The good news, and the bad...

So, I did well on my test, with a score of 95 out of 98, and if I had not second-guessed myself, it could have been 97. There's a good something to learn right there. Some of this stuff will stay with me all the rest of my life, because I still remember some things from the first time I took this class, in 1963. We had this charismatic professor, Dr. Alvin Hunter, and they held all his classes in the auditorium because so many students were attracted to them. I remember this as being a lot easier than it is now, because psychology is a very young science and has now come into its own, no longer considered "soft", and it is all jazzed up with a lot of information about the biological foundations of behavior, and tons of experiments and observations have been made in the interim, as well. What stuck with me were the body types: ectomorphs, endomorphs and mesomorphs. I haven't run across them in our current text, but when I do, I'm on top of it!

Then, after patting myself on the back about my ability to recall all the minituae of the nervous system, parts of the brain, genetics, I ran off to my 5:30 meeting, and not only left the back door open, again, but the freezer door, as well. Not my finest moment, by far. Well, the refrigerator is a little balky about closing, and I forget that because it doesn't happen all that often. But that back door thing, that's a recurring problem. So I got out my trusty Printmaster disk and made myself a sign for the front door. Let us hope that works. I also know that things I see every day tend to slip off of my radar, as well. Hopefully, by the time that happens, checking the back door will be ingrained in my memory banks. Progress, not perfection.

The thing about style...

After all these years, you would think I would have discovered my style. For a while, in my early twenties, after my first divorce, I was Holly Golightly, urban and coiffed with a Sassoon, very sleek. I even had one of those mega-long cigarette holders, which, after a couple of smokes, made my black and gold Sterlings taste pretty awful. Then I remarried and moved to Hawaii, where I was Hilo Hattie, all muumuued and brown. Shortly after our return to the mainland, I divorced again, and moved to Santa Rosa, where my style sank into suburban mediocrity. After the purchase of my Birkenstocks, I considered doing Earth Mother, but it just never worked out for me, not even when I moved to the coast and became West County Wild Woman. There is too much vanity there to let my hair grow out gray and braid it down my back, and I just can't walk out into the world with a naked face, either. But I do like the student personna, where I can just put one of those dandy clamps in my hair, throw on jeans and a tee shirt and some sandals, and go. No more panty hose. Hell, no more girdle, like I wore in my early city days. Even when I was a student, 42 years ago, we wore wool skirts and Mary Janes to college. Some changes are definitely for the best.

The answer to No. 43 is C. No, A. No, oh hell...

I have now taken my first test, and the teacher lied. She said she would only cover what she covered in class, and then threw in some questions on the endocrine system anyway. I am pretty sure I got all those right. In fact, I am 99% sure of all the questions, except No. 43, which she said she covered in class, but neither my test partner nor I remember anything about it in our notes, and I went back to check, afterward, and I think this is a brain-fart on the part of our 62 year old teacher, bless her soul. Also, she said 89 questions, and there were 98. Oh, well, most were pretty easy, and the few we were tripped up on, one or the other of us remembered. There were only a couple that neither of us were certain about. This was a chapter about neurons and neurotransmitters and brain parts/functions and heredity, little things like that. It was complex and there was a lot of material to assimilate, and a good test of my ability to retain what I studied. Also a good test of my method of studying that I instituted: read through the chapter, then outline it, in sections, with rests in between to eat or go for a walk, or just do anything else but think about it. Then read through again, the next day. I referred to my outline this morning, but did not study any more last night, when the test was put off for another day. I am heartened. My neural pathways are intact, and I can train them to learn, again. So, on to the next step, an appointment with a counselor to map out my curriculum for fall. I am off the launching pad here!

Ah, college...

