Rock the Silver

Breaking pencils to reduce stress

Yesterday was Valentine's Day, and it's supposed to be all about love and kisses, but I was too angry with my computer at work to do anything but eat candy Conversation Hearts and think dark thoughts.

I was apparently the last person on the planet using Vista at work. Last Thursday I got a call from my company's computer guy. I was being upgraded to Windows 7. Yay! My computer has been performing poorly -- painfully slow -- and I hoped this would be the fix.

Friday morning the company's computer guy shows up to take my laptop. I'm like, you're taking it? He said I told you yesterday I would take it. I don't remember that, but it might have been the Windows talking. He said it was only for five hours. Five hours!

I find a conference room with a computer, and I log on there. As people flitted in and out, I felt as though I was holding a salon. I saw people I hadn't seen in awhile. It was pleasant. Toward the end of the day, my Blackberry rings, and it's the company's computer guy telling me they couldn't get my data to backup automatically. He said they would give it back to me for the weekend -- oh goody -- and then take it again on Monday.

Monday morning rolls around, and they haven't come to pick it up yet, so I call. Let's get this show on the road. The company's computer guy arrives within minutes and runs away with my laptop yet again. It feels like Groundhog's Day as I head back to the conference room where I log on to a computer, except that I see new people this time, and they want to know why I'm there. I don't feel welcome. There's an actual meeting at 10 a.m. so I log off and eat lunch. It doesn't feel like a salon anymore. Now I feel sort of like a prostitute looking for cheap rooms by the hour.

It was close to 5 p.m. when I got the call that my computer was ready. I met a different person at my office -- not the company's computer guy but possibly his delivery dude -- and he gets me set up. He says poke around, make sure everything works. It seems to be fine, except for one thing. All my files are gone. I try not to panic, but I really thought I was going to throw up. He says the company's computer guy is gone for the day, and I will have to wait until tomorrow to find out where my data went.

For dinner that night, my husband offered me a glass of wine, and I said no, because I was afraid I wouldn't stop.

Tuesday. Yesterday. I call the company's computer guy and casually mention that he needs to show me where my data is. I wanted him to believe that I believed it was there. He remotes in and starts digging around. Not here, not there. I was getting really nervous, and I thought I could hear him breathing funny as well. Finally, he finds it all, all ot it, and we both do kind of a weird hysterical giggle of relief. He confesses that he was worried. Then he says let's make sure your printer works, except it doesn't.

He can't fix it remotely, so he shows up in person. Spends a hour trying different drivers, different whatever. He leaves it in a set-up mode and says to just let it sit there for awhile, maybe something will happen. In a parallel universe, perhaps, but I go along with the gag. I am able to leave it running in the background while I work.

Around 1 p.m. the delivery dude comes back to fix the printer. I am deeply suspicious. He was there at least 45 minutes, and all hope is gone. However, he is apparently more than a delivery dude, because he finally got it working. He said, and I quote, "I'm good with printers."

Nice. Before he left, he said I would probably be getting a lot of updates on the computer since Windows 7 was new. I have so much work piled up, deadlines looming, and I'm eager to just get on with it. But from about 2 p.m. to 5:30 p.m. -- when I left out of complete frustration -- something would automatically update about every 15 or 20 minutes, and I'd have to restart the computer each time.

Here's what I did to relieve the stress. I found a pencil, and I broke it in half with my bare hands. Little pencil shards scattered across the top of my desk, so I left the pencil carcass there as part-sacrifice part-warning to any and all who would mess with my mojo again.

I feel pretty good. Optimistic that Wednesday will be happy and productive. Hopeful that no more pencils will be harmed.

 

Hair, exercise, soap, fate and a laptop bag

Several readers have emailed to let me know they tried to leave a comment, but the system failed in some way. I think I fixed the problem. You should be able to leave comments without any issues, but now I'm not sure your name will be linked to your blog. I will continue to explore all options until I beat these computer gremlins into submission. In the meantime, always feel free to include a link to your blog in the text of your comment or as part of your signature block.

My inbox has been active! Patsy sent me a link to this video featuring a stunning 95-year-old woman doing her exercise routine. I know a lot of us emphasize the cardio to burn fat, but stretching is probably the fountain of youth, don't you think? As Patsy said, may we all be so active, fit and beautiful at 95!

Michelle turned us on to Chagrin Valley Soap & Craft Company. This tip qualifies as the daily double, as the products are natural and organic and made in the USA! They have a nice selection of USDA-Certified Organic skin care products as well other tempting treats. I could feel my credit card melting as I browsed the website. I am particularly interested in the shampoo bars, which at least one reader has previously recommended. Might be just the thing for rocking the silver hair. Have you tried them yet?

