My Aunt Ruth

I am so lucky I was named after my mom's older sister Ruth. She's the favorite aunt and idol of all my nine siblings, She was eight years older than my mom, Rosie and they were best friends. It's eerily similar to my sister Carrie and me--Carrie is eight years younger than me, the baby of 10--just like my mom. Sadly my mom's two oldest brothers died of the pandemic flu! Her family was very spread out in age-unlike the Wertzbergers-the ten of us are just 13 years apart!

Ruth is 92 and the only surviving member of her German Catholic clan. (I do remember meeting her Aunt Tilly in Galena Illinois though who was 90 something and going strong).

Ruth has seen her share of tragedy-one sister died in her 40's, my mom died at 53, Ruth had two of her own sons die young, and her husband died about 20 years ago.

Yet she survives and thrives. Her daughter Edie said she has never seen her happier. Ruth lives in a small home in Wisconsin and she is one of the only women--did she plan it this way? My cousin Paul, her son, says there is something in the Iowa water (where Ruth and my mom and family grew up) that makes them boy crazy. Ruth always has at least two boyfriends and periodically she will sneak out of the house with one of them and go to the bar down the street. The town is so small that the barkeeps now put a sign in the window that says "Ruth's here," so her caregivers don't panic. Tell me, is there a better way to grow old?

Blogher conference winds down with Rocco Dispirito and I'm gearing up...we're talkintravel.

Blogher conference winds down with Rocco Dispirito and I'm gearing up...we're talkintravel.

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Blogher conference winds down with Rocco Dispirito and I'm gearing up...we're talkintravel.

Blogher conference winds down with Rocco Dispirito and I'm gearing up...we're talkintravel.

Posted using ShareThis

Appendicitis Part II

Okay I know you've been on the edge of your seat waiting for the next blog post on my appendicitis and there is no excuse for the delay except bad memories! Once the docs decided I had to have my appendix removed my husband had to take his car home, ride his bike to the doc in the box and take me in my car to the hospital. Along the way I made him buy some fashion mags about which the nurse said,"Aren't you worried about getting bad messages about your body?" Only in Santa Cruz , Berkeley South, would you get that message. We learned how smart she was later when they wheeled my bed into the operating room and while Rich took pictures, this same nurse somehow had my iv twisted around a cart and almost pulled it out of my arm until Rich yelled at her. A harbinger of things to come? In the operating room the anesthesiologist put me out--only I woke up! It was the most bizarre experience in my life. It felt like the doctor and anesthesiologist were sticking spoons down my throat and I could hear them talking. All I could think of was that I had to say something but I was paralyzed. I thought if I try hard enough I can move something. My monitor must have shown something because thank goodness the anesthesiologist upped my meds and I went back to sleep. Afterwards the doc said the anesthesiologist would tell me they had a hard time incubating me. I said "I know, I woke up." "You were awake!" he said. "Yes I heard you talking and felt the intubation." It freaks me out still and I have to make sure they knock me out enough if I ever need another operation. But what really bugs me is the anesthesiologist didn't apologize or even acknowledge that I woke up-he just said "Tell future doctors you have a very hard throat to intubate."

Alien world of healthcare system

When I went to the doctor with stomach pains at Bella's insistence I didn't expect to get sucked into the healthcare system vortex. It's a bit like being kidnapped by aliens and probed on an outerspace ship. I went in with a stomach ache and left without an appendix a day later. Along the way it was a comedy of errors. After the emergency room doc poked and prodded me he pronounced that he said "I'm sorry, I think you have appendicitis. Do you want pain medication?" "For what?," I asked, since I only had a tummy ache. Knowing from experience that it's better to say yes now than suffer later, I got a shot of morphine at the same time a nurse stabbed my butt with antibiotics. Thank heavens I said yes to the meds, the next exam they did was the most painful thing I have ever experienced. The nurse instructed me to lay down sideways on an MRI machine while they put a balloon in my butt that would expand. She told me it would hurt and said "Didn't they warn you about this? I told the doctors I would never have this unless I was put to sleep" Thanks lady! I have had bunion operations, shingles, herniated discs but never have I had this kind of pain. I warned the nurse it hurt so badly I was afraid I was going to pass out and her advice? "You can scream if you want to!" After ten minutes of this agony it was over but seared into my brain. It didn't help that when I talked to my sister later, an R.N., she asked why they didn't just do a laproscopy on me. How do I know?? They wanted to torture me? While I sat in the waiting room my husband Rich finally showed up and asked-so helpfully, "When was the last time you pooped?" I was going to feel so stupid if they did all these tests and I was only constipated. It may have been the only time someone was happy to hear they needed to have their appendix removed.  Part II next 