I studied like a little demon Sunday for a test that was supposed to happen this morning, that didn't happen. OK, we'll see how long this knowledge can last up there in the dark recesses of my aged brain, because I have paper I want to write today. I took notes, both in class and an outline of the chapter as I studied, and I tried to give myself frequent breaks, little snacks and a game of Freecell once in a while, a walk around the neighborhood with Boo, and it worked. I can tell you about resting potential and action potential, the difference in afferent and efferent cells, the function of the amygdala and the thalamus, all kinds of information about the working of the brain, at least what has been discovered and hypothesized. It is still a mystery on a lot of levels, and I think oversimplified in our text. This is the most complex system in our known universe and a source of great wonder. I am so stoked by learning about it. And I am training my neural network to retain what I put into it by means of the marvel of plasticity. And a lot of this is attitude, too. We saw a film today about diseases that cause damage to the brain, and Agnes DeMille, great choreographer and dancer, had a debillitating stroke that affected her motor function. Her discipline and desire were credited with her recovery. Well, duh. Attitude is everything. I'm writing that on my favorite spiritual aid, the PostIt, to stick to my computer here.

All about axons and dendrites...

You know, Boo likes to guess which way we are going when we head out the door. He is always three steps ahead, which means I almost step on him a lot when he guesses wrong. Now, there's a lesson I could learn. I am always trying to study ahead, guessing what the teacher will be covering next. So far, I have been 100% wrong, and am now deciding that I will wait and see, and trust that there will be enough time to study before the tests. Like tomorrow. We already know it will be 89 questions on the brain, the physical site of all my problems, for sure. I actually enjoyed the chapter, and will be reading it and outlining it and testing myself with the handy-dandy CD they gave me with the text. Actually, the text was so expensive, I should have gotten a CD player, too. And since this is our first test, we are taking it with a partner. Mine is Kristina, who will be a senior at Cal next semester, and just keeping her brain going here during the summer. She seems to have a sharp mind, and great study ethics. And I feel especially motivated to be up on the material so I can hold up my end. Sounds like a plan. This is a big milestone on my test-drive of college, how well I can retain the material. I'd hold my breath, but my textbook says that is bad for you.

Tender moments, relived...

I am listening to a tape of a mix my mother made for me, at my request, of Andre Previn's album Like Love, and another 101 Strings extravaganza, music from my young and tender years. You know, though my childhood was often tumultuous and fraught with pain, it was full of music. Dad would bring home new recordings often, Glenn Miller was a favorite, as well as Perry Como and Bing Crosby. There were stacks and stacks of 78's in the cupboard. Later, we got this huge stereo that looked like a roll-top desk, and accumulated a lot of ablums, as well as some of those 45's that were so popular in the 50's. We had all the Rogers and Hammerstein musicals: The King and I, Carousel, Oklahoma, South Pacific. Oh, and Camelot, how I loved Robert Goulet singing If ever I would leave you. And OK, we had Billy Vaughn and Mantovani, too. And I loved them. They were the precursor to my love for classical music. Listening now, I feel very young, and full of promise, like I did when I was 14, all legs and freckles, sunburned from a day at Ives pool, where Nick Boreta, who would be my high school sweetheart, chased me around all day. Summer smelled like lemon blossoms, and sounded like Tab Hunter singing Red Sails in the Sunset or the Everly Brothers or Frankie Avalon. We played statues and Red Rover on the front lawn, and begged for dimes when the ice cream truck drove up our street with its music box jingle playing over and over. I didn't know how sweet it was, then. Maybe my mother is right; it was a more innocent time.

Let's hear it for endorphins!

I am writing my second college paper, on an article about endorphins, and it is only 2 pages, double-spaced, 12 font, but it has me spinning. I picked an article expecting to hear that endorphin is a natural opiate, and is produced when we exercise, giving us that marvelous high, like when I get off that damned treadmill, I feel like I could fly away. But I also read that meditation increases endorphin levels as well. Why? The article did not say, so I went after about 5 more articles, and it seems to be in the breath, though another factor may be prolonged periods of hyper-awareness, a sort of letting-go of everything else but the running or the chanting, or even the Sufi dancing and concentrating on the moment. That's a pretty wonderful thing to know. My favorite endorphin-producing activity is washing the car. I get into the moment, enjoying the sudsy sponge swipes all over every inch of its shiny black body, scrubbing those ill-fated bugs off the license plate, and watching the sunlight play in the spray when I hose it off. I am less enamored of sweeping out the muffin crumbs and dog hair, but I am in such a good mood by the time I get around to them, it doesn't matter. When I am done, I feel euphoric in a mild-mannered way. OK, I'm kind of nuts here, but it's a benevolent kind of crazy, n'est-ce pas? And I sure hope my teacher likes my paper. I have figured out that angle, to follow her instructions and give her what she is looking for. That's a quantum leap, right there.