Leslie said the idea of buying American is rubbing off on her. She was looking for a cool laptop bag and found it at Rickshaw Bagworks. She got a spiffy little number in light eggplant tweed with dark purple trim and a black body -- but she said what was most exciting was supporting a small local company that uses American textiles and employs workers just over the bridge from her in San Francisco.

Finally, Malati said the post about time travel was much like the Indian idea about fate. She said it is believed that whatever happens is for the best ... it could have been worse! She added, "Of course, the question of free will comes up. But we have to exert our free will and do what we believe is right."

Do what we believe is right. Pretty good advice for a Friday afternoon. Have a great weekend.

We are all time travelers on this train

Photo by Paco CT's photostream

I have always adored books about time travel. Stephen King's 11/22/63 is no exception. It's not a horror novel but a well-told told story about a guy who goes back in time to try and stop the assassination of President Kennedy. It's funny, nostalgic, suspenseful, thought-provoking and on top of that -- a great love story! I could not put it down.

But this is not a book review. It's the reveal of an ah-ha moment about life imitating art. Time travel is an interesting concept. Most discussions about time travel eventually get to the paradox of what would happen if you went back in time and killed your own grandmother. Then you wouldn't be born, but if you hadn't been born, you wouldn't be traveling into the past, would you?

The King book is about what happens when you mess with the chain of events and all the causal links. For example, you might save a man from being seriously injured in a horrible car accident, but then he might get killed later because he was able-bodied and sent to fight in a war. Tinkering with the past could have unintended consequences.

I wasn't thinking about time travel or Stephen King as we were watching the election news in Charleston, SC. We lived there five years and absolutely loved it. They showed some images of the city, and I said, "If only we hadn't left." My husband said, "You might be dead."

Because the chain of events were such that I was diagnosed with cancer shortly after we moved to a new city. It was almost as if the right doctor who knew exactly how to treat my cancer was standing by waiting for me to get there. I got to live, and well, you can't argue with those results. What if we had stayed in Charleston? Was anyone there going to cure me?

Suddenly, the real-life applications of fictional time travel became clear to me. All these things that happened in your life had to happen in order for you to get here. Even if you could go back and undo the damage, undo the stupid decisions and all the other bad stuff that haunts you, you might change just enough to end up in far worse shape than you are now.

Thinking about life as time travel helped me move on. When I think about Charleston now, my memories are filled with nostalgia not regret. Sometimes things happen for no apparent rhyme or reason, and sometimes we have a hand in it, but eventually what happens, happens, and it becomes our past. The past is an accumulation of causal links in our own journey through time.

We are all time travelers on this train, and I find that comforting. And liberating. It helps me let go of the why's and the what if's. The Stephen King book speculates that traveling through time and changing the past can produce disastrous results. I'm speculating that traveling through our memories of time and regretting the past is pretty much the same gig.

Carpe diem!

In Memorium: Charla Krupp

I was stunned this morning to read that Charla Krupp passed away. The New York Times obituary said she was 58 and died from breast cancer.

I first wrote about Charla in 2008, when I started the blog. Her book "How Not to Look Old" helped me through my transition to gray. In addition to a hair makeover, I needed a style makeover, and she had a lot of great advice. I never bought into her idea that you had to hide your age to be successful, but I still browse the book for tips on how to look better.

In 2010 I reviewed her book, "How to Never Look Fat Again." I didn't like it, but I don't think that affected her sales! And on a day when I am feeling pudgy, I might be tempted to pull it off the shelves and see if there are some ideas that don't seem quite so offensive in a time of need.

Rest in peace, Charla.

Holiday foodie fight

I was supposed to be on vacation this week. Monday was a holiday. I slept in Tuesday morning, but as we were sitting around drinking coffee and talking endlessly ... again ... about what to have for dinner, I thought, this has got to end. My husband is a serious foodie, but I'm more of an eatie.

Him: Lobsters are on sale at Central Market.

Me: That sounds good.

Him: I could make lobster rolls.

Me: I'm sick of bread.

Him: Steamed or maybe cold with homemade mayonnaise? Stew?

Me: Any of those would be fine.

Him: We don't have to get lobsters.

Me: I liked it better when I just came home from work, and dinner was a surprise.

Him: OK, fine.

Me: I probably ought to go to work.

Him: Really? Don't you want just one more day?

It was a tricky escape, but I got dressed and went to work. However, I felt bad because I was sure I had hurt his feelings. He has feelings, I know this, they are just difficult to extract at times. I came home that evening and said I was glad I went back, there was a pile to do, and at least I wasn't behind starting out of the gate. He's like, yeah, yeah.

