The cost of headphones

I never understood people who exercise with headphones. I could never fathom how my own children could study while music was blasting in their ears. I don’t understand the desire to have ear-buds in all the time – studying, working, playing. I feel you miss something about the world.




You miss the sounds of the neighborhood school playground – shouting, laughing.


You miss the sound of traffic as it zooms past.


You miss the sounds of other people talking – on the T, on the bus, in line at the store.


You miss the opportunity to be a part of the world; not just a body moving through it.


You miss the opportunity to hear or learn something new.


In January, I signed up for a 5K race and shortly after my world view shifted.

First, with some Christmas money, I purchased the basic model iPad.
I simply love it. I have Pandora on in my little house all the time. I clean to Justin Timberlake. I cook to Simon Webbe. I sing along – albeit badly - with Katharine McPhee and Kristen Chenoweth.


As my training progressed, I began to miss that music. So much so, at lunch one day, I wandered into the Radio Shack on Liberty Avenue and purchased the best darn $9.99 headphones I have ever used. They stay in place! They don’t fall out with a head shake!



My first day running with an iPod was a revelation. It’s fun! The shuffle feature is the best thing ever invented as I never know who will be spurring me along: The Pointer Sisters “Jump”, Bruce Springsteen “Glory Days” or Lady Gaga “Poker Face”. (FYI, Van Morrison is definitely NOT inspiring to run to, and is being removed from the playlist tonight.)


However, the absolute most amazing thing about running with headphones/ear–buds? I don’t notice how much my knees ache. I forget about the sound of my feet slapping the sidewalk and my shin pain. I overlook the fact that I don’t go very fast or that I don’t have a very good running form (like two of my kids do). I don’t care that I look like I’m about to drop over right there on the side of the road from exhaustion.


I just run.


I just sing.


I just work out things in my head.


This Saturday I will run my first 5 K race. I won’t finish first, and I won’t finish last. But I will run with songs that move me, encourage me and make me happy.


Priceless.


Pittsburgh Marathon 5K - Saturaday May 5, 2012



The Saturday Doc

At my daughter's suggestion, I set up an account on care.com. No one needing an "occasional babysitter" contacted me but a retired doctor in need of "some help" did.
I looked at his profile, and answered his email. He claimed to be independent; cooks, drives, shops, etc. We chatted by phone, and I suggested I come over and see his home and see if we are a good fit. I asked him how to pronounce his name "Anas" and his reply was this:
"When you have surgery, you need an anaesthesiologist. Well, just say the first two syllables; forget the rest and that is my name. Anas. "

Hooboy.
I arrived right on time. I took a look at the porch and had a slight sinking feeling. The door was open and the doc called for me to come in.
I did not know where to look first! I felt like I had fallen into an episode of "Hoarders" and I've never even seen the show.
Stuff ab-so-lutely everywhere. Dozens of cans of Scrubbing bubbles. Papers, boxes, Tupperware containers, books, magazines, wine, and potatoes.

I have never ever seen anything like this up close. The odor - I cannot even begin to describe it. The heat - it had to be at least 80 degrees in there. If you are of a "certain age", you KNOW 80 degrees indoors is certifiably melting stage.
Double Hooboy.
We sit and "chat" and then he tells me the layout of the house and I'm to walk through. I begin my self guided tour. I cannot believe what I'm seeing. I'm overwhelmed.
And yet. Quite simply, I need the money. My previous blog posts have not done my current situation justice; H#2 left me with an incredible legacy of.... nothing. Nada.
So it comes to pass, that I take the assignment. Anas asks me repeatedly if I am dependable and trustworthy and each time I answer yes. The fifth time, I just say, "well, you will see won't you?" He wants me to work that day, but I cannot get out of there fast enough and so we agree that I will work Saturdays 8 a.m. until noon -- until he dies. "After all", he says, "I'm 79. How long can I live?"
Triple hooboy.