Frodo and Gandalf and Sam, oh my!

I was feeling mighty low a couple of days ago, just general ennui stemming from self-doubt about being able to accomplish my goal of going to college at this late date, and some very old angst, as well, so I put Fellowship of the Ring in my DVD player and settled in. I was gifted with all three movies, extended version (30 to 50 extra minutes, per movie) by my dear son this Christmas. Frodo is just such a wonderful character, so little, so innocent, so brave. Now, I will admit that I didn't particularly like the first two movies when I saw them at our little Rio Theater. They seemed long, difficult to understand (I didn't read the books) with all those names and places and legends to assimilate. Then the 3rd movie came along and I got it. Oh, Aragorn is the decendent of Isilidor! He is the King of Gondor! Actually, it all got crystal clear when I watched the movies with the English subtitles on. Until then, I thought Elrond was Elron, as in Elron Hubbard. And the music is wondrous, have you noticed? I have a couple of the soundtrack albums as well, and there are all these choral pieces, and boy sopranos, and pan flute, all elvish and vaguely Celtic. So I have made it through the first movie, (it took two evenings to do that) and now will journey on with the 2nd one. I should be done by next Monday; it takes an evening to watch 1/2 a movie. A week of Frodo and Sam, Gimli, Legolas, and that yummy Aragorn, there's something to live for.

Oh, dear...

Lots of little irritations going on here. My new ISP has some glitches, like it balks at sending my e-mails, not a good thing. I never know if my sterling prose has glided away on the wings of the ether, or is stuck on the runway somewhere. There are all these irritating error boxes full of hieroglyphics that pop up all over my screen. I sent an emergency e-mail to support, and I wasn't sure all day yesterday if it had even left my mailbox. Goodness, I might even have had to phone these people! But good news, I got a long and detailed instruction list to fix this error. Of course, the last time I tried to follow their long and detailed instructions, I couldn't even find the program I needed to fix on my disk! So I am longing for those days when I knew where everything was, for Xtree, you know, it was so easy then. Well, primitive, too. I am looking at some rather weighty tomes sitting on my computer bookshelf. Time to read up on Windows and all its myriad vicissitudes. Wonderful.

A little angst, please.

I visited my parents this weekend. Sometimes this goes well. This was not one of those times. Now, I am 61 years old. I have had many years dealing with my mother, who is an unhappy person who seems to think we should all be in that boat with her, especially me. I am a disappointment to her, I guess. And fortified as I am with experience of her nastiness, she still can blind-side me. So I left carrying my very heavy cross, again. The good thing is that it didn't take a long time to move off my pity pot. You see, every so often, I get into that old belief that what she thinks about me is actually about me. It isn't. It's about her, who she is, what she sees and hears, none of which looks like what I see or hear. And that is sad. As angry as I got, I could still feel how awful it must be to be her. And I could be really happy that I didn't get whatever gene triggers her unhappiness. Grateful as hell, actually. I tried on that persona earlier in this life, and it was an ill fit. I prefer to be joyful and dance around a lot. Sometimes, it's really hard work.

Help, I'm having an epiphany here!

Don't you just love that word? Epiphany, sudden and often rude awakening that may or may not be welcome at the time of its arrival. Like last night. My audio tapes are scattered all over the place, but I found a cache of them in the garage and dragged them it to try out the new music machine in the bedroom. Now, some of these tapes are mixes of music made for me by a former lover, and this proclivity was the main attraction this man had for me, his inner sweetness and a shared love for music. Once I put on "Heart Graffiti", I began to sink into renewed grief over this relationship that ended nine years ago! And I remembered too, that this was when my daughter was still living at home, and I missed her, too! I don't even like all this music, oh, no no. None of this makes a whole lot of sense to me, but then, emotions seem to have a life of their own, and music is so very powerful to me. I decided that if it could drag me into despair, I actually can use it to lift my spirit, too. So I am desensitizing all this music, everything from the soundtrack from Dances with Wolves to Buddy Holly's ditties, to the theme from Northern Exposure. Which leads me to another of my favorite words, catharsis. That is what is actually happening here, bringing all that darkness up and out of my id. I used to think I was weaker than other human beings because I felt everything so deeply, like I cried over GE commercials, you know, "we bring good things to light"? Now I think I have a greater capacity for life than most people have, because of this particular attribute. And this is why I am studying psychology, to plumb the depths of the human condition, my own as well. It's got to be a good thing.

