Well, the first week of my new chemo regimen is behind me. I can tell already that the challenge is going to be to keep my blood pressure up into the normal range, which has to do with staying hydrated, so I can maintain adequate hydraulic pressure.
I called in a pizza strike this afternoon because, durnit, I deserved a treat. The website practically insists that you tip. Since I don’t know how tips are distributed (probably added into a pot and then split evenly among the drivers), I always tip way low. Then I slipped the nice young man who actually delivered the goods a Hamilton and a couple of Washingtons “off the books” as it were. He was honest enough to point out that the receipt showed I had already tipped, but then, as I pointed out, management didn’t see me slip him the dough.
On my floor, we have a nicely furnished common area with arm chairs, sofas and several card table sets. The laundry room is right across from this area and there are three hallways radiating off from it like half an asterisk (*). My apartment is at the beginning of the northeastern-most hall, conveniently near the trash chute and the people elevator at one end, and the freight elevator that leads to covered parking (and the Greyola) at the other end, so I only share a wall on the kitchen end of my apartment. Next door is a 2 BR, with her kitchen on the wall she shares with me. She has a washer and dryer hookup with one of those ecologically friendly, stackable, apartment W&D’s. When I’m sitting at my computer, I can hear the washer washing and spinning, only not intrusively so. The sound of it spinning is predictable, but the sound of it washing is this kind of dun-dunt, with about a 3-beat pause between each pair of dunts. The first time I heard it, my auditory memory coughed this up. Either it’s a hilarious coincidence, because it’s exactly in rhythm with Page’s DUN-DUNT power chord intro, during which Bonzo displays some of his exquisite high-hat skills or else the Peace and Love generation has snuck one in on the appliance industry. It is one of those little graces the world sometimes slips you that deftly disarms the annoyance of a noise and leaves you with a chuckle. Ain’t complaining. One of my all-time favorite songs from one of my all-time favorite albums.
I have discovered a localized anomalous phenomenon that has to do with my Logitech gamer keyboard. It has five little rubber bars glued to the underside to keep it from scooting around on the desktop during hot gaming action. Or it did have until late last year, when I happened to look down and see that the little bar in the lower left corner was askew. When I lifted the keyboard up to see what was going on, I discovered that the little rubber bar that was supposed to be there was still there, firmly affixed in place, but a second little rubber bar had mysteriously appeared on top of it and was just misaligned enough to make it noticeable past the edge of the keyboard. I relocated it to the center of the keyboard and forgot about it. Fast forward to about ten minutes ago, I looked down and saw the edge of a little rubber bar was again protruding from the lower left corner of my keyboard. Upon investigation, I now have seven little rubber bars with no idea of the provenance of two of them. I just hope that somewhere in the multiverse, it is not I who is saying unlady-like things because another of her little rubber bars has vanished mysteriously from the back of her keyboard . . . (little rubber baby bumpers . . . .)
The weather has been blustery for the past two days, as in 30-mph winds gusting to 50. Owing to the time of year, we have been having our annual vernal soil rearrangement and heavy equipment maneuvers outside the immediate city limits. The wind has kicked a lot of this up into the air and I have been besieged by when-you-least-expect-it ninja sneeze attacks. I have the sort of trigger mechanism that can be cocked and uncocked, but once you pull the trigger, BANG! is how it goes. It’s the kind of sneeze that makes you want to sue for damages to the tune of at least 6 figures.
We have been in the oatmeal season for a week now, courtesy of a local representative of the Siberian Elm (Ulmus pumila). These are its seeds, which are ubiquitous this time of year. Yeah, it’s a tree, but it’s an invasive species, a squatter that has moved in from Asia and taken over the neighborhood. In addition to the damage it does to our local ecosystem by its mere presence, it’s not even a very good tree.
The trunks are prone to splitting and the limbs are prone to breakage, not good traits in such a windy part of the world. Moreover, they are short lived, living only about 50-60 years here in the flatlands.
I think this (at right) is a red pine (Pinus resinosa), a male tree with multiple strobili. If my ident is correct, I don’t know what this species of pine that is native to the forests of Michigan, Wisconsin, and the Great Lakes is doing in a place with such hot summers as we have here, but that is the best photo match I’ve found to this.
There’s two of them in my little corner of the campus, both male and both covered in strobili.
This fellow is the great tailed grackle, (Quiscalus mexicanus). They are “yard birds” here — to be seen with their little harems of bronze-feathered females policing the grass for edibles. At the moment, since it is spring, the males are the John Travoltas of our local disco scene strutting their stuff for the delectation of the ladies.
Their distinctive calls are everywhere. Ditto the mourning doves (Zenaida macroura). The males are up at ridiculous o’clock of a morning staking out their territories and warning other males off their patch with their characteristic boo-HOO-hoo-hoo-hoo-ing all the livelong day. Throw in a soap opera of squabbling sparrows (Passer domesticus) and that’s been the soundtrack of my early mornings lately.
Tomorrow is another day of chemo which starts at 7:20 E-flat o’clock in the a.m. Then Tuesday, the lawyer, her law clerk, one of my bank’s trust officer, and the lady who has agreed to be my power of attorney for healthcare (until she retires and moves to central Texas at some point in the indefinite but not too distant future) are coming by to sign a bunch of legal papers. I’ll prolly miss the eclipse-watching party Carillon is having at the same time. Sigh.
Mom had gone to this one accountant firm for a coon’s age, so I took her papers over so they could prepare her final tax return. I also sweet-talked him into doing mine for the first time since the 1980’s. I figured it would not be a bad idea for me to build a relationship with him (not to mention continue to give him business), especially as I was unclear how mom’s passing was going to affect me pecuniarily. Besides, I was not about to try to deal with the Taxman myself, especially with a case of incipient chemo brain. That’s my task for Wednesday, to get a bank check cut for the taxes she owes and sign the returns. I count myself lucky if I come out owing no taxes, but this year, I actually got a refund (which will almost be enough to pay the lawyer).
The Owl Underground 