Xanax for dogs and cats with body disorders?

I admit I am not an "animal nut." I have nothing against the cute creatures except picking up poop from the sidewalk, (who didn't cringe when they saw photos of gorgeous Hugh Jackman picking up his doggy's do?), cleaning kitty boxes and paying vet bills. It's probably because I didn't grow up with pets. Whenever my siblings or I would ask for a cat or dog my mom would tell us to play with our sisters and brothers. Can you blame her with ten kids, 13 years apart, in Iowa, with freezing winters?

When I first saw commercials for diet food for dogs a few years ago I should have predicted the U.S. economic crisis. If Americans are spending money to buy special food for dogs to lose weight clearly they are overspending. But when I brought up that ad at a dinner party with some friends recently they defended it--saying dogs do get fat.

Then they told me about taking their pets to animal therapists...you read it correctly...there are homeless people on the streets but some people are making a good living diagnosing animals psyches.

One woman said she brought her dog to the vet and the doc said her pet was stressed and needed to take Xanax. Another friend said when her cat gained weight the kitty didn't like to be petted and this is the advice she got from her vet, "Your cat has body issues. She's gained too much weight and thinks she looks unattractive. " So my friend spent the next month holding a mirror up to the cat's tummy and repeating that the kitty was beautiful.

By the end of the evening they had me thinking I was the crazy one and maybe I am...what do you think?

bella saves my life

My husband said it was just constipation and I would be wasting my time going to the Dr....this from a man who if he sneezed his mother would take him to the emergency room! Thank god for Bella-she made me promise to go to the Dr...they removed my infected appendix-even my own sister said she thought it was nothing...more later 

Trouble in Paradise

We thought we lived in paradise, we're close to our sailboat and the beach and enjoy picture perfect weather...but lately there is trouble in paradise. Two huge houses blocking half our view, a yip-yapping dog the owners can't seem to hear but drives us nuts, and some other tightwad whacky neighbors have pushed us over the top.

I don't think it's any better somewhere else--but my sister moved from this paradise and she's happier, another sister is in a southern ca paradise and she's put her house up for sale. Lately my husband wants to explore moving to another continent and I'm not protesting. Maybe change is good.

Bella Broken

Bella fall down go boom! I took the hardest fall of my life this morning. I was not ten feet from the end of my run when my left foot sunk deep into a narrow hole in the asphalt. My foot stayed wedged in the hole while my right knee, hip and hand took the full force of my fall. There was no rolling or catching myself. I hit the pavement full force. I lay there moaning thinking this is it. I am done. My wrist and hip are broken. I will need some sort of knee surgery that won't work, and I will grow ever more frail and decrepit as the years of inactivity pass.

I lay there unable to move, but eventually you either have to get up or call for help, so I rolled over and carefully sat up -- I was still alive. I hobbled to my feet, took a few steps, and unbelievably my knee didn't give out underneath my massive tonnage. Honestly, I couldn't believe I was walking.

I limped to my car -- fortunately I could still press the breakpedal down -- went home and filled four Ziploc bags with crushed ice -- it's not just for Margaritas! I lay on the couch like a people-pop: one homemade icepack for my green left foot, one for my purple right knee, one for my scraped hip, and one for my aching and bloody wrist. Delightful.

