Sue Fagalde Lick's Blog, page 3
May 9, 2023
Oh No! It’s That Face Again: When My Phone is Full of Selfies
April 24, 2023
Osteoporosis Treatment Backfires
April 10, 2023
When You Love a Dog, There’s Always More Fur
March 31, 2023
Some Days, You Just Need a Time-Out
March 20, 2023
Covid Masks Off, We Take Our Chances Now
March 6, 2023
Can you describe yourself in one word?
February 20, 2023
Keyboard vs. Cursive: The Debates Rages On
February 6, 2023
Pajamas or Nightgowns? Dressing for Our Trips to Dreamland
Can we talk about pajamas?
I hadn’t worn them except for pajama parties for decades, but the other day I put some on, and I slept better than usual. Is there a connection?
Like most kids, I grew up in PJs. My memory is fuzzy, but I think graduating to nightgowns was presented as a rite of passage to womanhood. Big girls wear nightgowns. My dirty mind is yelling “that’s so it’s easier to have sex.” I suspect that’s part of it, even though my parents were of the DO NOT HAVE SEX IF YOU’RE NOT MARRIED crowd.
Anyway, I grew up in PJs, moved on to nightgowns, and then, when I married my first husband, who was a big fan of nudity, I didn’t wear anything to bed. It was San Jose, rarely cold, and we kept each other warm.
After the marriage ended, I went back to my nightgowns.
Years passed. I married Fred. A shy guy, he slept in pajama bottoms and T-shirts. I wore my nightgowns and nightshirts, even after we moved to Oregon, where it was cold. Pajamas were hot and confining, especially before, during, and after menopause. But I kept getting pajamas for Christmas. Nice ones. Cute, soft, warm. I gave some away and stashed the rest in the bottom drawer of my dresser, the drawer that’s hard to open.
A couple weeks ago, the weather got crazy cold. The fireplace was working hard, but it was still chilly in the house. I dug out the wooliest PJs to watch TV. They were so comfortable I thought why not wear them to bed?
This insomniac slept like a rock. Over the week, as our temperatures outside hovered in the 20s and 30s, I tried the other pjs. Same thing. What is this? A return to childhood? Or am I just getting old?
The weather has warmed up. We’re back to rain and wind on the Oregon coast, and I’m back to my nightshirts. The one I’m wearing is pink with pictures of books all over it and lettering that says, “My weekend is all booked.” I love it. But I’m keeping the pajamas for those cold nights when I need a little flannel love.
How about you? What do you wear to bed? Why? Gents can weigh in, too. Pajamas, underwear, a striped nightshirt with a little hat, or skin?
We could do a whole chat about people who wear pajamas in public, but let’s stick to bedtime. Pajamas, nightgowns, or . . . ?
BTW, there’s a band called Pajamas. Here they are on YouTube. Not too bad.
Photo by Pavel Danilyuk on Pexels.com
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January 23, 2023
Instead of Sea Shells and Agates, I Find . . . Plastic
It was getting late, but it was the first dry day on the Oregon coast after weeks of hard rain and king tides, and the beach was calling.
A dead sea lion lay at the bottom of the steep ramp from Don Davis Park to Nye Beach. It was already starting to disintegrate, its face gone, guts exposed, tufts of brown fur here and there. Sad.
But I was more upset by the litter. I had been reading a long essay about plastic waste titled “Moby-Duck.” First published in Harper’s Magazine in 2007 and in the Best Creative Nonfiction in 2008, it was later expanded into a book, also titled Moby-Duck.
Author Donovan Hohn’s story begins with a 1992 spill of bath toys from a container ship traveling from Hong Kong to Tacoma, Washington. Little plastic ducks, beavers, turtles, and frogs started turning up on beaches far from the spill. The author became fascinated and met with experts who study the things that drift up onto the beach. He researched the evolution of plastic products, particularly toy ducks, and the effects of plastic breaking down in the sea. He explored the working conditions in Chinese factories where workers were expected to turn out thousands of these things an hour for less than $4 a day.
What starts as an amusing story about toys quickly becomes alarming. Our ocean is so full of plastic we will never get rid of it. It breaks down over time into pieces, then shards, then dust, but it never disappears. Sea animals are eating it, and we’re eating the sea animals. It’s getting inside of everything, including us, and the ingredients are toxic.
Plastic was considered a godsend when it was invented in 1907. Now, that innocent toy bobbing in your child’s bathtub could be a death bomb for your great-grandchildren.
I was reading this essay at the hospital while waiting for my annual exam, getting more and more steamed about long waits and Medicare limitations. I flashed on those plastic gloves that hospital workers wear. Sitting at my father’s bedside when he was dying, I watched the nurses put on a new pair and throw them away every time they changed patients. How many thousands of pairs of gloves did they use in just one day? Where would we put all this waste?
Back to the beach. Instead of shells and rocks, I found trash. Just past the sea lion carcass, where the waves had washed up near the cliffs, blue, white, red, and green plastic litter sparkled in the sun. Embedded in grass and seaweed, most of it was too small to pick up.
The beach wasn’t crowded, but most of the people walking the wave-compacted sand brought their dogs. Those dogs would surely be drawn to the trash. I know mine would. I have caught her eating pens, rubber balls, Frisbees, and paper clips. I find the brightly colored pieces in her feces. I try to keep such things away from her, but people toss them along the roadsides where we walk, and sometimes she swallows the plastic before I can stop her. I worry that one of these thingswill kill her.
