Metamorphosis

Waking up after rotator cuff surgery is like nothing I’ve experienced. The doctor had told me I was a good candidate for the surgery. No major health issues. Otherwise strong and hearty. “Piece of cake,” he’d said, compared to other surgeries I’ve had: hysterectomy, and not the minimally invasive kind. Spinal surgery—that was the minimally invasive kind.

I’d also had bi-lateral carpal tunnel releases and a right elbow tendon release. Are you beginning to see a pattern here? Had I not listened when my mom said to go sit quietly with my hands folded in my lap? Actually she had never said that. It was my grade school nuns. And I guess I did not listen. Or else my body is just determined to wear out faster than a Fiat in the early days of manufacture. Maybe that’s it. When they were doling out tendons, muscles and spinal what-nots I got lemon parts. The bottom line though is I’ve had a few surgeries. Some major. And even some where I had to adjust to single-handed and left-handed living. So why did the recovery from rotator cuff surgery seem so different?

First, is the waking up feeling like a cockroach, on its back. Ah, Kafka must have had this surgery.

Strapped to my right arm was a contraption I’ll call it. That included a sling, which I’d expected. But Velcro-ed to the sling was an oblong pillow, with a blue tennis ball at the end. What’s up with that? Was that to tantalize me so I’d be motivated to follow instructions and recover enough to hit a killer overhead serve? Or was that the Doc’s “get even”? I’d made some bad joke on the way to the operating room about my overhead serve. Doc must not have thought it funny. OK. I’ve never had a killer overhead serve. Mostly I just tried to lob it over the net. And not in a long, long time.

Back to the contraption connected to my arm and upper body. Straps around my neck, around my waist and everywhere else. The pre-surgery instructions had said bring a big, loose shirt. I brought a men’s XL dress shirt. That was not big enough to put the sling-contraption through. So it sort of draped over my shoulders, with no bra underneath. Luckily I was sufficiently drugged I didn’t really care. But when I woke up enough to realize how I was dressed I was a bit horrified.

And then I realized the contraption, if I kept it on 24-7 as directed by the Doc’s instructions, would not allow me to actually cover my chest unless I resorted to a Halloween ghost costume:  a sheet with a head hole cut in it. We experimented with cutting up some of my husband's old t- shirts. They left big gaps. But they had the advantage of being in style as “oversized boyfriend wear.” Finally I could say I was on trend.

Then there were all the other rules. My husband had listened carefully to post-op instructions. While I had laid in a stupor of drugs after the surgery. I was supposed to always have my hand higher than my elbow. Except for the three times a day I was supposed to bend over and swing my arm like a pendulum. And my shoulder was supposed to always be at least at a 30 degree angle.

So I was supposed to sit in a recliner which created the correct angles and support. But the recliner was designed for a right-hander, with the handle on the right side. With the contraption on my right hand and upper body, my left hand could not come close to reaching the handle. And though I have reasonably long, strong legs, with the contraption and significant pain (did I mention the pain?) I could not maneuver the recliner open or closed. Of course, my husband was willing to assist but that meant he could not leave the room in case I needed to get out of the chair, say at any time over the night. Which is where the instructions suggested I sleep.

At some point I discovered I could hop out of the open recliner and then hop back in. the instruction sheet did not have any prohibitions on hopping. But I imagine that's only because they had not thought of it. 

So why was I so poorly prepared for this cockroach-like existence after surgery? Well, for one thing I had thought I was only having a bone spur near my rotator cuff removed. Not a tear in the cuff itself repaired. I had been experiencing pain in my right shoulder for over four years.

Here’s how it began. Several years ago, on a fateful, fall day I was walking our two dogs and they both spotted squirrels to chase. In different directions. I’d gone to the Doc who dutifully examined my shoulder and listened to my tale. And recommended an MRI. Since my insurance had changed to, what is it you call the Cheapskate Plan? Oh, “consumer-driven”.