Week One: I cried, I scrubbed, and I laughed at his jokes. Until he told me the same joke three times. When he got to the end of the joke, he said "That was the punch line." I said, "I know." Anas, "You did not laugh." Me, "It wasn't funny." He shuffles back into the living room.
He would come to check on me working in the kitchen. I had so much to scrub I hardly paid him any attention. I did ask him, "Do you have sunglasses?"
Anas, "Yes, they are in the car." I tell him he will need them, because when I am finished with this kitchen the sparkle will be blinding. He laughs and shuffles back into the living room.
Around mid morning, I need a break and sit for a few minutes with him. He is so excited -- we watch "Riverdance" together. He offers me make me a copy - in VHS - I politely decline.
I learn that he was born and raised in Egypt. He never married, has no children and has dated as many as four women at one time. He cooks (sloppily) and he has no teeth. He likes the internet, listening to music, and collecting jokes.


Week Two: We had a rocky start as I told him I needed May 5 off. He asks me why and I snap "Why do you need to know?" I relent and tell him it's because I'm running my first 5K, and I'm pretty sure I will not be able to clean. He repeats to me his need for someone reliable and dependable. I say I am! He says he needs two weeks' notice. I say I just gave you five!
My project is to fold laundry and organize a hall closet. This sounds easy until I count the number of towels. 18 wash clothes, 13 large wash clothes, 11 bath towels, and untold pairs of pajama pants. I shake my head as I realize Anas has put my mother to shame. (Those of you who know me well, may remember when I cleaned out my mom's house, the situation was similar -- except for the smell.)
As I am working, he is cooking up a storm! By 10:30 he's got dinner made, offers me a steak and sits down to eat. I am afraid to offend him, so I cut myself the tiniest sliver of steak possible. I try not to gag, thinking about the kitchen and its previous state, but I do manage to swallow it though I can't finish it. He puts the steak and rice in a plastic container for me to take home. Hooboy.
I inform him that I'm cleaning the kitchen again. Anas is surprised by this. I tell him, it's clean and it's going to stay that way, that's why I will clean it each week. He purchased me a few gallons of bleach (at my request) so the job is a little easier. He is so happy he gives me a raise and a hug.


Week Three: Today, he wants new contact paper in the hall closet. Now, when I say "new" I mean 12 years old. So, that's what I do. I have to move 28 cans of Scrubbing Bubbles, 8 cans of shaving cream, 11 cans of air freshener, more light bulbs than they have at the local Home Depot, and.... ready... here it comes. Games. Yes, games. Dominos, and dice whose package reads: "The game of chance to get in your pants!"


Quadruple Hooboy.

Leap Day Diary

When I am leave for work, I am totally put together. Clothing freshly ironed, hair styled (well sort of), makeup in place. By the time I get to work 40 minutes later, I'm wrinkled, my hair has done its own thing, and I swear the makeup has blown off. Not to mention what charming effects those hot flashes can have on an outfit.



Today was an outstanding example of just how put together I can be. Pressed, dressed and ready to go, I open the garage door, and it's pouring rain.


And I'm walking almost a mile to the T (trolley for you non Pittsburghers) stop because my car is in the shop. (See blog post "What?!" January)






I am wearing my old, trusty, long, LL Bean water repellent raincoat. I open my umbrella and start out. Within 50 feet, my left arm is soaked. The wind is blowing rain up into the underside of the umbrella. Cars pass by and I try to avoid being splashed which only results in soaking my shoes in mud. My right arm is soaked, and my tote bag is dripping. I can see curls (!) forming in front of my eyes.


Now, I ask you what exactly is water repellent? It's a scam, that's what it is. I am here to tell you LL Bean seriously misled me on this coat. I needed paper towels when I got to work to dry my arms!


My legs are soaked and covered in goosebumps. I'm wearing pantyhose - sopping wet, mud spattered, cold pantyhose. So, with a few minutes to spare at the T stop, I go into the Rite Aid next door to buy dry pantyhose. (I don't know why but the three drug stores downtown only carry pantyhose that would be useful if I were in sales - and I don't mean retail.) I purchase L'Eggs Queensize. My rationale is that because they are rather ... ample... they should be easy to pull on.