Me: You're annoyed.

Him: Not at all.

Me: Is it because I like it when you just make dinner without my input? I don't mean to take you for granted.

Him: No. I agree. I'll take care of dinner. It's easier without you.

Me: Is it because you don't think I like hanging out with you? That I don't love you?

Him: Nothing is wrong. I'm fine.

Me: You know I love you, and I do like hanging out with you, I'm just not crazy about being locked up in the house with you everyday for two weeks.

Him: I get that. We should have gone somewhere.

Me: What is it then? I can tell you're mad.

Him: All right! All right!

Me: What?

Him: I can't believe you said you were sick of bread. Bread! It's the staff of life and has been since the dawn of civilization!

Me: Wow.

Him: Is this some new thing you're up to, some radical anti-carb platform?

Me: No! It was just that one day. I swear.

Him: Are there new restrictions on when I can serve bread? Is it just sandwiches you hate? What about garlic bread with pasta, or is that out, too?

Me: Whatever you decide! Bread is good! All hail bread!

Him: OK then.

Me: OK then.

Him: I love you.

Me: I love you, too.

This is why we've been married 33 years. One way or the other, we get to whatever it is. I mean, we could take a more direct route, but eventually we get to the root of whatever is bugging us. And it's amazing, it's usually not the big stuff. Bread, though, I guess that's pretty big in the life of a foodie. Personally, I could take it or leave it, but I think I'll keep that to myself.

The year of never giving up on your dreams

Donna, 1999

Happy New Year everyone! I'm excited about 2012, but then I'm still sort of shocked and delighted just to be here. 2012 marks 13 years since I was diagnosed with advanced stage ovarian-like cancer. What I had is actually called primary peritoneal cancer. Tumors form in the lining of the abdomen instead of the ovaries, but it's pretty much the same gig and is treated as such.

Someone actually said to me, "I thought everyone died with that ..."  I said, "Well, apparently not everyone." The five-year survival rate for my prognosis is about 25 percent. Some people live years with active disease, but I have been healthy and cancer-free since my initial treatment.

You can check out the cancer category in the blog archives if you want to read more about the diagnosis and treatment, but that's not why I'm here chatting with you today. It's a new year, and I wanted to offer some perspective on never giving up on your dreams.

At the end of 1999, I was weak from a year's worth of surgery and chemo but optimistic the cancer was gone. I began 2000 thinking about what's next. I was stuck in a job that paid reasonably well and didn't demand a lot. Everybody's dream, right? It was probably a job I could have kept for life. It was a good company, great people and they liked me well enough, but there were few opportunities to move up. The job I aspired to was already taken, and I'm pretty sure that person was planning to be there for the duration.

The thing is, I'm not wired to be happy unless I am challenged. I dodged cancer, but I wasn't sure I could escape being bored to death. I'd had a good run at it but was no longer satisfied professionally, and nothing I tried made a difference. I finally accepted this was a nut I could not crack, and it was time to move on. I remember telling a friend I was going to hunt for a job, and she said now she knew for sure that I was crazy.

You have an easy job that pays well, you live in a nice house with an easy commute, you just survived a lethal form of cancer and you want to do what?

I'm also not wired to fly without a net, so I was exceedingly careful to ensure I didn't do anything exceedingly stupid. I wasn't looking for the big bucks sexy job that looked to good to be true. I wasn't about to blow our solvency simply because I had the itch. It took me another five years to find the right opportunity and make the move, but I did it. I did what I set out to do.

You could say it was risky, but it was a calculated risk, and I have been rewarded. We moved across the country and discovered a new life. I found the challenges I wanted (holy crappola did I find them), my husband is enjoying retirement, we're healthy and happy and excited to still believe in limitless possibilities. I wasn't even sure I'd be alive. How's that for perspective?

I started to write, here's to achieving your dreams in 2012. But then I thought, it took me five years to find a new job! I've been writing this blog for more than three years, and it's nowhere near what it ought to be. I haven't given up on that, either. These things don't necesssarily happen on our timetable. I think this is what I meant to say:

Here's to 2012 and to never giving up on your dreams!

Stumbling into stuff that makes you laugh

This is a bit of a ramble, but it just goes to show you that sometimes it's good not to have a plan.

It was time for the annual ornament exchange at work. Everyone puts a wrapped ornament under the video conference equipment, and then we draw numbers. The person who draws #1 selects from among the wrapped packages, and then #2 can either "steal" that gift or select a new one. The gifts can be "transferred" three times, and then it's frozen.