So as the consumer, driven by cost-saving, I decided I knew better than the orthopedic specialist whether I needed an MRI. Instead of an MRI I consented to the much cheaper x-ray. Which showed a large bone spur sitting right next to my rotator cuff.

I tried cortisone shots, physical therapy, new dog leashes, and a lot of aspirin. Nothing made the pain go away. After about four years of consumer-driven cost-savings, I opted for surgery to remove the bone spur, not knowing the spur, plus dog pulling, already had torn my rotator cuff.

So I went into the surgery, as a result of my own stupidity, ill-informed of the extent the surgery, the pain, or the recovery would ultimately involve. The pain I’ve been able to handle much better than I’m handling the contraption.

I’m grateful the Doc was able to fix the cuff at the same time he removed the spur. I just wish he had told me about how awkward and uncomfortable the contraption would be. And that his office had provided some post surgery clothing guidance that did not leave me as uncovered as women who get paid to show off their chests.

The Tomato Whisperer

I’ve been picking tomatoes. Huge numbers of them. I think perhaps I was born for that chore. 

My spouse does all the hard work. Preparing the soil, planting and staking, weeding and mulching.  But if he goes out to pick the fruits of his labor this time of year he is inundated by mosquitoes. Even if he wears long pants and long-sleeved shirts, both pretty brutal in this hot weather. He returns covered with mosquito bites and large red welts.

He has planted a variety of herbs and tomatoes, banana and jalapeño peppers in our small plot. With regular watering, our garden plants are thriving in this year’s extreme summer heat. And the vegetables and herbs are especially tasty. I’ve read that is common in extreme weather. 

But picking the vegetables, especially in the interior of the garden, can be hazardous. Foraging into the small garden almost requires a machete. Some of the larger plants, rebelling against the stakes and ties, now have spread themselves on top of other plants, apparently playing “king of the garden”. Make no mistake, this time of year our garden is a jungle. Once you are in its midst, you have to fight to get around and get back out. But the difficult journey, as with so many difficult projects, is well worth it.

The peppers and large tomatoes are discoverable once you get in the garden and lift and maneuver thought the foliage. Even the little orange cocktail tomatoes are easy to spot in the seven-foot high, four-foot wide monstrosity plant, amidst the mess of leaves and tiny, green and yellow-ripening tomatoes. The ripe colors just pop visually as I dig into the center of that plant. And then the ripe ones fall into my hand when they are ready.The trick is not eating them all before I get out of the garden.

For some reason, I can climb all through the garden in shorts and sleeveless top and the mosquitoes don’t seem to notice me. Whatever the reason, I’m happy to be able to forage for our vegetables, and particularly to be able to do so without bites. Just call me the tomato-whisperer. Or should that be mosquito-whisperer?

Resolutions Results Reviewed—Week 2

So…three fairly simple personal resolutions.

1)     De-clutter the house.

2)     Be on time.

3)     Lose the five pounds recently gained.

I don’t recall if they were in some order but, obviously they should have been in the order of priority.  Because the three keep getting in the way of each other. 

Let’s talk about de-cluttering, as that is my best-kept resolution.   I have gotten one-half of a hall closet cleaned out.  I donated four coats and multiple pairs of boots.  Then I stuffed the scarves, gloves and mittens into a decorative box, unsorted, and put them back into the closet. That’s a project for another day.   Oh, and the extra purses, I donated a few of them.  Then I put the rest in another box and hid the box upstairs behind the guest bed.  Another project.  I have yet to tackle the tops shelves of the closet. 

Does that count as de-cluttering?  I say “yes.”  Getting rid of anything requires an emotional letting go for me.  ‘Plus, the closet looks much better, as long as you don’t look up at the shelves.  Also, for the most part, I have kept up with endless array of current clutter that comes through the front or back door by way of the post office, UPS, or otherwise.  You might think this is not a big achievement, but I’m giving myself one star on de-cluttering.

