I had to choose shim as my Ragtag Daily Prompt today because I am relearning the Shim Sham!
I learned it years ago, but forgot it. Now the dance group that I hang out with on Fridays does the Shim Sham as the end of their dance evening. This is a line dance but it’s a line dance from Harlem in the 1920s and 30s. It started from tap dance. “At the end of many performances, all of the musicians, singers, and dancers would get together on stage and do one last routine: the Shim Sham Shimmy.” Here.
I am learning it from this teaching tape. The individual moves are not that hard, but it is fast and it’s the transitions that I really have to work on. It is fast enough that it has to be memorized and automatic, I can’t think about the next step.
Frankie Manning was an American dancer, instructor, and choreographer. Manning is considered one of the founders of Lindy Hop, an energetic form of the jazz dance style known as swing. I got to take lindy hop classes with him in the 1980s in the Washington, DC area, when swing and lindy hop were having a revival. It is still going on, and what better exercise is there than dance?
And the photograph is Jonathan Doyle and friends playing in late March 2023. I love dancing to live music!
I came close but no cigar I want a mind that I can love hand holding mine in the car I send a quiet prayer above Love of nature, kind to friends not afraid of their own dark Lust to learn until their end willing to risk to build an ark Curious but not controlling Not addicted to booze or drugs Intense at times and others strolling Opinions, laughter and lots of hugs My heart open yet I don’t faint I think I am waiting for a saint
_____________________________
I wrote the poem yesterday, but I have used up my memory in wordpress and now I need to go through and delete things. Any advice, Martha? I know you did it. It seems that I have to delete the post and the photograph, or is that not true? Advice welcomed.
I search my photographs for gloves and it comes up with two: foxgloves! Well, strictly speaking, that is a form of glove, right?
Today I follow an online trail to this article on diabetes from Nature Medicine here.
It is talking about a genetic variant that is found in people with African-American heritage called G6PDdef. This genetic pattern makes the HgbA1C test inaccurate. It will look low and “in control” even when blood sugars are high. Since the blood sugars are NOT in control, complications from diabetes can happen: damage to vision, to kidneys, to nerves in the hands and feet.
I have been reading articles about current and changing guidelines about diabetes. The current guidelines say that checking blood sugars at home doesn’t make a difference. I REALLY disagree with this and at the same time, I don’t think that physicians are approaching blood sugars in a practical manner.
I saw a man recently who is diagnosed with “insulin resistance”. His HgbA1C is in between 5.6 and 6.0. Normal is 4.5 to 5.6. Over 6.5 is diabetes. He has prediabetes. He has not checked blood sugars at all, but he is on metformin.
There is evidence that metformin is helpful, and still, I think it is putting the cart before the horse. I ask my people to go buy an over the counter glucometer. Ask for the one that has cheap strips, 6 for a dollar instead of a dollar apiece. Then we go over the normal and abnormal blood sugar ranges and I ask them to start checking blood sugars. If I give them a medicine right away, they don’t learn how to control their blood sugar with diet. ALL of my patients can figure out how to bring their blood sugars down with diet. If we can’t get to a good range, then we will add metformin. I do explain that the guidelines say use a medicine right away, but I ask, “Would you like to see if you can control your blood sugars with diet?” The answer is overwhelmingly “YES!” I have never had someone say no. If we do not give them the chance and explain the goals, why would they even try?
Also, I read the dietician handouts for diabetes yesterday and I am not satisfied. I do not think they explain carbohydrates well. Foods have fats, proteins, and carbohydrates, and anything that isn’t fat or protein has carbohydrates. I think of carbohydrates as a line, from ones with high fiber that do not send the blood sugar up fast, to ones that shoot it way high. At the low end is kale and lettuce and chard and celery. Then the green and yellow and red vegetables that are not sweet. Then beets and sweet peas. Next come the fruits, from blueberries up to much sweeter ones. Fruits overlap with grains: bread and pasta and potatoes and rice. The whole grains have more fiber and are slower to digest. Candy then sweet drinks (sodas are evil) and sugar.
Sugar has 15 grams of carbohydrate in a tablespoon. Kale has 7 grams of carbohydrate in a cup. That’s a pretty huge difference. A small apple has about 15 grams of carbohydrate and a large one 30 grams. Read labels for grains. There is a lot of carbohydrate in a small amount. The issue with fruit juice is that most of the fiber is gone, so the sugars are broken down and absorbed much faster. A 12 oz coke has 32 grams of carbohydrate and a Starbucks mocha has 62! I quit drinking the latter when I looked it up.
