Kate's Queen City Notes

Blundering through Cincinnati, laughing all the way


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Legacy

The Hawks have been hovering on the edges of my awareness lately. I have felt their grit and their determination that’s been passed to me. It’s as though I feel them walking with me, holding me up when I am tired.

My dad’s mom was born in 1894, she was 100 years old when she died. She raised 9 kids, of which my dad was the youngest. My grandparents were poor. They were tenant farmers, never having enough money to own land of their own. Neither of them were educated beyond middle school.

My dad remembered the cycle of farms they rented. When they would arrive at a new place, they would find the land farmed out and exhausted. They would invest years in bringing the land back to productivity. And then the land would become too expensive for them to continue renting. Repeat cycle.

They never had much. My dad recalled that his Christmas gifts were always hand-sewn clothing that he would need for the following year. The only frivolous gift he received was an orange.

It brings a smile to my face thinking of how he would eat an orange. He would eat them as his after-dinner treat. He would sit at the table with a paring knife and remove the skin, then every scrap of pith, then separating each segment methodically picking off any bit of tasteless fiber. Only after each section has been thoroughly inspected for unnecessary pith and fiber, would he savor each and every segment. I remember countless times climbing into his lap while he worked, and we would eat a segment for me a segment for him. Even as a surly teenager, when I would encounter him in the kitchen eating an orange he would set aside half of his segments for me.

Growing up The Hawks where just as they were. I didn’t see all the ways poverty marked all of them. I’ve only just realized the ways it manifested in my dad. The elaborate way he enjoyed an orange. Why he wouldn’t eat peanut butter. Why he would never wear jeans. I cannot know now, but in retrospect I suspect his dungarees were his uniform, the only pants he had until he started earning his own money as a grown man. They were a symbol of what he had broken free from.

The whole family over-achieved. My grandmother kept her garden up until she was 90 years old. It was a massive plot of 20 feet by 40 feet. My earliest memory of her is of her teaching me how to hoe. My dad accidentally slammed the car trunk on my grandmother’s hand, and she wrapped a handkerchief around it and went and picked strawberries without a single complaint. My dad’s older brother retired at 80 from his second job as the head doctor for a nursing home, and went into day trading. The way in which they were never idle betrays how hard they were trying to make sure the past stayed the past.

I think I have been feeling the energy of his family because of the current uncertainty. I feel lucky, because I have an in demand skillset. And although I don’t know exactly what comes next, I have good reason to believe Jeannine and I will weather this ok. But I know that many other Americans will not be so lucky. And I am afraid that in this hard moment we, in aggregate, will not be capable of making good choices.

I have been thinking about this quote from LOTR.

“Frodo: I wish the ring had never come to me, I wish none of this had happened. Gandalf: So do all who live to see such times but that is not for them to decide, All you have to decide is what to do with the time that is given to you.”

The Hawks made incredible use of the time that was given them. It was their grit that set my early path on far easier ground than what they had to walk. I am so thankful to them. I am thankful for they work they did to make my path easier, and I am thankful that I carry their legacy. I can only hope to live up to their example.

 
Aside: There are stories that didn’t make it into this blog post. I think I should set those down, but they didn’t belong here. My dad had dreams that came true. My grandmother saved the family car from being stolen by hopping on the running board and punching the get-away-driver until he gave-up and fled. My uncle got impaled on a pitchfork, the remedy for which was to pull it out and hope for the best (he lived). But those are for another day.

 


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My My My Corona

The Coronavirus shelter in place order has been so for Ohio for a couple weeks now, and while I am certainly an introvert this almost complete lack of social contact is hard even for me. In addition, I have been a 5-day-a-week gym visitor since college, and I really miss the routine, the social aspect of it, and the much needed sweat therapy to manage anxiety and depression.

And yet I have plenty of food and resources. I have a secure income. And I have an amazing wife to share evenings with. And I feel a little frustrated with myself, that these things alone aren’t enough to manage my unruly brain chemistry. Because I know so many others don’t have these things. I have to keep reminding myself that I’ve never successfully talked myself out of depression. All I can do is cultivate a habit of counting the things I can be thankful for, and accept my mind is going to do what it does.

Oddly enough I am not terribly worried about getting sick. I think part of if is that I am fortunate enough to not have any additional conditions that make me more vulnerable to it. The other part of it is that I suspect I’ve already had it.

Jeannine got sick in mid January, and she seemed to pass whatever it was on to me. We assumed it was Flu B at the time. I got sicker than she did with it, but the broad brush-strokes of the illness were the same. It started with fever and body fatigue and aches. It’s that feeling that often comes with the flu, where you’ve been hit by a truck and simply cannot get off the couch. That lasted a few days.