Aside from the near-brawl we had a couple of years ago over the rules, here's what I dread about it. Most people have their own ideas on how to decorate for the holidays, and most of what gets passed around Conference Room C19 will never live to see a tree. The event itself is fun -- we bring food, and there's a lot of camaraderie, a lot of laughter. I just hate wasting money on stuff.

Last year I tried to recycle the ornament I got stuck with from the year before. Stylish Young Coworker called me out, and the person left holding the pretty plastic bulb looked demoralized. I sent her a $10 Itunes card to help her recover.

This year I said I would not buy an ornament made in China. I procrastinated as long as possible because, let's face it, I really only like to shop for me. My husband and I were hanging around Sunday morning, and I started rooting through our ornaments.

What are you doing?

I thought maybe I'd find an old one and tape a $5 bill to it.

Stop.

Maybe just hang a $5 bill on a hook?

You've lost the spirit.

I never had it. $10?

That is when he insisted on going shopping. I have a hard time getting out of my jammies when it's cold, and I usually just put on workout gear when I go out. As a motivational tool, I decided to take a shower and get all dolled up. Skinny jeans, boots, flowy sweater, scarf  -- I even blew my hair out shiny and smooth. I was ready to attack. Dale is self-motivated, so he wore baggy worn out Levi's and a gray Rensselaer sweatshirt that comes down to his knees.

There's a street with lots of small, locally owned shops on it called Camp Bowie. We figure that's our best strategy, except most were not open on Sunday. We hit a couple of the big stores, but everything was made in China. Dale got into the spirit checking out the labels. He'd nod disapprovingly and simply say, MIC. I said, let's keep driving down Camp Bowie -- we're certain to run into something. This is how I drive and often how I end up lost.

It's a cold clear day, nothing to stop us, so we just keep driving. Dale says, oh, there's the Mod, maybe they'll have something. That would be the Museum of Modern Art. Great idea! We find a place to park and head for the entrance. There are lots of chic people milling about, and Dale says, well, it looks like one of us is dressed for the musuem. At least he appears to be an educated homeless guy.

The museum has miniature gourd ornaments hand-painted in Peru for under $10. Gift-wrapping included. Sold. Mission accomplished, but now I'm all dressed up and have nowhere to go. If I turn right on University, we could hit the Barnes & Noble. I have no reason to go there anymore, as I've switched to an e-reader. But Dale is near bookless, and he jumps at the chance.

I do all my browsing online, so I don't really have anything to do inside the bookstore. I'm sneaking in plays on Words With Friends instead of being in the moment at the B&N, and this was before Alec Baldwin got kicked off the plane. I'm way ahead of him. I'm about done, and Dale comes over to me and says, check this out.

And there it is. Garden & Gun magazine.

Is it a gag?

No, it's real.

I whip out my iPhone and snap a picture. Here's how they describes themselves: "A Southern lifestyle magazine that's all about the magic of the new South - sporting culture, food, music, art, literature, people, and ideas."

And guns.

I'm from California, and Dale is from Maine. We absolutely love where we live in Texas, but sometimes, yes, we experience a tiny bit of culture clash. That's to be expected. It's not a deal breaker. Room for all sorts of people and diverse interests. I'm glad to see gardens and guns have apparently made a pact and are working together for the greater good of the new south. It's all good.

Shopping for an ornament, driving aimlessly and cruising the B&N with no agenda turned out to be fun. Sometimes we overscript ourselves, I know I do, and it's easy to forget the joy of just hanging out and exploring things together. Garden & Gun made us laugh, and I thought, we should do this more often, but Dale really needs a new outfit.

On being ladies

There's an interesting discussion going on at Advanced Style, which was reviewed by another blogger who doesn't like that Ari uses the word ladies. Ari wanted to bring the debate forward and asked readers what they thought. What's the right word? Women? Ladies? Girls? Something else?

First, let me say I love Advanced Style, Ari's fantastic, and as many readers pointed out, he obviously has a great deal of respect and affection for those he photographs. It seems picky and unnecessary to criticize his choice of words. His beautiful work speaks for itself.

But I was surprised by the passionate responses from women who prefer to be called ladies. Many also said the amazing women Ari photographs deserve to be called ladies. As though it is a badge one earns. And that's the part that bothers me.

I've never cared for the term ladies. Mostly because that's what they screamed at us when I was in the Army in basic training.

Ladies! Get off you rear ends and mop this floor!

Ladies! It's time to get up!

Ladies! That not how we do it in the Army!