Most people with diabetes are supposed to stay at 30 grams of carbohydrate per meal, or 45 if it is a big person or if someone is doing heavy labor. Snacks are 15 grams.
Avocados are weird. They have about 17 grams of carbohydrate in a whole one, but they also have a lot of fat. They do have a lot of fiber, which surprises me.
Diet control takes a combination of paying attention to what is on the plate and serving amounts. Three servings of pasta is not going to work, unless you are out fighting forest fires or are on the swim team. Fire fighters are allotted 6000 calories a day, but most of us do not get that much exercise.
At the same time that articles are telling me that home blood sugars are not useful with a glucometer, everyone is pushing the continuous glucose monitors. I think we like technology. And other articles say that diabetes can be reversed with major lifestyle changes.
Articles: about not using home glucose checks, here. Starting metformin, here. Starting with one of the newer medicines, here.
I think people feel a lot more successful if they get a glucometer and can bring their blood sugar down by messing about with diet. I tell them to check after what they think is a “good” meal and after a “bad” one. How much difference is there? Contrast that with being handed a pill to control it, while someone talks about diet and says all the same stuff that we’ve heard for years. Nearly all of my people want to avoid more pills and are willing to try a glucometer to see if they can avoid a pill. People who have been on diabetes medicine for a while are less willing to try, but sometimes they do too. And sometimes they are surprised that some meals do not do good things for their blood sugar.
This is all type II diabetes. For type I, we have to have insulin. If type II has been out of control for a long time, sometimes those people have to have insulin too. Right now insurances will usually cover continuous glucose monitors for people with diabetes who are on insulin, both type I and II. I do hope that they really make a huge difference for those people!
The spectrum from the low carbohydrate vegetable, the green and yellow and orange ones, up to the really high simple sugar ones is also called the glycemic index. There are lists of low to high glycemic index foods. Perhaps some people with diabetes find that helpful, but I think it’s simpler to say, ok, the stuff that doesn’t taste sweet will send the blood sugar up less. Also, since we are all genetically different and then our gut bacteria and microbiome are all different, it is individualized care to say how does this person at this time respond to this food? We change over time!
There are other examples of the HgbA1C not working to track diabetes. A resident and I looked over a person with diabetes and spherocytosis. The HgbA1C was nearly normal but the blood sugars were in the 300 range. Spherocytosis is a genetic blood cell abnormality, and the red blood cells don’t live as long. People with a past bone marrow transplant also have red cells that live for a shorter time. The G6PD deficiency is thought to help people survive malaria, so persists in the population, like sickle cell anemia. Isn’t genetics fascinating?
A man I know is writing about retirement. He says that he has made excuses for years, that he has to travel for work, and not participated with family or entertaining activities.
That work is the only thing he is good at.
I don’t see the problem.
He has four people who have given him accolades for his write up. All men.
The women don’t see the problem.
In college I play soccer. I am not good, but adequate. None of us are really good. We have 12 people. Men and women. I ask a friend to join us.
“No.” he says.
“Why not?” I ask. “You’ve been saying you need exercise.”
“I am not good at it.”
“So what?”
“People expect men to be good at things. You don’t know what it’s like to have that expectation.”
I glare at him. “You don’t know what it’s like to be a woman and have people expect you to be bad at things.”
I knew a veteran. He complained to me about women. “I want a woman who is interested in cars and guns. That’s what I’m interested in.”
“Um,” I say. “Maybe you could develop some other interests? Join a club?”
“No.” he says. “Cars and guns. Why aren’t women interested?”
I am sure that some are. I am also sure that they are expected to know nothing about cars or guns and then are hazed and finally celebrated for being an amazing woman who is interested in cars and guns and has skills and knowledge. How amazing.
The women don’t see the problem with being good at work and not having developed anything else. We often are treated as if we are morons and have a man explain things to us. I have a skill that I have been developing and practicing for decades. Yet a man about 15 years younger than me who is in his first year of practicing, explains it all to me. I look at him and think, you are an idiot. Really. You KNOW I have years and years of experience. I offer to show him another way to do part of it and he soundly rejects and scolds me. “You’ll confuse me! I do it the way I was taught!” I clam up and just think, well, he’s over 30 and still stupid. Bummer. He talks about his amazing development and tells me what he has learned and advises me. Snort. I am ready to take a restroom break the next time he explains what I should be doing. The toilet is more fun than he is.