It looks like nothing is broken, which is great. But falling hard, feeling myself to be totally out of control with no way to break the fall except with my body, well, it really rattled me. At my age it's not just a fall: there's the recovery time, the fact that I could be plagued by the injuries for the rest of my short life -- never really fully recovering -- and that at my age getting back into shape is a herculean task, one I don't know if I'd be up for.

I remember something my dad told me about aging. He said he felt he was always marching up hill until he got his dentures, afterwards, he said, it was all down hill to the grave. I got a little taste of that this morning as I lay splayed out on the blacktop. And I still can't shake it.

Bella Time

I have no time. That huge sucking sound you hear? That would be my life being sucked into a huge vortex where every minute is consumed with petty demands, stupid crap, and the really unimportant business of daily living -- "Honey, did you pick up the dry cleaning?"

I don't have time. I am five minutes from 50 and ten minutes from dead. I am sick to death of spending my day doing shit I hate.

Kuhl wants freedom from her super demanding job, me, the lesser of the two, just wants freedom from stupid tasks that suck the life out of me. As I've said before, I hate everyone: I hate the other board members of my HOA, the other parents at my kid's preschool, and the driver in the car infront of me. You and are all wasting my time and I don't have much of it left!

Kuhl's list

things that bug me

-people who take too many words to say something simple to make themselves feel important

-people who smile with their mouth but not their eyes

-people who don't know how to control their barking dogs and who always say "oh he wouldn't hurt anyone" 

-my ugly toenails

-meetings that take too long

-people who ask what it's like to grow up in such a large family -I don't know the difference!

-mice-ick

things I like

-my husband tucking me in

-my husband asking for advice on skin care

-shopping for bargains!!! Finding an Hermes tie for a dime!

-being the "cool aunt" to my adorable nieces

-writing about travel

-talking about my master's degree in science on any and all occassions (since I am a science idot and the masters is in organizational communication)

-Looking forward to vacations

my husband making me laugh so hard my stomach hurts

A working fool

Bella says this is a blog so I will trust her. I'm 51 (gulp) and have been working since I was 15. My first job was working for the local Catholic diocese mimographing copies of aborted fetuses-honest. I tried not to look. Then in high school I fell in lust with a boy from Waterloo and called him-a lot. In those days long distance calls were expensive and when my mom found out she made me get a job to pay it off. I was a waitress at one of the fancy restuarants in town and learned I better got to college because I would suck at service. Every night after work my co-worker and high school classmate and I went to International House of Pancakes and packed on the pounds. I was always mystified how she got big tips-may have had something to do with not daydreaming. Of course there was always babysitting along the way and I got my charges to answer "Who's your favorite babysitter?" "You are!" It was probably the Ralph the Mouse stories I made up-if only I had written them down. Then I found a new local boyfriend and my cousin and sisters had to babysit -unfortunately the kids complained and asked for me but as my cuz Barb said, "Ruthie has a boyfriend now so get used to it!" In college I had a brief stint at an ice-cream store until I got caught giving away the product to my new boyfriend (hmmm-is there a pattern here with boys getting me in trouble?) But he turned out to get me a dream job-working at the College box office. We were paid well and got free tickets to great concerts. In the summers I made more money though as janitor where I met the elderly African American women who were pros working all year round-they told me a great story about meeting activists in the 60's who blew up toilets. They were not pleased. I wish I could say my jobs got easier but it took awhile-from the "glamour of Tv and radio news" ie-did not pay well to public relations which did compensate. I am now tired of working. I have never had more than a month off at a time-I know moms say taking care of kids is harder than working at a job but gee some days I wish I had that opportunity. 

Bella's List

My yoga teachers toenails: She makes the best color choices. I feel lame copying her -- yoga is done barefoot so my copycat toenail polish is there for all to see. Last week, she had this dreamy purple-blue opalescent color. I promptly went out and had my Vietnamese lady apply the same during my $20 pedicure. Now, this week, my yoga teacher has a sexy, dark -- almost black -- deep purple color. It's funny, but I feel by some cosmic coincidence next week I will have the same. Isn't that crazy?

