24 Has “Jumped the Shark”

My son, Kevin, and I have been loyal fans of the TV series, 24. After watching the episode two weeks ago, Kevin looked at me and said, “I don’t think I want to watch anymore.” I looked at him, incredulous. What did he mean, not watch anymore? Kevin said, “It’s just not good. Jack is getting too old and it’s all moving too slow.”

I was still a bit shocked, then I realized I agreed with him. It wasn’t riveting television anymore. But I wasn’t ready to give up on it yet. Kev and I agreed to watch another episode and hang in there.

Last week’s episode (March 22nd) finally did us both in. I’ve had to accept that Jack can fully function after being stabbed, shot and tortured by electrocution. But at the very end of the episode, out of the blue, the blonde woman from Battlestar Galactica (whatever her character’s name is) took a cell phone call from one of the terrorists. She’s working with the terrorists? Come on! Are you kidding me?

I looked at Kevin and said, “Well, 24 has just jumped the shark.” We are both done with it and I’m sad to say good bye.

We aren’t the only ones, apparently. I heard on ABC’s national news that Fox will not be renewing 24. This season will end in May, then that’s it. Sigh. It was a good ride while it lasted.

(Why do I have a picture of Fonzie instead of Jack Bauer? Read this from Wikipedia: “Jumping the shark is an idiom used to describe the moment of downturn for a previously successful enterprise. The phrase was originally used to denote the point in a television program's history where the plot spins off into absurd story lines or unlikely characterizations…”

“The phrase jump the shark refers to the climactic scene in "Hollywood", a three-part episode opening the fifth season of the American TV series Happy Days in September 1977. In this story, the series' central characters visit Los Angeles, where Fonzie (Henry Winkler), wearing swim trunks and his trademark leather jacket, jumps over a confined shark on water skis, answering a challenge to demonstrate his bravery.”)

Migraine Land

I disappeared into the abyss known as Migraine Land. For eight days, I endured. Finally, it eased up two days ago and I am so grateful. It's like getting my life back again.

People usually use the words, "pain and suffering" together, as though they are one and the same. For me, they are different. I'm in pain all the time (muscle and tendon pain from fibromyalgia, joint pain from arthritis and sciatica), but I wouldn't call this suffering. Having a migraine with all its debilitating side effects is suffering.

When this happens, I tell myself, "This day is terrible, but it can't get any worse." But it can. It's like a bad infomercial, "But wait, there's more!" Each day when I awake, I have a few seconds of thinking, "It's gone!" but it's not. The pain quickly creeps back and settles in.

But laundry still needs to be done, dinners cooked, and bills paid. I tell myself, "You can do this. You've had days like this before and you've never fainted, so stop freaking out and just stand up long enough to take care of things."

The worst day, emotionally, was Saturday. Larry and I were planning to go visit my dad because my brother and his wife were there from Oregon, for the weekend. I had to cancel. I had so looked forward to seeing them, plus my sisters and their husbands. It was going to be a "Pizza Party." I was near tears all Saturday, sad for the loss of seeing my family and because I was losing hope.

For a few days after a long bout of illness like this, I feel traumatized. Post traumatic migraine disorder? I'm drained. I think suffering makes my adrenaline keep running; trying to deal with eight days of pain wipes me out. I'm also fearful of the migraine returning. I don't know what brings it on and I don't know what makes it stop. I can't tolerate anything other than Tylenol. All the new medications have bad side effects for me.

So, for now, I have my brain back (though some of you may not be able to tell the difference!) and I appreciate life so much more.

(The cartoon is more illustrative of a tension headache than a migraine. I was going to use a photo of a woman holding a hammer to her head, but decided that was too graphic. But it would have been more accurate).

What Time is It, Really?

I don't take kindly to The Man* telling me to change my clocks back and forth an hour twice a year. What power and control, to manipulate time like that!

From the time I was a child to young adulthood, changing times didn't bother me. I was a bit bummed when I'd lose an hour of sleep, but was happy to get an extra hour later in the year.

Things have changed. I survive by keeping on a schedule for eating and sleeping. I get low blood sugar if I don't eat every three hours or so (well, not during the night!). I'm also used to going to bed and awaking at the same time every day, even on week-ends. It's called, "Getting Old."

 With Daylight Saving Time (I learned it's "Saving," not "Savings" like I've been saying all my life), my body clock doesn't match the wall clock. I'm not hungry when the clock says it's time to eat. I'm not tired when it says it's bedtime. And I don't want to wake up when it says it's time to get up.

The first few days of every time change, I keep asking myself, "What time is it, really?" My dad also asks me the same question during our daily morning phone calls.

This year, I got smart. I made a cheat sheet with the time conversions so I wouldn't have to figure it out each time. I'm a bit sheepish to show it, but obviously not that proud because I'm posting a photo!

I want to be Arizona or Hawaii and ignore time changes. 

*I asked my 23 year old son if he knew what "The Man" meant, in case I needed to define it for all you youngsters. He said, "Yes, like the government." He's hip. He's with it.