And she shall have music wherever she goes...

You know, I am not rich. My income is a little above poverty level for this area, which is very affluent. And I am blessed beyond belief, too. When I "retired", left my employment of 12 years, I was gifted with a $500 Costco card. Boy, it doesn't get any better than that for me as there is nothing I love as much as shopping! So far, I have gotten a table for the backyard, where I plan on sitting with my textbook and laptop to study all summer, when it gets here (it rained today). And I pondered and puzzed, and finally decided on a little stereo for the bedroom, because my other music makers are out in our common rooms, and my housemate sometimes needs to rest, quietly. So now I can retreat to my room, and bathe myself in music, propped up on my multitudinous pillows. Abundance reigns here. Oh, yes, I keep 16 pillow on the bed: 1 to sleep on (it's down), 4 more to prop myself up and lounge with my trash novels, 2 to wear the shams, and 9 throw pillows of various shapes and colors, to spice things up and give Boo his daily thrill when he gets up on the bed, rolls over onto his back, and squirms all around, throwing them all over the bedroom. I still have half my gift money left. And my rebate came from my Executive membership today, another $91.25. Prosperity and abundance. Grace.

The thing about cow lips...

My fathers parents did not believe in higher education, never having experienced it themselves, no doubt. So their 5 sons went into the trades: the oldest and youngest ran an insurance agency, the second and fourth went into the family plumbing business, and the middle kid, my Dad, became a butcher. Dad was extremely personable, at work. At home, he was often irritable and sometimes a ticking timebomb of anger. He ruled by terror. So when we were shopping to get our meat, I was always somewhat confused by the big jolly man in the white apron behind the neat display case, where the hamburger was always in these whipped cream-like swirls. He would give me a weiner, cold, right out of that case. Now I didn't particularly like weiners, but I ate that thing, because I didn't want to disappoint my Dad. Then some evil-minded person told me they were made of cow lips. You know, that didn't phase me. We ate a lot of the cow others didn't: liver, of course, but kidneys and brains, too. Yesterday, in Costco, standing in that ever present line, I began to salivate for one of those huge, plump, juicy ones they sell for $1.50, complete with large soft drink. The line at the food counter was manageable, and I slathered that thing with deli mustard and pickle relish. Boo and I savored every bite. Into each life, let a little cow lips fall.

A whole day of seredipity, whee!

Report from that little old college student, me! I got my first paper back, a review of the first film we saw, "The Mind", a Discovery Channel production. She loved it! Well, I do love to write, and she saw that. Also, she announced that the bookstore had the syllabus they were out of when I bought that very expensive textbook. This was a full week ahead of schedule. Cool. It was raining, and the bookstore was a healthy hike away. I decided I could wait. But sitting at the stoplight, I said to myself, now, you really need to review that thing, so I turned into the main campus. No parking. Unfazed, I took a second loop through, and there it was, as close as I could get to Pioneer Hall. While I was paying for my syllabus and scantrons and super-duper art eraser to correct any booboos on my tests, I asked about returning the first set of textbooks, and found that it was the last day to get refunds. Well, that was fortuitous. So I went home, bagged them up and went back. No receipt. Bummer. I prayed to St. Jude all the way home to help me find that damned receipt. I have a folder called "Misc." where everything ends up. After plowing through volumes of sales tags from Costco, Trader Joes, Raleys, Payless Shoe Source, Target, there it was! And I also found a $20 bill I had wadded inside a Safeway receipt. I would never have found it if it had not been really important to get my $51.30 back.
The whole scenario was as unlikely as they get, and so many things had to fall exactly into place for me to wind up feeling truly blessed. Of course, I could be a little more mindful, and not throw money into the filing cabinet any more. But it was as if that lonely little $20 bill was crying out to be found. So I am oozing gratitude from every pore. Thank you, Universe!

