I was born in 1956 and grew up near the port city of Philadelphia.

I had the good fortune to attend public schools where there was none of that nonsense about hiding under desks. We were taught what a first strike zone was, that we were in one, and what that meant. We were also taught to how to exercise a little dignity in preparation for the day when it would be needed.

What we weren’t taught was how to deal with a world in which the Cold War was over.

When it did end, I remember having a hard time visualizing a world in which I might live a full span of years. I also remember deciding that it was probably pointless to try to do so as something else was likely to come along which would foreshorten the time.

There were times when I would begin to wonder about that foreshortening, but then someone would come along and blow up part of New York and I’d slide back into my comfort zone.

Now, at 51, I’m no so sure.

I’ve reached an age I’m already not supposed to have lived to be, according to that early life script. I’m finding it quite uncomfortable.

I’ve lost 15 excess pounds. I’ve gone off anti-depressants. I seem to have quit engaging in “shopping therapy.” I’ve gone back to cooking on a fairly regular basis. I’ve started taking lovely care of my fingernails, even though that means seeing someone every two weeks for professional treatments.

Funny how these things work.

Yesterday I saw Jimmy Carter.  Today I was incompletely quoted in the newspaper published from our state’s capital city, and while what what they included was fine, they left out the best part.  This evening, I had three “bar” shots of Tequila (which I haven’t done in quite a long time) , at home in the safety of my own kitchen and they knocked me on my virtual posterior.

I must say that I’m not much impressed with myself.

Today I realized just how much electronics and small children have in common, both in their tendency to balkiness and in the step-by-step processes required for their remediation.

This does not mean that I feel in any way qualified to deal with children on a regular basis. It does, however, explain why I sometimes find equipment so tedious.

This morning I got up and grabbed the cell phone to clip on my hip as usual. Then I realized that it was not, technically, required this morning. I smiled, because it reminded me that, this morning, two people were free. My father died in the small hours yesterday morning. If there’s any mercy in this universe, he is free of the demons which plagued him all his life. I’m now free to remember the times they didn’t stand between us.

Neshaminy Warwick Presbyterian Church is one of those old pre-Revolutionary ones in Bucks County, Pa. It’s located at a curve on the Neshaminy Creek. Bristol Road, the one that goes by the church, takes a sharp turning as it goes over the bridge which crosses the creek. Various attempts have been made over the years to straighten and widen things a little bit, but although the bridge has been re-built for safety reasons its location hasn’t been changed, in part for historic reasons, but mostly because of the odd turning of the creek.

As the story goes, once upon a time, a long time ago, a young woman in a white dress was killed at night on the bridge. There may or may not have been a mist rising from the creek at the time, depending on the teller. She was either riding in a carriage which tried to take the turn too quickly and flipped, crushing her between the carriage and the bridge, or she was waiting on the bridge for a rendezvous with her lover and was hit by a carriage which didn’t see her. After a couple of hundred years, the story has gotten a little blurry. In any event, on certain dark nights, it is said that she can be seen on the bridge and her appearance has been blamed for more than a few close encounters between sides of the bridge and vehicles, even during my early lifetime.

Personally, I always figured it was a matter of careless driving or speeding and didn’t give much credence to it. That was before the time I was up there visiting my parents and had occasion to travel by the church one dark night–and damned near hit the bridge when I saw her.

Back in April, when I bought my Mac mini, I got a printer with it. There was no choice in the matter. Me being me, I failed to send in the rebate in a timely manner, but I got more than 25% of it back this evening anyway.

Our dear Shiba Inu, Charlie, has a habit of investigating new things by chewing on them. Although he’s almost seven years old, he only came to live with us last spring, so there are many household things which are still new to him. You see where this is going, right?

I suppose it’s just as well that he didn’t chew through the part of the power cord between the wall and the transformer because fried Shiba would have been a very sad thing. However, if he had done that without frying himself, I could have replaced that part with a power cord out of the spare parts box. But no, not our Charlie. He had to get the part between the transformer and the printer. That would be the part that insists on being unique to each printer because the plug doesn’t match or the wattage doesn’t match or some such variable.

Yes, it could have been spliced, but first I decided to go to the HP site and see how much it would cost for a replacement power supply (that’s what they call the part which is the transformer block and the cord to the printer). Naturally, I couldn’t find it.

Not being one to be defeated quite so easily these days, I availed myself of their live chat feature. Not only did my support person (”Dan”) identify the correct part and show me a picture, he really wanted to know when I’d gotten the printer. It took a little digging, while he waited quite patiently (probably helping several other customers), but I was able to determine the date. It turns out that the reason he wanted to know was to determine whether the printer was still under warranty. Please pay attention to this next bit, because it’s the whole point of the entry.

HP replaced the power supply under the warranty even though the dog chewed the cord. Didn’t even ask me to pay for the shipping.

In these days when customer service often seems to be a thing of the past, I not only got some, but I got some which I feel was above and beyond. I know the part itself didn’t cost them zip, but the packing and the shipping and the cost of the live chat service all did and I like to give credit where credit is due. Besides, it’s what gives me the right to complain when things don’t go so well.

The good news is that my husband passed his kidney stone about 11:00 pm Saturday. He’ll see the doctor again on Tuesday and I think at that point they’ll decide what to do, if anything, about the stones still up in his kidneys. He’s still kind of worn from the ordeal (early Monday morning until late Saturday night), but he’s getting back up to speed quickly.