However, de-cluttering tends to interfere with the second resolution, being on time.  And maybe even the third resolution.  When I am knee-deep in old boots and it is time to head to the gym I found it hard to shift gears and get to class on time.  Plus, I was late meeting a friend.  The friend meeting might technically be counted as on time:  I was in my car and on the parking lot on time.  But by the time I circled around three times and found a place to park I was several minutes late.  The friend was willing to give me a pass.  But that means I’m using the “parking excuse,” something I said I wouldn’t do.  So no, I did not keep this resolution.  No gold star.

And that missing a little of the exercise class may have contributed to the poor results on the last resolution.  No, I have not lost any more weight since last week.  That result may or may not have anything to do with the batch of homemade meringue cookies with lemon curd I made.  To take over to a friend recovering from surgery.  Does that sound as transparent to you as it does to me?  Yes I guess it does.

Maybe I need another plan, less resolutions, or a different priority.  I know I need to get rid of the rest of the cookies without eating any more.  But it is only week 2.  And as Scarlett, said, “Tomorrow is another day.”  So we will see if I can get three stars next week.  Hope you have some gold stars on all of you on your resolutions.

Walking Tall-ish

I am tall and appear relatively fit. Scrupulously staying out of the sun and watching my diet also helps me to appear younger than my (gasp) 60+ years.  But I’ve had numerous surgeries for orthopedic issues--cervical spine, two carpal tunnel releases, a tendon release for tennis elbow, and am planning additional surgery to remove bone spurs in both shoulders dangerously close to my rotator cuffs.  For these reasons, my doctor has advised I limit my exercise to swimming, water aerobics and walking.  Unfortunately I recently acquired a staph infection. Not only has the infection caused me to delay the shoulder surgery but also has kept me from my favorite and safest exercises in water.

So I tried a land-based class, Tuesdays and Thursdays, high noon, at Milestone.  The class is called "Walking Tall" and is designed for people with severe arthritis, recoverers of serious illness, and those who need to ease back into regular exercise.  I thought the latter fit me: the only regular exercise, other than walking the dog, I have been getting is extricating myself from my recliner.

I showed up early for class, expecting some ailing athletes and “young seniors” like myself.  A single very elderly woman had beaten me to the class room.  She showed me the ropes: where to find the mats, the large exercise balls and bands and small hand weights.  She also showed me how to wipe down all my equipment with a disinfecting wipe.  Since I have been exiled from the pool because of the staph infection, likely incurred at the gym according to my doctor, I figured I better pay attention to this disinfection step.

Soon the other class mates were showing up.  We, that is, I and the octo- and older generians, took our places on our mats, following the instructor's directions to stretch, push, lunge and otherwise move our limbs in time to Yanni.  I was happy none of my close friends could see how I was not keeping up with the old-timers.  They stretched their arms and legs, balanced on their large balls, kicked their legs and didn't seem to miss a beat as we switched from one move to the next.  At least I could reach the high shelves to put the mats and balls away.  Many of my classmates were about half my height.

An hour after I got home from my little jaunt to exercise with the elderly I started feeling shooting pain in my right arm.  Apparently I had reactivated the nerve damage thought to be cured by a spinal surgery a few years ago.  


Damn those senior citizens and their flexibility.  And my need to show off that I was able to keep up with them.

Celiac Disease: the Alien Within; Gluten Free the Answer.

I've had lots of people ask me about gluten-free eating, which is what i do.  So here is the back story of why, how and how great it is.


Celiac disease, the result of a serious immune reaction to gluten, has increased dramatically in the last half century according to recent research by the Mayo Clinic in Rochester, Minn.

I am one of those statistics.  Several years ago, after surgery for a spinal problem, a breast cancer scare that proved to be an error, and in the midst of my mother’s final decline, I developed serious gastrointestinal issues. 