Is it just me, part II...

My new favorite cereal comes from Trader Joes, and is anyone else as in love with a store as I am here? So many good things, and Ben & Jerry's for $2.50 a pint, too! I really want to eat good and yummy at the same time. So I tried this flax seed cereal, with pumpkin seeds, too. I read the ingredients, and most everything is organic, and I couldn't find sugar there, until I realized that "organic evaporated cane juice" just had to be the one. Whatever, it is delicious, not too sweet but not bland either. Except it has all these little black seeds, which I suppose are the flax seeds, and they remind me of (gulp) the itty bitty black bugs. You see, the house on the edge of the world, my previous abode, had magnificent views of the river and the island and the hills and the sea, and flowers bloomed there year round, and a majestic 3 point stag lived in our backyard, but paradise always has a hitch. It took about two years to get them, in a bag of whole wheat flour I seldom used, shoved into the back of the black hole of a cupboard Then they migrated, and were in everything. I had to totally empty everything out, scrub and disinfect, dump a lot of stuff, boxes of crackers and cereal in particular. Now, this is a cathartic and wondrous process, really. I once again knew everything that lived in my cupboards. But the second time they showed up, I was a little peeved. Eventually, Costco came to the rescue, with a huge boxful of plastic containers. Everything that could possibly be vulnerable in my new, bright and accessible cupboards still lives encased in plastic. There is nothing more irritating than setting my tastebuds for that risotto mix and pouring out the sauce mix laden with itty bitty black bugs. Yuck. Give me ants anyday.

Poor Boo...

Moving and changing most of my life was at best disconcerting and sometimes pure trauma. And of course, I projected that out onto my dog. What are our fur people for if not anthropomorphizing every nuance of their existence? I wound up taking Boo with me everywhere I went, my little hood ornament in the back seat. He even went to work, living in the car in the morning (he had lots of shade and water, and a mid morning Milk Bone), and under my desk in the afternoon. Now that work is over and school has started, it was time to leave him home, no guaranteed shade in the parking lot, well no guaranteed parking place, either. And, of course, he had a dandy case of separation anxiety. This comes under the category of troubles of my own making. Sigh. Fortunately, we have a doggie expert on the radio, Warren Epstein, every Saturday when I am out and about doing my errands. Warren said give them a special treat, a pat on the head and leave. And no fuss when I come back either. So the first time, I gave Boo a chew-stick. It is specially treated to be good for his teeth, too. I will never forget the sight of that little black dog sitting in the middle of our front room, chew-stick sticking out of both side of his mouth, terror in his eyes. I left the radio on, too. Probably he didn't need that, but it just seemed a nice thing to do for him. I would want someone to do that for me. He was a trembling mass of joy when I came home, and I just patted him and went about hiding my keys from myself, which I do every time I come home. While I was gone, he burrowed under the 16 pillows on my bed (more about that another time) so he could curl up on the one at the bottom, the one I sleep on. So sweet. The second time, he refused the chew-stick, as if not accepting it would keep me from leaving. Smart cookie, this dog. Milk Bones didn't work, either. Yesterday I bought new and better treats. I'm a smart cookie, too. I don't know who I am training here, me or the dog, but I am feeling more OK about leaving him.

Yet another of life's little jokes on me...

I started school today, one measly class. And I was well prepared, having registered and gotten my parking permit and my textbooks, frugally used. I decided that if I could find the classroom I was ahead of the game. Funnily enough, it didn't have a number on the door like all the others, but I guessed it was 1696 from its position between 1695 and 1697. I'm no dummy. However, the teacher was different. Sad to say, the scheduled teach had an accident, so we got this new one. Good news: I like her. Bad news: she uses a different textbook, and the bookstore had a limited supply of them, together with the syllibus. One of the students came back late from the 10 minute break with hers. I figured, no sweat. I will drop my heavy laptop bag in the car and trot over there after class. All those young people had the same idea and they were swifter than I. I got the book, new, $118. I think they line these texts in platinum or something. But no syllibus. Soon, they said. Not soon enough for this elderly student. Really, it is bad enough to be cast adrift in this sea of budding hormones, now I don't even have all my oars in the water. I will muddle through, I am sure. I wrote my first paper, it was a little long, but fun to do. One thing I have no problem with is expressing my opinions. And I seem to be the only one in the room enjoying this class. All those young faces look consummately bored. Whatever happens here, I can't lose. If I am not cut out for academia, I will find out. And if I do well, I will be launched on my course for the next few years. And I found the classroom, didn't I?