Then the coughing started. It sounded as though there was funk in my chest when I was coughing, but nothing really ever came out. The coughing fits happened easily 20 to 30 times every 24 hours day and night. I remember thinking the physical exhaustion could have simply been due to the amount of effort the coughing took. The only thing that held me back from the fits ending in gagging was drinking water. The coughing went on for about 7 to 8 days.

Then I started to feel better. After a few days I tried getting back to the gym. That proved a big mistake. Once I got home I had to spend the rest of the day on the couch. That easily exhausted state lasted for about another 6 days.

The whole illness lasted about 3 weeks. I was never so sick I would have contemplated going to a hospital. But I was certainly uncomfortable enough that holding to my normal routine was out of the question.

I know this time will pass. But I definitely have some worries about what comes next. First, I cannot imagine there won’t be more waves of the illness spiking, and what’s that going to look like? And I am pretty sure lots of small businesses won’t survive this current period of zero revenue while still paying all their fixed expenses like rent and utilities. And I cannot imagine the economic impact of that won’t last years.

To me the clear lesson here is that our society is very brittle. After decades of telling Americans that only the individual matters, the reality that we are only as well as our most vulnerable people becomes apparent. That we have no flexibility in our supply for face masks and gloves is a glittering success of capitalism, or failure depending on how you want to look at it. Those supply chains became so narrow because it was the most profitable. Redundancy is waste, says capitalism.

To me this whole thing reveals massive cracks in the system that need to be addressed. I’m afraid that won’t be the outcome. I’m afraid the outcome will be much like the financial crisis of 2008, yet another massive transfer of wealth from the bottom to the top.


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Ramdoms

I saw the new Star Wars movie. I am overwhelmed with conflicted feelings. I suspect that if the nostalgia was stripped away, my opinion would be quite clear not at all mixed. It was a bad movie. It jam-packed a whole load of stuff in there, and none if it without the nostalgia was very good. And really, my expectations should have been tempered by the fact that my 8 year-old taste and my 43 year-old taste is quite different. That’s all I have to say about that.

I think I have finally found a technique for sharpening my knives on water stones that works. I am not going to bore you with details, but just know I have been fumbling in the dark with these damn stones for two years getting mixed results. I finally tried a different approach by putting the blade to the stones at a 45 degree angle, and that seems to unlock slice-off-a-finger sharpness. It makes my heart sing when my chef’s knife sails through a whole pineapple as though it’s an overripe pear.

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I just finished this book. If you want to feel really dark about Google, Facebook, and Amazon taking over the world, this book will deliver. I was already sympathetic to the ideas the author puts forward in this book when I picked it up. The book has left me even more sure Elizabeth Warren is right to start enforcing antitrust laws, although personally I wouldn’t stop with big tech. I would look at media companies and internet service providers too.

When technology comes to into an industry it promises efficiency and low prices. And on those fronts it usually delivers. But there are costs that are often not obvious at the outset. When tech came to the food industry we got time saving tv dinners, fast food, sugar-filled breakfast cereal, and enriched white bread. There’s no question these things saved time, but looking back on it 40 years out, it seems quite clear that the hidden costs for these items were our health and fitness, the extreme suffering of farmed animals, and the tons and tons of chemicals that make farming monocultures possible. The thing big food figured out is that we don’t have enough self-control to pick the broccoli over the Cheeto.

When the internet came for newspapers it promised increased access to information and to liberate information to the masses. It promised to democratize the voices that could be heard. And it did both of those things. But I would argue that second promise, democratizing who can have a voice, was always a doubtful of that “benefit.” I know a lot of people who think crazy shit. And. After years of being a bartender and working in the service industry, I never had some romantic notion that all Americans are geniuses just waiting for a platform. Lots of Americans are idiots, but almost all of us believe we are geniuses just waiting for a platform. Some days I think I am in the idiot camp, some days not.

It’s now pretty clear the internet swallowed advertising funding, and left only crumbs for journalism. The cost has been the closure of newspapers. We went from having about 1200 newspapers in the 1940’s to having 400 in 2014. It turns out giving away your stuff for free only works if you have a ton of venture capitalists propping you up. Side eye to Silicon Valley.

Adding in the social media companies just hung boatloads of data around the basic fact that we lack the self-control to pick broccoli over Cheetos. Mark Zuckerberg is more than happy to wash his hands of the matter and say that’s it’s our own fault if we cannot pick the broccoli. See. There’s whole charts to display why Mark Zuckerberg can abdicate the morality of what he chooses to elevate in people’s news feeds. We’re clicking it like little rats in a cage, so therefore his hands are clean.