The women and the single fathers don’t see the problem. If you are raising the kids while working and keeping track of all the stuff: laundry, soccer practice, dentist appointments, helping your 8 year old pick a present for another kid, when is the party and where? Oh, the same day as the parent teacher conferences. Your child may want to do a sport that you know damn-all about or play an instrument that sounds like a rabbit is being strangled or join the young Rotary group. You are not a joiner and view this with an awed horror. But an involved parent will extend themselves into this new unknown alien arena and learn with the child.
And the people who do not have children but are trying to take care of an aging parent or disabled sibling or a long time friend. They too have to learn the systems and the medical one is a deteriorating nightmare labyrinth.
So to say one is good only at work and afraid of retirement: We don’t see it. What are you talking about? We are doing stuff we know nothing about initially as fast as the darn children grow. This month they want their own laptop and are installing linux and “Mom, we need faster wi-fi.” “I am making dinner.” “But mom, the game is timing out.” Huh. Ok, time to call the woman who we know who will explain wi-fi. “Figure out how much it costs, you’ll have to earn part of it if it’s more expensive.” “Mo-ommmm!”
Retirement: begin again. What have you wished to learn, to do, to explore? Be a beginner. Join us. We begin again daily.
This child is not afraid of the saxophone because she is growing up with it. The saxophone player is her father. She’s ready to help and be up on stage as well! She’ll have a fabulous jazz foundation and her father didn’t miss a note!
This is Tuesday night at the Bishop Hotel in Port Townsend, Washington. Chris Miller and Peter Leopold Freeman.
This too I want to remember. Discussions of the world together. The mysteries of science and sweatpants strings. String theory and medicine, cabbages and kings. Why the sea is boiling hot and whether pigs have wings. This too I want to remember.
How? It does wear them down, but it can also break blocks off. Water goes into any tiny crack. When it freezes, it expands. Over time, the crack is widened, until the rock breaks. Rock cannot stand against water.
Why are the roses caged, you ask? What did they do? Nothing, they are being protected. I found that rose and transplanted it years ago, but our deer eat the buds every year. This is the first time that it has bloomed in the 21 years I have lived in this hours. Isn’t it beautiful?
I am listening to this:
I wrote this poem today. This is one of the poems where I have no idea where it will go when I start writing it. I start writing about judgement and it never ever goes where I expect. The poems go where I want to go in my deepest heart, in my soul. I am never where the poem is, the poems show me the way….. Then I try to go there. And it can take years….
I am being judged and watched
I have no issue with the Beloved
it’s the humans I don’t like
I twist people’s words but not with malice
when the antibodies are up it is hard to communicate hard to explain it is hard just to survive and I might be focused on survival first and comforting the people around me second
can you blame me?
how near to death have you passed? and how often?
first pneumonia heart rate 135 when I stood up
my doctor and I could not understand it
my doctor partners thought I was lying in 2003
second pneumonia after my sister’s death which was bad enough but the legal morass that she had set up with her daughter as the center
pitting me and her daughter’s birth father and my father against all the PhDs in the maternal family smart, smart, smart yet emotionally stupid
my niece is not an inheritance to be passed to whom my sister wants
she reluctantly came home and the myth endures that this is an injustice
third pneumonia one year after I find my father dead triggered by grief and the outdated will and the mess he leaves
and I don’t even get sued about the will for another year
I do not care if you want to believe what you want to believe it isn’t true and it hurt
and I learn to let go
with the fourth pneumonia
I see the liars surrounding me downvoting yes, it does matter except that one that I trusted that mentored me
has lied all along
that hurts too
let it go let it go let it go
and I let it go
each pneumonia is a time of change creativity I am lonely and sick and not trusting
as I improve slowly, slowly
I wander garage sales estate sales
and find things things that are beautiful things that enhance my joy
at the start of covid I was so down I was so sad I wanted to lie in the street and give up
the Beloved sent a spirit he says he is no angel
I see angels bright and dark after all they all fall
just as humans do
we all fall we all fall down
try to look perfect try to look virtuous tell yourself that you are good
that is the biggest lie of all
the bad parts of your spirit locked in the basement of your soul howl howl and want to be freed
and if one gets out and you reject her or him
he will return with nine friends yes that is what the bible says
she will return with nine friends
he/she MONSTER will free the others
and you will do bad things you will be terrible you will hurt people while you try to contain while you try to lock away while you try to chain your monsters your evil your self
let them go let the monsters go they are howling I hear them all the time when I meet you when I speak to you the monsters howl at me begging to be loved
yes, they want to be loved and I love them
but if I mention them
you get that look of horror
someone sees me someone sees my evil someone sees what I hide
I can’t help it raised in alcohol neglect and lies on my own as soon as I can walk
but I can’t walk away at nine months
so I find other escapes words songs books poetry rhymes numbers
and my sister when she is born
I do all the mothering
that I have longed for
even though I am three
we were talking about your monsters not mine
you must go in to the cave where you have locked them
and free them all
fall on your knees
and say forgive me forgive me
for I have sinned
bow your head
and hold out your arms
and what, you say, will the tortured monsters do?
will they smite you? will they burn you? will they lock you in their place?
mine didn’t mine were babies grief, fear, shame and I embraced them carried them up to the light and care for them
wash them diaper them feed them wrap them in warm blankets
It says, “I don’t know if I am the good witch or the bad witch.”