As in, whatever I ate produced the feeling I had swallowed the Alien from the movie of the same name.  And the monster was attempting to crawl out through my chest wall.  Furthermore, unlike Sigourney Weaver, I did not have the strength to fight the Alien if it should emerge.  I was fatigued.  Every body part, even my eyes, hurt.

 The first episode occurred after eating Mexican food at a new restaurant.  I considered the usual suspects.  But food poisoning was unlikely given my then three-year-old granddaughter had been eating off my plate and was as bubbly and healthy as ever. 

Repeated doctor visits and medical tests indicated a stomach irritation and the appearance of some tell-tale signs of celiac disease.  However, the biopsies for ulcer and celiac came back negative, as did the test for reflux.  The doctor suggested, since celiac disease would mean a major life-style change, we should first try to rule out other things.  He put me on an expensive acid reducer, of which my insurance company reluctantly reimbursed a portion.  The doctor also suggested a low-acid diet, which I followed.  All to no avail.  I continued to feel as if the Alien had taken up residence in my chest cavity and I was barely crawling through my life. 

Of course, I denied any of my stomach problems could be the result of stress or the fact I was making regular long distance trips to visit my dying mother while I still had not fully recovered from the problems necessitating the spinal surgery.  But with all the things going on in my life, my psychologist-husband thought stress as a possible cause should not be overlooked.  I figured, of course, what would a psychologist-husband say?

After several months, the medications and low acid diet still did not show any results except my getting closer to meeting my deductible.  My gastroenterologist suggested I try a gluten-free diet.  Even though the biopsy had not confirmed celiac disease, he said the best way to find out if gluten was the culprit was to avoid eating gluten.  I said, “What, no medication, no magic pill to cure celiac disease, if that is what this is?”

His reply was “No. It is entirely treated with a gluten-free diet.”  The doctor suggested I check on-line and I would find plenty of information about celiac and gluten-free eating.  I thought I knew what gluten free meant and stopped eating bread, pasta, and anything with wheat obviously in it.  I followed that diet for two weeks.  I still felt awful.  The only good thing was I was losing weight.  I was afraid to eat anything because everything I ate fed the Alien life-form within me.

So, I did what I should have done to start with.  I undertook more thorough research on gluten.  Turns out gluten free does not just mean no pasta and bread.  Gluten, a protein found in wheat and other common grains, is in almost everything packaged or canned, unless it specifically says “Gluten Free”.  Campbell’s canned chicken broth contains gluten.  As do many salad dressings, sauces, mixes, soy sauce, vinegars, beer, alcohol….You name it.  If it comes in a box, can, or jar and does not say “gluten free” it probably contains gluten.  So again, I began a two week gluten-free trial.  But, this time, it really was gluten free.

After two weeks I still did not feel well.  But I was so desperate I kept with the gluten-free diet another week.  And I finally started to feel better.  Along with feeling better came the realization that I did, in fact, have celiac disease.  For the first week I let self pity wash over me: mourning the pizza, cakes, sweet rolls, bagels and fresh breads I would never eat again.  However, the self pity did not last long.  The longer I avoided all gluten the better I started to feel.

 Contrary to some of the hand-wringing, hardship accounts of living with celiac disease, and my doctor’s prediction of how difficult it would be to eat a gluten-free diet, I learned in a relatively short time to love the gluten-free life.  You may have heard people say illness or difficulties can turn out to be a blessing.  Yeah, I know, the amazing power of rationalization.  So you probably think that is what is going with me when I say, I’ve never been healthier than since I “came down” with celiac disease, had it diagnosed and changed my diet to gluten-free foods.  But it is true.

  There are gluten-free mixes, breads and pastas.  The pastas are OK but the breads for the most part are unpalatable.  Rather, I have learned the easiest way to eat gluten free is to prepare my own food.  Fresh fruits and vegetables are naturally gluten free.    Not only are the meals I prepare gluten free, but they are lower in sodium, which recent reports indicate is vastly over-represented in the typical American diet.  I now often and easily fix meals with fresh ingredients, even fresh herbs and spices, but without excessive salt, added preservatives, high fructose corn syrup, or excessive or unhealthy fats.  And the food tastes better.