Of course, here in the land of the Perils of Pauline, we don’t go for long until something else happens. Our gang gathered yesterday evening for a birthday dinner for one of our group. Although these things are held at our place most of the time, with my husband sick we had moved the venue to the home of another group member who lives in town. Because she lives in town, we park on the (sufficiently wide) street.

We had a fabulous meal. We’ve all been cooking together for 20 years and have gotten good at it. After dessert, while some of us were still sitting at the table, we heard a big bang, followed by an almost-as-big bang. It sounded like lighting strikes right out on the street, but there wasn’t any flash. Turns out that the first big bang was my car getting hit and the second was the birthday honoree’s van being hit. Long story short–it turns out that our hit and run driver was some 82 year old guy who may or may not have been intoxicated.

Friend’s van just needs a new left rear quarter panel and left rear tail light. My car, which I’ve only had for 18 months and which was hit first, needs a new bumper, left tail light lens, left rear tire, left rear wheel, left rear quarter panel, left rear back door, and driver’s side mirror. It takes some doing to catch the rim of a wheel and bend it all the way over so we’re hoping there’s no axel damage. At least the old guy had insurance.

So, more Monday morning fun. At least this time, it was just property damage.

Author’s note:  The caps, exclamation points, italics and bold are an indication of the volume of my own voice screaming inside my head. 

Here’s how it went:

I read an excellent and informative paragraph on DEA classifications of ADD meds (posted on a message board) which concluded with, “When taken orally at the prescribed dosages, these drugs have great medical value and rarely produce any sort of high. But make no mistake, they are narcotics, and do carry the risks thereof.” Because I was not able to successfully process that information, my brain focused on the word “narcotics.”

I got all excited, looked up the word “narcotic” to confirm what I thought I knew, and got agitated because the ADD drugs are not technically narcotics (which are the opiates, belladonna, heroine, etc.). I got further worked up because I couldn’t understand why, when the author clearly knew so much about these drugs, s/he would make such a mistake. I was completely mystified by this and it was a VERY BIG DEAL! I tried very hard to figure out a way to post to correct this ERROR! [an example of the way my brain processes in extremes and absolutes]

As a result of lessons hard learned, I managed to hold off posting until I’d had a chance to think it through, but holding off was a physical challenge. I kept leaning toward the keyboard and pulling myself back.

About this point, I took my Focalin because that’s where I was in my morning routine and it’s what works for me.

It finally dawned on me that use the of the word “narcotics” was probably shorthand for “drugs, which if misused, have a high potential for addiction.” Having figured that out, I would like to have been able to let it go at that point. What meds do for me is that I am more often able to do so. However, not in this case.

Instead, my brain took off on “But what if someone reads it and DOESN’T UNDERSTAND! What if someone who might be helped by meds doesn’t try them because they get the WRONG IDEA! I have to do something about this!”

At this point, my rational brain kicked in and responded with, “Bullshit. No you don’t. It’s no big deal and you’re probably the only one who had trouble reading the meaning. Besides, you don’t have to be in charge of the whole world.” Again, this should have been the end of it. However, this time, it led to cognitive dissonance so bad that I was rocking in my chair and my hypnotherapy breathing techniques kicked in.

The agitation continued, but I continued to fight the urge to blurt. Even with the meds, I knew I had 50-50 odds of this going on all day. I gave serious consideration to going away from the board for an extended period to avoid dealing with THIS ISSUE which had grown to such vast proportions in my head. Intermingled with all this were terrible feelings of shame and alienation.

Finally, as the meds began to ramp up and I continued to do all my calming things, the physical agitation let go (although my odd interpretations were still niggling at the back of my brain). At that point, I found that I was hungry, thirsty and feeling exhausted, which are symptoms I have observed in dogs post-seizure.

I’m a high-functioning ADD person (and have the test results to prove it) and this is how it happens for me.

Yesterday was my father’s 90th birthday. It’s an interesting landmark for a man who, when he was born, wasn’t supposed to live until morning. Or a man who, when he had a major heart attack at 45, wasn’t supposed to last much into his 60s. Or a man who, when he was in his early 70s and was treated for prostate cancer, was told that there was no possibility that he’d live long enough for it to kill him if it did come back. It hasn’t, but if it does, I’m not taking any bets.

He’s slowed down since Christmas. He’s now at the point where his cognitive processors can’t handle sentences of more than about five words, incoming or outgoing. He’s also a little deaf, at least in the left ear, so conversation is a bit of a challenge. Most of the time, when he comes in from left field, I can figure out where he’s been, but every once in awhile I’m mystified. Then again, that was always the case, as far back as I can remember.

I can’t help but wonder how much better his life might have been if there had been diagnosis and treatment for depression and ADD when he was younger. At least now his depressesion is being treated. I think it’s too late for the other and I doubt, with his heart, if his doctor would be willing to try stimulants in any event.

One thing that hasn’t changed is that when he makes up his mind, it’s not good to confuse him with facts. Back at Christmas, he knew that he was going to be 90 this year. However, since then, something changed. Yesterday he was determined that he was 80 and it was not well received when I said otherwise. You’d think that after all these years, I would have learned.