women’s Rights. They created a country of economic success, bringing about the bridge from the world of industry into a world of technology. A world once filled with blue and grey collar workers became one of white collar dominance. They changed the idea of middle class. Blew up the middle class. This generation holds 80% of the world’s wealth and is responsible for over 50% of consumer spending.
These people will never be what “the Greatest Generation on Earth” was in their old age. Their parents having lived through The Great Depression and WWII, were hard workers and great people who accomplished great things. But, the events that molded their children, and who they became, and the world they created is so extremely different, they will be a brand new generation of retirees. Retirees that might continue to work, and definitely continue to buy, roll with the times rather than get stuck in the times they knew . . . These people are movers and shakers. No more rain bonnets and plaid jackets and ancient cars. Unless its a classic muscle car . . . a completely different bag.
So . . . with the dying bread, will the term “elderly” eventually die as well? Will we have to create or adapt a new term to suit the newly molded ideas of “old”? For some reason, “almost old” still does not fit these folks up and coming into “the elderly” age.