British football (soccer) fans: loud and drunk before noon. There's some big game going on up my block at the sports bar for Brits/Aussies/and miscellaneous Europeans, like the Spanish. I can hear the screaming, singing and chanting all the way up here in my loft. If they win, they will celebrate by drinking beer; if they lose, they will commiserate, also with beer. Either way, I will have vomit on my sidewalks by 4:00 this afternoon.

Bella Wants

My dirty little secret is that I do boot camp. I am a boot-camper. I always sneered at the whole boot camp concept: so macho, so paramilitary so holier-than-thou; "My workout is way harder than yours," so hard, they had to give it a special name so no one would mistake it with just going to the gym. But the truth is, my particular group (I do four mornings a week at 9:30 after I drop my son off at preschool) turned out to be mostly comprised of other women just like me (old and fat), and is one of the best things I've ever done in my life.

The time, 9:30AM, weeds out all the Über-macho guys who do the 6:00 AM session because they need to get to work. Actually, the time weeds out most people with nine-to-five jobs, which leaves the stay at home moms and the counter culture guys -- DJs, graphic artists and hair stylists -- for my group. Our 9:30 crew is supportive, competitive and hard. So hard. This is do primarily to the long-timers who ramp up the speed and intensity. My first three sessions (each is 6 weeks) were unrelentingly hard. In my youth I rock climbed, kick-boxed and even did a few triathlons (the sport distance). Granted, this time around I was totally out of shape and pushing 50, but boot camp is the hardest thing I've ever done, and now four months into it, it's still spanks me on a regular basis.

Now, here's the rub -- my old group is going through some changes, and I don't do change. I don't like this new group of boot campers. They bug me. Worse, the new annoying additions are not being off-set by the old guard. Holly got pregnant, Renatta is training for a marathon and only comes twice a week and Wendy switched to the 8:30. Now I am out numbered by the newbies. They have their own little cliques, and worse two are a married couple. Where do I fit in? Who can I gossip with on the run? Who is there to root me on? WHO? No one. I am lonely. I don't like making new friends. I miss my old boot camp crew. This is crummy. I want my gal pals back.

Bella Bemoans SF Weather I

I know Kuhl loves and dearly misses SF. I know she thinks the weather wouldn't bother her, but she has forgotten! Why? Because she lives in Santa Cruz. Santa Cruz, people. Surf City. Warm and sunny. Beaches you can actually swim and frolic in with little fear of frostbite. The weather is great, and don't let any of those old hippies who hate the tourists tell you any different.

Me, on the other hand, I am very clear where I stand: I hate San Francisco weather. HATE IT. I took DC (darling child) to soccer practice on Tuesday and froze my huevos rancheros right off. The wind was whipping, the fog was cresting the hill and swirling like the smoke from some evil witch's pot (honestly, when looking for fog metaphors, and lord knows there are an abundance, I try to stay away from all the "kitten's feet" and "cotton balls" kind of romantic version of a very unpleasant phenomenon for those who must endure it for months at a time). While the entire rest of the Western hemisphere is gaily gearing up for springtime -- think happy Easter colors, daffodils, sweet little dresses with just a light sweater and sandals -- I was wearing a blanket, and a wool hat, Ugg boots and a winter coat. Even with all those layers, I was still shivering and quivering like a Jell-O mold. Indeed, not to put to fine a point on it but, I HATE IT. I often wear a hat and gloves indoors. My heater is on high as I write this. Did I mention today is May, not Feburary first? My world is gray.

Bella Bends

Our babysitter, who was born in the Philippines and has had her hormonal clocked cleaned by two bouts with breast cancer, recently told me my hot flashes were all in my head. Gee. Thanks. I think this stung more coming from her because my current obsession is the impact of culture on the experience of menopause. Take my current nemesis, hot flashes, to suffer from them is not a universal phenomenon. Women in Japan rarely, if ever, do -- this is the origins of the whole myth about soy as an antidote to hot flashes. So here she was, a woman from Asia, telling me my hot flashes were psychosomatic. I was already worried they were, and that I was weak or deficient in some way for giving into them. Plus, the fact she had both radiation and chemotherapy, leaving her insides ravaged and her natural hormone balances destroyed, yet never suffered from a hot flash. Well, she got me where it hurts. Ouch.