In his essay, Hohn tells of albatrosses who eat plastic items and shit them out. Dead birds have been found with cigarette lighters, bottle caps, toys, and other plastic items in their guts. He writes, “Albatross chicks have been known to starve to death on the plastic their parents regurgitate into their mouths, and the intestines of the adult birds can handle only so much before a fatal case of indigestion sets in.”
In the future, will we be able to find water or food that doesn’t sparkle with bits of plastic? Will this invention destroy its creators in the end?
The sky and the ocean were gorgeous, beautiful shades of pale blue. The sand, rocks, and Easter egg-colored buildings along the shore were beautiful. It felt good to get out on the beach and walk, to hear the seagulls laugh and watch a young father run toward the surf with his two-year-old son. But what about all that plastic?
I want to discard every piece of plastic in my house, but I use so much of it, including this computer, every day. Besides, we can’t get rid of it. It will not biodegrade, and most of it is not recyclable.
The plastics industry stresses the usefulness of its products AND their recyclability. Yes, there are those numbers stamped on the bottom which in theory mean they can be recycled. But where I live, the garbage company says no to plastic bags, styrofoam, plastic cutlery, toys, large plastic items, and anything stamped numbers 3 through 7 because they have nowhere to take them. We are instructed to throw them in the regular trash. I’m sure the same is true in many places.
Even with the plastic that can be recycled—mostly bottles—the quantity being discarded far outpaces the ability to remake them into something else. All we can do is try not to buy any more plastic. What we need is a magic wand to make it disappear. It would probably be made of plastic.
More reading:
https://thisisplastics.com/plastics-101/155-years-of-plastic/ (pro-plastic)
https://plasticoceans.org/7-types-of-plastic/ (anti-plastic)
“What are Plastics and Rubbers?”
“Plastic Pollution: Facts and Figures”
“Tops Items from Beach Cleanups: Plastics, Plastics, and More Plastics”
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The Volunteer Job Nobody Ever Wants
Who wants to be treasurer? Silence.
Right? In every organization I have belonged to, the one position nobody wants is treasurer. Secretary, sure. Vice president? Easy. President? I’m so flattered. But treasurer? Nope, not me. Okay, occasionally a miracle happens and someone says, “Hey, I’ll do it,” but usually there’s some arm-twisting and hyperventilating involved.
I’m no good with numbers. Spreadsheets scare me. You don’t want me handling the books.
What is this about? We were all forced to take math in school. We all somehow manage to handle our personal finances. We can figure out a recipe. Some of us can do the calculations to build things, and some of us can do music math—eighth notes, whole notes, triplets, 4/4, 6/8, 2/2, etc. But when it comes to being the money person, it’s nuh-uh, not me, I need to get some coffee, go to the restroom, make a call . . .
Nobody wants to be treasurer. I am currently president of a writing organization where our treasurer, who took the job reluctantly last fall, has resigned. This is not the first time this has happened. Other treasurers in other groups have quit, and the books landed on my desk. Why? Because everyone else says “not me.” Do I have any special financial gifts? No. But my bills are paid, and I’m no longer afraid of spreadsheets. In fact, I use them a lot in my writing/publishing business. Think graph paper on a computer screen.
While talking to my brother about this on the phone last night, he noted that we both end up being president of every organization we join. That’s true. Our parents raised to be uber organized and to take charge. Or maybe we just can’t stand anyone else being in charge. Something to discuss in therapy.
Mike has experienced the “not me” for treasurer syndrome, too. Working in the legal field, he also has tales of treasurers deciding to borrow a little money for themselves. Yikes. We not only have to find someone who is willing but someone who is honest.
What is this fear of treasurer jobs? It’s not just writers, who claim they’re all right brain, the creative side, with not much going on in the left brain. But hey, they can calculate word counts, syllables and stanzas. If they can write a villanelle poem with its complex pattern, they can be a treasurer.
It’s money in, money out, pay the bills. You can use a calculator. Yet this article from the BBC tells us that 93 percent of American adults say they’re anxious about math. I think that’s a miscalculation, but that explains why almost nobody wants to be treasurer. When you throw in spreadsheets, it’s all over.
It almost feels uncool to say you like math, bookkeeping, money management, etc. But what about all those people who work in banks, credit unions, tax offices, and well, every big and little business that needs someone to do the accounting? We can do math, my friends. Don’t be afraid.
We will find our new treasurer poet and treat them like royalty. It won’t be me. I already have too many jobs. But I could do it if I wanted to.
How about you? Do you feel numerically challenged? Do spreadsheets terrify you? Have you ever been a treasurer? Would you take it on if asked?
A little extra reading:
https://my.clevelandclinic.org/health/diseases/22545-arithmophobia-fear-of-numbers: Some people are so afraid of numbers, or of certain numbers such as 13, that they have panic attacks. Not good for a potential treasurer.
https://www.bbc.com/worklife/article/20200506-how-to-tackle-your-anxiety-about-maths: “You’re not destined to be bad at maths. You just may need to tackle your ‘mathephobia.’”
https://medium.com/@wpecharsky/i-have-ptss-post-traumatic-spreadsheet-syndrome-97d7c20fbc1a “Why I Hate Spreadsheets”
Photo by Nataliya Vaitkevich on Pexels.com
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