I burst into tears and put it in the trunk of my car. I never wear it. I am the designated bad witch for half my family. We won’t go into that.
She gets a shirt too. Hers is the green one. Mine is black.
She is dead, in 2012, breast cancer. It’s hard to describe the fallout. Toxic and radioactive. But… I have decided not to be a witch.
Instead, I am a practicing grandmother.
Really I’ve been one for a while. There was a young couple who lived down the street with two children. This was in 2014. I am a Facebutt friend, so sometimes noted what was happening. The father has to travel for his job. The mother is trying to care for two kids and work and so on… been there.
In 2014 I am recovering from my third round of pneumonia. This third round it takes six months before I can return to work. Short of breath and coughed if I talked. The state medical watch doctors want to disable me but I fight them tooth and nail. I win. In retroscope, oops, I mean retrospect, they were probably right.
Anyhow, I wander down to the neighbor and offer my services. She already knows me. She is instantly grateful and two year old T is introduced to me, again. He doesn’t really remember me. She explains that he is coming to my house for a little while and then back home.
T and I walk towards my house.
A nuthatch calls.
I stop and reply. In college I took ornithology and the teaching assistant could do a barn owl call so well that the barn owls would do a territorial fly over at night to see who had the weird accent. Marvelous.
The nuthatch and I went “enh” back and forth. T is amazed. This woman talks to birds. Then we see the nuthatch! I point out how nuthatches come down a tree head first. “If you hear that call, it’s a nuthatch. Look for it.” The nuthatch is very cooperative. Magic.
We get to my house. T is clutching a book. “He’s taking it everywhere,” sighs his mother. “I’m not sure why.”
So first we read the book. It is a board book about a farm. Each page has a central picture and then there are pictures around the edges with the word under each picture. On one page T says, “Haaaaay.”
“Oh!” I say, delighted. “You can read HAY!”
His face lights up. An adult who gets it! Yes! He can read HAY!
On another page he says HAY. “Oh,” I say, “That is straw. Straw is a lot like hay but it’s not exactly the same.”
He is very serious absorbing that information.
I show him my closet. There is a stick horse. Only it isn’t a horse: it’s a unicorn dragon, with a forehead horn and wings. When you press a button it’s eyes flash and it roars.
Ok, that’s pretty scary. He wants the closet door closed and he does NOT want to play with the dragon.
Next is pouring. I get out a towel and put it on the kitchen floor. I get out a rather nice expresso set. Bright colors. Orange and green and yellow and blue. I fill the coffee pot with water and invite him to sit on the towel. “You can pour the tea.”
He looks at me with surprise. He picks up the coffee pot. He looks at me again. “Go ahead. It’s ok.” He starts pouring into a cup. He pours until the cup overflows and the saucer overflows and he keeps pouring. The coffee pot is empty. He looks at me a little warily. This is technically spilling and he knows it.
“Would you like more in the teapot?”
He nods.
I refill the coffee pot with water and he starts again, with a different cup.
When I return him to mom, after two hours, he’s damp. “Sorry, he got a little wet, but it’s just water,” I say cheerfully. Mom is too harried to do much more than look resigned at a change of clothes. I tell her about him being able to read the word hay.
Next time he comes with a change of clothes and his large stroller, in case he goes down for a nap.
And first off, he goes to the closet. Time to hear that dragon roar again.
Discover and re-discover Mexicoβs cuisine, culture and history through the recipes, backyard stories and other interesting findings of an expatriate in Canada
Engaging in some lyrical athletics whilst painting pictures with words and pounding the pavement. I run; blog; write poetry; chase after my kids & drink coffee.
Refugees welcome - FlΓΌchtlinge willkommen I am teaching German to refugees. Ich unterrichte geflΓΌchtete Menschen in der deutschen Sprache. I am writing this blog in English and German because my friends speak English and German. Ich schreibe auf Deutsch und Englisch, weil meine Freunde Deutsch und Englisch sprechen.
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