I ride for 40 minutes; cold, wet, windblown. I plunk down my bag at my desk, and go straight to the ladies room. What-the- harry happened to my perfectly straight hair? I look like Orphan Annie! *sigh... I go into the tiny, teeny stall to change out of the soaking wet hose. Queensize? Only if the Queen was a 3 year old! This is, without a doubt, the smallest pair of hose I have E V E R owned. They don't even go all the up to my waist, and they are so tight around my legs that I believe I lost circulation in my ankles by lunchtime.


The one bright thing about today.... I got my car back.

D.I.Y.

I grew up in an era when most dads could fix anything. My father could paint and paper, cut the grass and trim the edges, install windows, fix the water heater, or change a flat tire. I have not-so-fond memories of being made to stand and watch him paint an entire room. He had us there to hand him his tools as he needed them. (Note: I cannot fathom this thinking as I was happy to send my own kids outside to play while I painted!)
At an early age, the idea was planted that anyone could fix anything - D.I.Y. Now, I simply refuse to accept the idea that I cannot fix something.

I am reminded of my Delaware landscaping phase. I just didn't see the sense in paying someone to trim 40 year old azaleas. It was a warm afternoon, the kids were playing outside, and the garage door was open. I swear the saw was calling my name. Before it was time to make dinner, pine trees were pruned, ivy was clipped, and my azaleas looked like giant green, branchy bowls. H#1 was not amused and my neighbors began to refer to me as "the happy landscaper".

Take my Pepto Bismal pink toilet, circa 1949.


Days, weeks, months, a year of a touchy toilet - I was determined to fix. I took its parts to the local hardware store. Phil, in plumbing, patiently explained things to me, showed me what to do. I would go home and make the attempt. It would work ... but eventually and inevitably, I would end up back at Rolliers Hardware looking for more parts. To Phil's chagrin, I never had the broken piece with me so he had to endure my pitiful attempts at explaining just what the part looked like. The potty situation was so bad that if you had to flush, you had to remove the toilet lid and pull on the chain yourself. I refused to let the toilet beat me. This went on for weeks, months even. H#2 even made a repair but it didn't last (ironically, neither did H#2)!
Last fall, I surrendered and had Ray, my favorite plumber, install a new one.

Recently, the oven challenged me. It was Christmas day (of course). The potatoes were baked and cooling. The rib roast went in. Funny thing, though, after about 45 minutes, I didn't smell anything and I didn't hear it sizzling. The oven refused to heat past 175 degrees.

The grill came to the rescue - but only for about a half hour when it ran out of gas. Thank goodness the 7-11 was not only open but carried propane gas.

Back to my oven. So the next day, I take a look and I decide the heating element needs to be replaced. Good friends direct me to a place that sells appliance parts and I drive out to pick one up. The screws come out easily but it appears the heating element is not only plugged in but wired. I look around, and grab the nearest thing - pruning shears. One snip and it was disconnected. Then we lost electricity. After an hour or so, I went out to run some errands. I got back after dark and noticed that lights were on up and down the street. Yes! We're back in business. Um, not exactly. My house was still dark.

Then a light went on in my head. I probably tripped a circuit breaker.

Needless to say, my idea didn't work and I couldn't figure out how to reconnect the heating element to the oven. I took the plug (lesson learned from the pink toilet) up to Rolliers and John in electrics is my teacher. I tell him the story and he shakes his head and says, "Pruning shears?!" We find the part, he shows me what to do, I make the purchase and go home.

I just simply couldn't get the stripper to work. So I grabbed - not the pruning shears - but a paring knife. You know, to trim the rubber away from the wires. Whew - what a spark! Not one to give up easily, I repeated my effort. That spark caused me to drop the knife... and slip downstairs to turn off the electricity.

Melvin the handy man came a few days later, and fixed the burnt out wires behind the oven. Oops.

Today, it was IKEA. I don't think like a Swede. I don't even look like one. The shelving unit Expedite almost got the better of me, but I prevailed with a little help from my neighbour, Alan. I ask you: Who invented the Allen wrench?! Further, who invented the Swedish Allen wrench? And, more importantly, why oh why isn't there a drill bit shaped like the IKEA Allen wrench? I would buy it. Seriously.

* Not my house, but it is my shelf.