To fight against the dreaded, I-get-hot-flashes-because-it's-my-fault-syndrome, otherwise known as, IGHFBIMFS (or in some medical textbooks as, you sweat like a pig because you are weak and fat and made of coffee and lard you western woman, you) I went to Yoga today. Me. Yoga. Try not to smirk.

All the things I loath about yoga were there: creepy new age sitar music, the smell of patchouli and lavender, people talking in low voices even though no one was asleep or dying, the obligatory bald guy in pretty good shape for a dude in his late 50s and me; the stereotypical long curly brown haired (it won't make you look younger), slightly over-weight (face it, you will never be thin again) gal in her late 40s. We made bookends him and me. It was a beginner class, but it was an hour-and-half long, and it hurt me to do it. I didn't need a hot flash, though of course I had one, to have sweat gushing from every pore. The teacher was very nice, despite being physically perfect and having the most lovely Australian accent -- who knew they all weren't Crocodile Dundees? I tried for five seconds not to hate her, but I gave into it after the first downward dog. She was exotic (yes, Australia counts), very pretty, seemingly kind hearted and she could do things with her back that were freaky. Why like a person like this? But I hung in there and finished the class weak kneed and quivering.

Afterwards I limped to my car, went home and made a fresh pot of strong coffee to wash my spoonful of lard down with.

A real life break up play in women's studies class at Cal-where else?

My niece just got a full scholarship to the UCLA directing program. Don't worry, this won't turn into a bragging blog-although she is perfect. She also happens to look just like me-brunette, brown eyes while her mom, two years younger than me, is blonde and blue-eyed. Maybe it's the fact that she looks like me that got me thinking about my college days. I got accepted into UC Berkeley and became an English major. At the end of my freshman year I fell in love which lasted for two years. When we broke up my bf and I were both taking the same class-a college women's studies class-this was the late 70's and he called himself a Renaissance man. For his final project he decided to do a play about how horrible I was. Instead of worrying about me, the female faculty member sided with him because he was the only male in the class. Talk about a nightmares. I can laugh about it now but it was devastating at the time. I wish I could prevent my niece but from any pain but guess it's part of growing up. She's already much more mature than me at that age.

Bobcats replacing Cougars in SF?

Just got back from San Francisco (which I miss desperately and want to move back to so badly!). Right now is a great time to visit...sales everywhere. I'm going broke saving money. Walked by Wilkes Bashford...the bastion of "the city's" elite and they had a big sign out front saying "Warehouse Sale," almost like a garage sale! I had no idea what this sale was all about but for a shopaholic like me it was like waving whisky in front of an alcoholic.
When I walked in the front door, I smiled at the doorman and asked where the sale was taking place. He directed me around the corner to the elevator and I while I waited, I heard him joking with an employee about cougars versus bobcasts. (Apparantly bobcats are women in their 30's preying on younger men while cougars are in their 40's.) Since I'm 51 I dared hope they were talking about me. I had on a couture dress (from a sample sale) but paired with my Keen walking shoes, I knew it had the same effect as pumps.
After I perused the sale on the 5th floor-they had signs for $10 jeans and $20 skirts, but the good stuff was gone. Not one to admit defeat, I managed to find a cashmere blood-red T for only $20! Sold! Especially since I got the famous orange bag. The saleswoman told me I was missing out by not looking at the dresses marked down to "only" $300, but since I had already lusted after the discounted cashmere robes (a mere $800) I grabbed my credit card and ran down the stairs while my willpower was intact, only to find..
the famous Willie Brown, former state assemblymember and mayor of San Francisco, talking to his good buddy, Wilkes Bashford himself. Wilkes looked despondent, standing alone by the bar, but I followed Willie downstairs to the gifts and he was his usual cheerful self, saying well, hello, in his tenor tone. Later I thought about telling him how much I enjoyed his column in the SF Chronicle, about how I met my husband the night I saw Willie walk in to a bar with a blonde on each arm in the Bermuda Triangle, (the name for a corner with three bars in between Union and Chestnut Streets where singles were known to disappear forever), but all I could manage was hi.
I left with my red top, orange bag and fervernt wishes of returning to SF. Maybe it's just my youth I want back...or maybe I think moving back will return me my carefree days. Of course memories always cancel out the dark days I worried about paying rent and how I was underutilized in my job, but those months when my sister and I went out partying and I juggled three boyfriends at once are priceless.