Tech has played the same game through history. It “disrupts” an industry by substituting a lower value product for a higher value one with a side of more efficiency and then pockets the difference. In food, we traded home-baked bread for frankenfood wonder bread. In music, we traded making music with others, a social and creative act, for sitting passively around a radio. In media we traded a proliferation of local news sources for a handful of national ones. And in social media we traded face to face interaction, rich with information and connection, for banging out insults at someone else online who might be a bot. And still we are stuffing our faces full of Mark Zuckerberg’s Cheetos.

I am on a Facebook break. It’s given me more time to read and do Spanish lessons. That’s not a surprise. What’s a surprise is how it’s also given me space in my mind. I didn’t realize how much of my headspace was consumed with looking at my life as an outside observer generating content for my facebook posts. I’ve come to a conclusion that whatever I was projecting in those posts was more an avatar of myself than not. And to what purpose am I performing my life? I don’t connect with people so I can play a role. I connect with people hoping to reveal my degrees my authentic self. So what exactly am I doing on facebook?

I don’t know that I will delete my account. I do know that my interaction with it will be diminished significantly at the very least. I have until to January 1st to think on it.

A few final things. I am almost finished with book 3 of the Game Of Thrones books. Catelyn Stark did not deserve all the shit she got. Even so, I am really enjoying the books. The bathroom is coming along. Subflooring has been put in. All the electrical and plumbing has been moved and set. We’re getting close to tile time.


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Crazy Cat Lady Ho!

I had my first shift volunteering for the Ohio Alleycat Rescue this morning, and it was super. First off, everyone there are crazy cat people. In other words, I was surrounded by my people. Secondly, there were cats everywhere. Which delights me on its own.

I cleaned litter boxes, floors, and surfaces. And after an hour and a half of that, I got to spend the last half hour in the kitten room. And I got to fulfill a dream of being in a kitten puddle. I had a ginger licking and purring at my ear while one of the six black kittens flopped down in my lap to ravage my hoodie strings. It was basically 30 minutes of pure joy.

I’ve avoided doing this sort volunteer work. I thought it would make me either adopt far too many cats, or make me sad. But I wasn’t pulled in either of those directions today. I am sure it helps that this rescue is not only no kill, but also one of the main reasons Hamilton County has a no-kill status. It left me thinking that I should have done this sooner.

I would be lying though if I didn’t admit that the little ginger was trying very hard to make me his human. He and a sweet tabby just put themselves as close to me as they could the entire time I was in there. But I have been without a black cat for entirely too long, so my resolve is pretty strong.

One of the adorable black kittens.


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Bathroom Reno: Be Gone Tub

Here’s a thing I wasn’t expecting. I wasn’t expecting there to be hex tile under the tub. I thought the tub was original, but now that I am seeing a different flooring under it, I am not so sure. It seems more likely the tub was put in later. But then that also seems to indicate the floor in the square pattern also isn’t original.

 


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Heart Troubles

I’ve always had what I call palpatations. They were infrequent when I was younger, and often I would attribute them to the tremendous amounts of coffee I’d ingested. In the last year they’ve stepped up their game, a thing that’s distressing along side my significant reduction in coffee a few years back.

After several trips to the cardiologist and a month wearing a heart monitor, I was diagnosed with supraventricular tachycardia. Supraventricular tachycardia (SVT) is an abnormally fast heartbeat that originates above the ventricles in the atria or AV node. The doctor suggested putting a doodad into my femoral artery and working it up to my heart and frying the tissue that’s sending out the additional electrical impulses. That sounded bananas to me at the time, so I opted for his second suggestion, which was medication.

I took the meds for a couple months, and although they didn’t have any disastrous side effects they did make my performance at the gym decline a bit. So, after some weeks sticking a doodad into my femoral artery sounded less and less bananas. Doodad it is.

In the weeks leading up to the proceedure I noticed a pit in my stomach when I would think about it. When my PTSD rears its head it smells like a box that was just brought up from the basement. It looks like it’s just an old pair of shoes, but it smells like dank mildew of 100 years.

After sitting with if for some days, I realized that I’ve not needed to rely on another human to take care of my physical needs since I was a child and my dependence wasn’t optional. And the last time I was too small to care for my own physical needs, they weren’t always met. There it is. That’s where the dank mildew is.