Brain Blip

I fear becoming like my mom. Not the sweet, kind, caring part. The dementia part. Oh, and the thinning hair part (oops, too late!)

Mom started showing signs of short-term memory loss in her mid-sixties. I remember one of the signs was she’d repeat the same story in our phone conversations without realizing it. Gradually over the years she’d just listen on an extension as Dad and I talked. Then she stopped getting on the phone at all.

When cooking dinner last night, I reached toward the burner knobs and blanked. Suddenly I couldn’t remember which knob went to which burner. The confusion frightened me. I’ve been using this same stove since we moved to Los Banos eleven years ago. I looked at the knobs, which have a little diagram of which burner it controls, but I still couldn’t tell if it was the front or back burner. I calmed myself, looked at the dials again, and turned the knob. This all took only maybe thirty seconds.

I tend to take things to the extreme. My sisters and I made a pact to tell each other if we saw any indications any of us were showing signs of dementia. (Sisters, have you forgotten?!) Should I make a note on my calendar? No, I’ll record the moment in my blog.

(I'm surprised how clean the oven knobs look in the photo. Um, I mean...of COURSE my oven top is very clean!)

California "Snow"

This is the closest we get to snow in Los Banos. When the petals from our purple leaf plum tree flutter to the ground, they look like pink snowflakes. (Makes a lousy snowball, though.)

 

Larry planted new daffodils because he knows I love them. Growing up, I looked forward to seeing the daffodils bloom in my parents' yard each spring. Larry plants the bulbs in pots. He keeps them on the side of the house until they bloom, then moves them to our patio. When they've bloomed out and start to look ugly, he moves them back to the side of  the house so he doesn't have to look at them. (Hmm...think he'll do that to me someday?)

Want a Walnetto?*

Los Banos has an abundance of crows. This became evident upon awakening the first morning in our new house eleven years ago. As if watching a TV screen, I observed flocks of crows flying by, framed by the tall, bare bedroom window.

Every morning crows fly en masse from the north of town to the south (our area), then reverse the process at sunset. Our street is two streets from the edge of town. At the edge, there are dairies, remnants of walnut orchards, and fields of cotton, silage corn**, and alfalfa. The crows head toward the crops and trees.

Larry and I sometimes found broken walnut shells in our yard and wondered how they got there. We speculated neighborhood kids were tossing them over the fence. I found my answer one day when I witnessed the cleverness of a crow.

This time of year, crows turn into walnut bombers. A crow will fly high with a walnut in its beak, drop the walnut, and then swoop down to the ground, hoping the leathery walnut hull has split open. A few days ago, I saw a crow drop a walnut by our car as we drove by and the walnut bounced like a basketball. The crow caught it in midbounce*** and flew off.

As I thought about this topic last night, I thought it’d be great to get a photo of a crow with a walnut in its beak, but what would be the chances of that happening? Stepping out the door this morning to head to the mailbox, I saw a crow in the middle of the street with a walnut! By the time I dashed back into the house to get my camera and returned, the crow had taken off with its prize. I took a photo in mid-flight. If you look closely (photo is zoomed in 200%), you can see a round object in its beak. It’s a walnut, I promise.

*A phrase from the late 60’s TV show, “Laugh-In.” You had to be there.

**Silage corn is grown for cow food and sweet corn is grown for people food. I was so disappointed to learn all those tall, green rows of corn would not produce fresh-from-the-field corn for our dinner table.

***Spell check doesn’t think “midbounce” is a word. Neither do any of the online dictionaries. But I think it is. It’s my blog, my rules.

My Dad's Questions About Heaven

                          The Second Coming by Harry Anderson 

When my father was in his early 80's, he served at the reception/recommend desk at the Oakland Temple. His job was to greet people and check their recommends to be sure they were current. Dad will be 91 in April and still has his sense of curiousity. Here, with his enthusiatic permission, is one of his stories:

"When I worked at the Oakland Temple, across from my desk hung the painting, The Second Coming. I realize most people don't think about things like I do, and maybe I'm too practical, but when you have eight hours a day to stare at a painting, I started to wonder.

 "Jesus and the angels are wearing robes. Where did they get them? Are there cotton fields, looms, and seamstresses in heaven?

"They're also wearing sandals. Where did they get those? If they're made of leather, are there cows in heaven? Are there people to tan the leather and make the sandals?

"The angels have trumpets. Where did the trumpets come from? Are there factories in heaven that make trumpets?

"One day as I was talking to a temple worker, I mentioned the painting and my questions. She said , 'I've never thought about it. I just see the painting.'

"The next time I saw the woman, she told me, 'I wish you had never told me about that painting. Now I can't look at it without wondering where their clothes came from.'

"I felt bad. I never mentioned it to any other temple workers after that."

So has he made you wonder, too?

(If you know my dad, you'll know he realizes paintings of Jesus and angels are just artists' interpretations. But that doesn't stop him from amusing himself by asking questions).