I miss San Francisco

It's 90 some degrees in "the city" today but the heat wave doesn't bother me--it's still my beautiful city. I miss working and living here. The revamped ferry building is fantastic-I ran in, got caviar, aged gouda, bread, champagne and chocolate at five different shops and took it to my lovely room in the old-fashioned Palace Hotel to eat. It felt like being in France or London or Sydney with charming alleyways and surprising shops around every corner.
If you go visit the San Francisco CVB website first, they have been rated one of the friendliest in the world. I live in Santa Cruz now and love it but everytime I come to the city I want to move back. A wise person once said to move to the place you were last happiest and that would be SF for me...who knows maybe I'll come back. Today in the paper it said most San Franciscans are natives-hard to believe-but then again-where else do you find a great walking city with beautiful architecture, fun boutiques, fantastic restaurants and a live and let live attitude.

McMansions in Paradise

I live in what is called the only authentic beach town in Northern California, certainly the only one with an old-fashioned amusement park that my sister calls the poor-man's disneyland. My neighborhood, the yacht harbor, has been called a secret paradise by locals and visitors because it's sheltered from the wind and fog by the Monterey Bay Marine sanctuary. This banana belt has been my home since 1989 when my husband and I bought a house right before the big earthquake. Our house survived the quake and since then we have only grown more attached to our former hippie town. Unfortunately while progress has improved the downtown, replacing smoke shops with boutiques, it has also encouraged a new breed of folks to move in...those who are building McMansions in this town that used to be proud of it's beach dwellings. Tiny little lots are being overrun with overdone, gingerbread houses. The unique charm of Santa Cruz is fading away so it's becoming like any other town in any other city in the world. For some reason the recession has not hit the Santa Cruz real estate market like it has the rest of the state and country. Now we're thinking of moving to try and get a better view and more light and some of the authentic feel we moved to Santa Cruz to experence...unfortunately Perth Australia seems to be the closest place in spirit.

No such thing as originality

My friend Beth and I thought we were being so cool-combining our mother's names (my nom's maiden name Kuhl) and her mom's name Bella into a blog: KuhlBella. Guess what? I just saw a clothing line by that name. Is it even possible to come up with an original idea in 2009?
It seems like history is repeating itself with the "great recession" and people returning to basic values (ie; poverty). I remember reading about the depression when I was little and asking my dad about this terrible time and he assured me it could never happen again. Part of me didn't believe him even as a kid...didn't we always learn that history repeats itself?
I guess those Silicon Valley types keep coming up with new ideas: green collar jobs and technology, new ways to communicate, twitter, and new ways to make and lose money (skype).
But are they new ideas or just spiffed up versions of the age old way of communicating--talking? After all blogging is just a diary-gone public.
This curmudgeon clearly needs a nap--if I wasn't so addicted to facebook I might take one.

One Step Closer to George Clooney!

My Clooney Crusade is making advances! Last time we talked I met a woman in Norway who lived in Lake Como and knew George and told me to come visit her. She said everyone knows George in town, he's very down to earth. He owns two villas, one for his workouts alone!
I told my sister Jane about my quest and she mentioned how Ellen DeGeneres got him on her show-she brought in two old, former baseball players who George admired and it finally got the movie star to come on the set. A re-run of this Ellen show was on the other day and one of the baseball players was Joe Morgan! I know Joe Morgan! He got a degree in mid-life at Cal State Hayward where I worked!
It's meant to be --George is going to meet me. But like Ellen, I'll think now what? The fun of it is the hunt. Well it's more fun than all the real work I should be doing!