Gifts.

A long long time ago, like 35 years, I went to the opera in the San Francisco Opera House to see Tosca, wonderful lyric opera. We sat in a box (it was a matinee or we could never have afforded that). The diva was singing her swan song. And the tenor was new and upcoming. Placido Domingo. It was a while before I realized how lucky we were to see him when he was just beginning his career. And yesterday it happened again. We heard a young soprano in concert, Hope Briggs. This woman has more than a lovely singing voice, she has a presence that is electrifying. She sang Mozart, she sang Verdi, she sang Massenet, then several spirituals. Already she is being compared to Leontyne Price, which I think is unfair. She is better than that, and her expression of the arias says that she can act, as well, a huge dividend for an opera singer. Opera is a big and glorious thing. To be truly wonderful, it needs to be sung with a lot of feeling, from the little tickling arias in Italian comic opera to the ponderous Wagnerian dirges in the Ring trilogy. It was truly an honor to see her performance. And what a treat for this country girl to spend an afternoon in the big city hearing Bach and Brahms. Just so we didn't get swelled heads over our cultural endeavors, we ended our day at In & Out Burger on the way home. That milkshake was a work of art in itself.

Boo needs a personal trainer!

WE are having delightful spring weather, warm and sunny and the air smells like summer, warm silver grass smell. After a sweet lunch together at Applebee's, our favorite diner, my son and I took a walk in the neighborhood, past all the little houses sitting on huge lots surrounded by very old trees and lots of rose bushes. Boo went with, of course, on his jaunty red leash, and heading out the door, he was a ball of fire, ready to explore the great unknown. A lot of our walk was shady because the trees tunnel the street now that they are in glorious full leaf. Nevertheless, after waddling along pedantically, Boo panted and started to flag, then, on our way back, he just beelined it for a shady, leafy place and flopped down and refused to move. Well, we sat down with him, doused him with the water we had so smartly brought with us, and waited for him to cool down. I thought, what a smart little cookie this dog is. When he is tired, he just stops. I don't do that. I will fight sleep till I am so pooped, I crash and burn. Wouldn't it be great if I knew all my limitations, if I had this inner dashboard of warning lights, like my car has, that would flash at me when I was running out of fuel, or needed to cool down my engine, or was about to emit something I would be sorry for later? Well, actually, I do. I have an AA sponsor, who will always help me read the flashing lights and recommend what I do about that. Kind of sweet. Meanwhile, I need to exercise this little black dog more. Guess that personal trainer is me.

I think my computer just farted, again.

Remember when we were smarter than our machines? I mean, my car does some very interesting things, like all the doors lock 30 seconds after I turn on the key. And when I press the gizmo to open the doors, the inside light goes on, very handy when I am out in the boonies, at night, as I often am. And while it gives this polite little dingdingding if I neglect to fasten the seatbelt before starting the engine, it will eventually swear at me with that dinger if I don't do it till I get on the road. Well, the computer now also has my best interests at heart and is constantly reminding me to upgrade my virus protection, etc. Little windows pop-up at the most irritating times. Recently there was a balloon message from my toolbar saying that there were 17 upgrades ready to be loaded. I ignored it, until this big window rose up like Venus from the sea, with a noise better suited to announce the Second Coming and scared the you-know-what out of me as I noodled around in my mahjohnng game, so I did it, I upgraded. And after it restarted itself, rather rudely, I must say, my wallpaper came up, without my desktop. I knew it, I knew those upgrades were going to be trouble. I don't know how I got my desktop back, I just kept playing around with it and there it was again. I do like the new look of my media player, and now my firewall is installed, whoopee. I hope that is all for a while. My heart cannot take another pronouncement of impending doom.