I can still hear the way the drill sergeant said ladies. Such disdain. However, aside from my own bias, I have no issues with Ari using the word ladies on his blog. It's his style, and I think he should stick with what feels right for him. But the comments have validated what I suspected all along. The words women and ladies are not interchangeable for some people.

Being a lady can come with baggage. Certain standards of appearance and behavior that must be met. Who gets to decide what those standards are and whether you make the cut? What are the consequences of defying those expectations? Call me a contrarian, but my role models are the women who ignore all that silliness and push the boundaries of convention.

My favorite comment was from Janis, who said:

I'm not a girl and haven't been for a long time, and the only people who call me a lady are the ones who are trying to get me to pipe down and behave.

What a bunch of turkeys

Thanksgiving. It probably didn't happen like you thought, but maybe the enduring message is better than you had hoped. 

It's 1621. You've got the people we've come to know as Pilgrims. Cold, tired, sick, hungry, dirty and pissed. Indians everywhere. It's true the Mayflower was not exactly a sweet ride, but wasn't it supposed to get better after that? Oops! They had no skills!

Lucky for them the Wampanoags came by to check on their holdings and thought, these fools, they'll die if we don't do something. A couple of them hang around and teach the Pilgrims how to cultivate corn and other vegetables, fish, dig for clams and get sap from maple trees.

The Pilgrims finally get a decent crop and decide to have a little harvest feast. I don't know. Maybe they were drunk or just couldn't shoot straight, but they come up short on protein. The Wampanoags hear all this gunfire and assume the worst. They drop by to see if it is time to war up, but way to go! It's a party!

They weren't invited. Get over it. But they were welcomed. Only now there's a boatload of hungry people and the meager little meal the Pilgrims managed to scrape together. And the Indians are like bummer, we have to bring all the food, too? The tireless Wanapanoags go back out and shoot some deer and some turkeys and drag it all back. Let's assume the team collaborated to butcher it and cook it. But it had to be hours and hours before dinner finally made it to the table and everybody got to eat.

Not unlike memorable holiday events in my family, only it was vodka that sometimes delayed the onset of a meal.

Americans celebrate the feast as a time of universal thanks and a nod to peace among all peoples. Some Native Americans call it a National Day of Mourning because the Pilgrims eventually stopped being nice, grabbed some land and massacred 700 Pequot men, women and children up the road apiece at Mystic Fort. Several of the colonies declared a day of thanksgiving for commemorating the massacre and achieving victory over the Indians.

I tell my husband the story I've pieced together while reading about the history of Thanksgiving, and he totally believes it but says he has little sympathy. He said the Native Americans, while certainly victims in many, many ways, did unspeakable things even to each other. But he agreed, the Pilgrims were not the sweethearts of the rodeo. There is no shortage of bad acts in American history.

It's a good thing most people don't hold themselves accountable for what happened in the distant past. Life would be way harder than it has to be. But we owe it to ourselves to pursue the truth. And by many accounts, the truth appears to be that people gave thanks for wiping out the Indians.

But in spite of its messy origins, families still try to come together on this day and choose happiness. It doesn't always work out, but most of the time I believe happiness is there for the taking. I like to remember that the Pilgrims and the Indians did share a harvest meal before all the bad shit went down. They had to know on one level that peace was possible.

Peace? They both blew it. Wasn't the first time. Definitely not the last. It should come as a surprise to no one that humans are seriously flawed. A bunch of turkeys, really. But there is always a day when kindness and understanding prevail. Always a day when you can be grateful for freedom. A day when you can appreciate simple things such as a warm kitchen, good health, great food and people who theoretically love you.

Let's call it Thanksgiving.

Reports of my demise are premature

Well, this is awkward. I'm not going to pull the plug on Rock the Silver® after all. I asked my husband if he thought I was being tacky. After all, I said I was leaving, shouldn't I really leave? He said, "Everyone knows writers are flaky."

I was reminded of my decision to blog in the first place. I had been in counseling to help cope with having cancer, and we got to talking about my work. I told the counselor I struggled with the desire to write and the need to earn a living. She said, "Why do you have to choose?"

It had never occurred to me that I could happily do both. That's why I have a job, and that's why I eventually started this blog. By the same token, I realized after announcing that I was quitting to slow down, move in new directions and focus on quality that I could do all that right here, right now. I don't have to quit to go where my heart takes me. 

I've said all along it's not about the hair. It's a blog about life. If I were to come back and start all over again, I'd still want to call it Rock the Silver!

You'll see some changes. I'm not sure exactly what will change, but I hope you stick around to find out. And I promise -- if I decide to quit in the future, I will just pull the plug and poof, I'll be gone.