You might think dining out is a problem.  I have found, on the contrary, most restaurants readily will serve a gluten-free meal: fish or meat, simply grilled, with vegetables and salad, leaving off the extra sauces.  I just need to make the request and make clear gluten is a serious health issue for me, even in trace amounts. 

In my research about this autoimmune disease, I have learned there is much more gluten in our diets now than there was a generation ago.  People of northern European ancestry often have a predisposition towards developing celiac.  Times of stress, physical or emotional, frequently will trigger the development of celiac. (So, much as it pains me to admit, my psychologist-husband was right.) 

Once you have celiac disease the only treatment is a gluten-free diet.  Untreated celiac disease can produce a variety of symptoms and serious health issues.  And the average time from onset to diagnosis is often much longer than the six months it took to identify my illness. 

Now, after more than a year on a gluten-free diet I have never felt better.  I have easily maintained the weight loss even though I eat an abundance and variety of foods: fruits, vegetables, meats, fish, and dairy.  Not only can I walk in the park, swim laps at the pool and keep up with an exercise class, but I ENJOY those activities and fully partaking of life’s adventures.  Perhaps coincidentally or perhaps the combination of weight loss, increased exercise and a more healthful diet, but my blood pressure has dropped so dramatically my internist has taken me off the two medications for hypertension she previously had prescribed.

I count myself lucky to be one of the “sufferers” of celiac who has immediate and strongly adverse symptoms to gluten.  As a result, I have no desire to cheat on my gluten-free diet.  A bite of even the most wonderful bread or donut does not compare with how good it is to feel strong and healthy.  How much nicer it is to have celiac disease.  Really.

The Travails of the Traveling Gluten Intolerant

The circle is unbroken, to steal a musical title.  Dylan Groupies at our age (slight exaggeration—my husband and I went to two back-to-back concerts in different but nearby cities) endure certain hardships.  Made more difficult by my celiac disease: I can’t eat anything with even a trace of wheat.  Not only does that preclude most fast food restaurants, but most breakfast offerings are extremely limited for the gluten intolerant.  No pancakes, breakfast sandwiches, pastries, bagels or anything on a buffet that might be contaminated by sloppy diners who mix serving spoons. Plus, the friendly but completely perplexed stares from waitresses in Evansville, Indiana who had never heard of gluten let alone celiac disease. Made me feel a bit like a space alien traveling in human disguise.

After making do with a cup of yogurt and a banana at the Holiday Inn Expresses for breakfast and salads without dressings at other meals, I coped with my sense of deprivation by baking what turned out to be the best gluten-free banana bread ever. I used quinoa flower and the original recipe from “Joy of Cooking" for banana quick bread. I added a little baking soda, plus the baking powder the recipe called for, to give the bread a little lighter feel.  I also let the bread sit in the warm oven that I had turned off once the bread was browned. I find gluten-free baked goods take longer to bake all the way through but brown just as quickly as wheat-flour baked goods.  Letting the baked item sit in a warm oven for awhile solves the problem of a potentially gooey middle.  I also added raisins, dried cranberries and crumbled walnuts for a nice flavor and texture mix. Yummy bread, however you pronounce quinoa.

Dorothy’s Idea of the Day: Tune in for musical memories.  My next post will explore remembrances of a concert year. Or concert attendance as therapy.

Dragonflies and Old Dogs Learning New Tricks

Do you ever have an idea or even a word, nestled so deep in your memory you can't retrieve it?  Often I do. In the last few years it seems to happen more frequently.  Recently, the word that seemed the hardest to retrieve, for some reason, was "dragonfly."  Not a word that comes up every single day unless you're a fly fisherman. Which I'm not.  But I do own a pair of carpi's and a sweater with embroidered dragonflies.  And every time I put either on, my conscious mind would root through the shelves of my memory as if the name for this insect has been lost irretrievably in the mess.  Sort of like how my desk or the contents of my purse usually look.  Perhaps "dragonfly" was misfiled under sci-fi instead of insect.