There’s no reasoning with trauma-based anxiety. It just is. I could think of one thousand ways this situation was different, but that sort of thing only flies upstairs. It never filterns down to the basement.

The days dwindled and I found myself putting a gown on, and trying to answer medical history questions while Dominque shaved the “field” which was basically my crotch. The procedure isn’t invasive in the sense that my chest wasn’t cracked open, but it is in the sense that it involved wounds two inches to either side of my lady parts. And this fact explains why once in the operating room I was covered head to toe in blankets apart from my crotch, which was on display.

And this really gets at the crux of why medical procedures are weird. You find yourself in social and physical situations that are unimaginable under any other circumstances. All of the nurses were very nice, but when they asked if I was doing ok or needed anything I thought, what am I going to say to that? No, my crotch is numb because it’s 60 degrees in here, and I would really like to rip this IV out. Of course I always said I was fine, because there wasn’t really any other answer I could give.

During the procedure the doctor needed to goad my heart into SVT rythms. Since mine acts up during exercise that meant that I couldn’t be very sedated, and that they put adrenalin in my IV. So, while the nurses were telling me soothing things my body’s chemistry thought I was being chased by a bear. They were using electric impluses to rev my heart up to 250 beats per minute, note that extreme exercise shouldn’t yield more than 160 bpm. So, that’s how I spent 3 hours. My bare-ass crotch in the air with chemicals appropriate for being chased by a bear coursing through my body, and having my heart pounding so hard it felt like my lungs didn’t have enough room to breathe.

It’s a wonder I didn’t have a panic attack or two or several. But that’s one of the odd things trauma can do. Sometimes when I am truly under duress I pull through like a champ. It’s because I’ve had lots of practice at surviving when the house is on fire. Because my house has been on fire hundreds of times.

Unfortunately, the doctor wasn’t able to isolate where the SVT rhythm was originating. He called my heart excitable. And when he irritated one area all its neighbors would put out different SVT rythms in sympathy. That was a whole load of metaphor because I cannot possible use the medical language to describe what he found. The point is they couldn’t complete the proceedure.

Frosty crotch for no good reason. So, I am back to the meds and taking it easy for a week until my femoral wound site is healed enough for me to go back to my normal activities. The good news is SVT won’t kill me, and the meds aren’t insufferable. I’ve also learned that my capacity to tolerate physically uncomfortable and mortifying things is quite high. I’ve learned to ask a new questions when evaluating medical treatment. Is there information you might learn during the process that might show you I am not a good candidate for said treatment? How frequently does this happen?


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Last Look: Bathroom

We’ve remodeled every square inch of our house apart from this last bathroom. Here’s a last look at it in all it’s 1920’s dysfunctional glory. This gem has zero electrical outlets. It has very little storage. It has a charming DIY handheld showerhead, and a nursing home inspired oh-shit bar. It features cracked tile on both the walls and the floors. The toilet has a tank large enough to water an entire village with each flush. The tub has been cemented into the middle of the room, because of course you want that sexy surround curtain rod hanging from the ceiling. Saving the best for last it has a pedestal sink that is too low, features elaborate contours that yields precious little flat space to put useful items like say-soap. It has a recessed spigot to put the water flow out of reach of almost anything you might wish to get wet. Oh, and it has no over head lighting and no ventilation. Wonderbar!

I need to take a moment to lay waste to pedestal sinks. This pedestal sink, in particular, was what we washed our dishes in when the kitchen was being renovated, and this is how I grew to especially hate the spigot on it. It’s recessed to the very edge of the sink, making the vastness of the sink itself completely useless. But, put that a side a moment, pedestal sinks are profoundly stupid, and I just want to make a case for their eradication, except for use in small power rooms or half-baths.

In the bathroom in which you bathe and get presentable, I ask you, when do you not require a surface for putting stuff on? At the very least, you need a place for soap. But apart from that everyone who isn’t a hermit uses some sort of hair grooming products or devices and something to clean their mouths. That’s the least. Most women will have a whole host of other stuff.

The only thing a pedestal sink is good for in this context is forcing you to put all your junk on the damn toilet-or worse the hairy floor-when you’re getting ready. That kicks off a whole thing were you remove and replace all the junk you need to use from wherever it’s stored-because it sure as hell isn’t sitting in the precious 3 inches of available space on your damn pedestal sink-to and from the toilet. NO. I am telling you no more. Never another pedestal sink in a full bath again. I don’t care how small that damn vanity is.

Now that that’s off my chest. Here’s pictures of the old bathroom. And below those a video of it. Good riddance monster toilet and pedestal sink.