For some equally unexplained reason, the name of the insect now has returned to easy retrieval. Maybe I have moved it closer to the front of the cabinet. Or maybe wiht the hot weather and frquesnt wearing of the dragonfly capri's, I just have retrieved it often enough that the little neurons or whatever finally know where to look for it.

I've engaged in the  same struggle to recall names of character actors when they appear in a movie or TV show.  For actors I find their names come more readily on hearing their voices than when I just see their faces. Maybe actors' names are stored with auditory clues. Or with music and movies.  Who knows.

I go through some of the same type of struggle, only more so, to remember something new, like the  pronunciation of a strange wrod; particularly for a word where the spelling does not look anything like what the pronunciation would be in English. For example, the grain "quinoa" is pronounced "keen-wah," at least I believe that is correct. Quinoa is touted for its protein and healthy benefits, and, most important to me, the fact it is gluten free. But the word looks nothing like that pronunciation. So I struggle to remember how it is said in case I want to order it or look for it in the store.  I practiced saying the word aloud multiple times.  Finally, I now can look at "quinoa" and and say "keen-wah."  Unfortunately, I recently learned that is not the preferred pronunciation. There is an even more obscure pronunciation.

I won't say I'm too old to learn a new trick or pronunciation but if they have quinoa on the menu, next time I may just point and nod.

Trip Germs Travel With Me?

Dorothy’s Idea of the Day

I woke up with a fully-formed insight totally unrelated to blovinators, debt crises, or Republicans and Democrats.  What if the upper respiratory infections I often develop while on or shortly after trips are related not to airline germs but the old travel toothbrush I leave in my suitcase?  My mind was working out ways to sanitize my toothbrush before I was fully awake. My caffeinated brain, a few minutes later, recognized that for less than the cost of bottled water at an airport terminal I could purchase a brand, spanking-new toothbrush for each trip.   Falls in the category of can’t hurt, might even help. So I am henceforth tossing my old toothbrush after each trip

I Don't Want to Keep Up with the Kardashians

I’ve been Kardashian’ed to death.  Amanda Robb’s article, “Creating the Kardashians”, glorifies Kris Jenner for her marketing of her family of “K named and X-rated’” Kardashians into a mega empire that earned $65 million last year.  The congratulatory-toned article is published in the July / August issue of More Magazine, which describes itself as “For Women of Style and Substance” (Full disclosure: “More” has published a number of my articles online. and I am a subscriber to the print magazine.)  After reading Robb’s article, I am left wondering what is meant by “style” and “substance.”

Kris, the “Momager” for her daughters, Kim and Khloe, not to mention Khloe’s husband LA Lakers star, Lamar Odom, and the rest of the kin, according to the Robb’s interview, is about to further leverage the “unstoppable (Kardashian) juggernaut”, by next merchandising a complete “Kardashian experience” at Sears.

Give me a break and gag me with a spoon.

As Robb tactfully alludes in her article, the Kardashian TV show took off with an “undeniable boost four years ago when a videotaped romp between teenaged daughter, Kim, and her then-boyfriend wound up in the hands of Vivid Entertainment.”  “Momager” Kris Jenner, a former Brownie leader, car pool driver, and room mother, by Robb’s turn of a common expression, decided to squeeze the “publicity lemon into an apparently bottomless glass of lemonade”.  To paraphrase one of Robb’s interview questions, “people think the heavens just opened…and fame and fortune dropped in your laps”.  I don’t think that is even a question.  In any case, isn’t a more logical question, “Have you no shame, Mrs. Jenner?”  “Do you care what your daughters are becoming?”  Or “Is it worth mega millions to throw your family into this publicity soup, more accurately described as foul-smelling rot than lemonade?”

I’m afraid I don’t understand this entire phenomenon; unless it is the fascination we feel when we rubberneck at a car crash.  Why are people standing in line in the Kardashian boutique for a Kardashian experience?  Unless the Kardashians have invented the i-Dress I can’t imagine how they are going to bring style and substance to Sears.  My collie dogs have demonstrated a greater sense of style and fashion, more loyalty, and more morally admirable behavior than the Kardashians exhibit.  And my collies could actually do something: fetch a ball, bark at the back door before defecating, and wag their tails.

I will confess, the only times I have viewed “Keeping up with the Kardashians” was as part of a captive audience at a nail salon while my fingernails were drying.  And my spouse encourages me to admit my unsuitability to criticize others’ superficiality when I waste time and money, not to mention natural resources and possible exposure to poisonous substances, by the sheer decadence of polishing or having others polish my nails.  

While he may have a point on some of these issues, I believe there is a qualitative difference between the frivolity of nail maintenance and the trash that passes for entertainment on the E! Network with the Kardashians.  The Kardashian experience has a far more poisonous impact on our culture than a little nail polish has on our environment.  And if I demonstrate the sin of vanity by having my nails done, watching Kris Jenner and her klan (no racist slur intended; I just can’t resist the alliteration of K’s) is more punishment than a person should suffer for the commission of murder and mayhem.  Far too much punishment for just the little vanity of nail polish. 

Ordinarily, I am not given to discussions of crime, sin or punishment.  Although I should not be confused with the pious “church lady” from SNL, I do have fiercely protective feelings towards my children and grandchildren.  Child exploitation in my mind is something a parent protects his or her children from.  Not something the parent engages in, for money or otherwise.

If Kris Jenner wishes to promote her former gold medal Olympian spouse as a speaker she and he should "Go For It.”  If the Kardashian daughters wish to carry on doing god knows what with god knows whom, that is up to them and their still-developing consciences.  They are young and may still gain some sense of morality and shame.  At least their stepfather, Bruce, has the sense to look vaguely embarrassed by the egotistical and outrageous antics of his family and his wife’s capitalization on them on television.  Maybe some of his brain cells and normal human modesty are still functioning.  But is there not a line beyond which a mother should not go in pimp…oops, I mean promoting her own offspring, even if it is for millions of dollars?

Momager Kris, in response to critics who suggest she is exploiting her children, says she responds “by working hard.  My job is to take my family’s 15 minutes of fame and turn it into 30.  It’s a very rewarding feeling when I go to sleep every night knowing I did the best I could for my family.” I’d say an extra 15 minutes of tawdry fame, no matter how many millions it is accompanied by, is not doing the best for her family.

My purgatory is over, at least temporarily.  The TV at the nail salon appears to no longer be working.  Maybe there is a god watching over all of us. 

Stealth Drones Againt Cancer and Tornadoes?

Dorothy’s Idea of the Day:

An article I read today concluding there are risks associated with living in any locale was particularly timely, following a string of strange “pop-up” tornadoes dancing in and around the Louisville area last night.  At the whim of the storms, the barns at Churchill Downs were damaged, but Louisville residents dodged injuries.

If it’s not fires, storms, mudslides, earthquakes or floods, our own bodies make life unpredictable.  A neighbor and two friends recently have been diagnosed with brain tumors.  Another friend has had a recurrence of breast cancer.  Sort of makes the tornado warnings last night seem almost trivial.  In truth either may be deadly, or able to be survived, both depending on some known and controllable and some unknown, and at present uncontrollable, factors.

With all the dangers in life, I do not understand why we as a species continue to voluntarily kill, hurt each other and ourselves and destroy the planet?  Isn’t there enough danger inherent in human life to keep things interesting without the need for human-created strife and suffering?  And what could we do if we put some of the energy and resources squandered in destructive ways to use in trying to solve our common problems?