Friday Red Cross and Writing Plans

I rose at around 7:30 as the coffee, assembled the night before and the button pushed for timed delivery, was ready and still being heated. With a cup, I returned to the office and began a more focused writing of the blog. I also scooped up the dirty laundry and loaded The Machine and processed it for two and a fraction of an hour. Just coffee, as I was out of bananas still, and I had an appointment with the Red Cross at 1.

As is my usual morning start, I summoned all the transactions from my busy accounts with a click (sometimes it feels less like technology and more like wizardry), both income and expense, and centralized them into Quicken. There were a few adjustments. PayPal is poor at documenting why a deposit is made, and each must be manually updated. I also logged into US Bank and checked my IRA balance, discovered it had been reduced by the planned $35, and I made a matching update to the balance in Quicken. The IRA downloads and information are only basic for Quicken; I keep it simple and manual, and only track the balance (also, the solution for the very arcane US Treasury account).

I read the email and continue to select unsubscribe to liberal causes, as I will not be a source of their funding, as I am retired and have nearly no income. I spend my funds on travel, dinners with Deborah, and some hobbies (although I am trying to be restrained even for those). But it is hard to resist good causes and liberal political options.

I write and read the news here and there, and find KINK.FM is too repetitive of late, and I switch to my playlists on my laptop while I write. I write and look out my office window. The aphids are thick on my rose out my window, and I wonder why the hummingbirds are not feasting. I may have to wash them away.

I write and publish around 10, and The Machine demands that I get my finished product. I hang up the shirts and pants and toss the rest on the pile from Monday. I will fold and put it away soon, I tell myself.

I unload the dishes, grab my laptop and a book, and head to First United Methodist Church for my donation appointment. I had previously called the Red Cross help desk. My appointments made no sense and were somehow rescheduled for Thursday at a different location. They could not untangle them, but agreed I could just create a new one at the church, and I did. I learned that the Rapid system is only valid for the day it was used, which is why I was rescheduled for Thursday and a different location. I will fill it out online the day of the appointment next time.

I reach the Red Cross set up at my church, and they agree that I can return at 1 AFTER I have eaten and drank more water for lunch. Oops. I walk to Ava Roastery and order their special with water, replacing the cookie with a fruit tart (more calories but different ones) for an upcharge. I had them pick the sandwich, and the turkey with melted cheese and pesto was fantastic. I drank two glasses of water, and that, with the food, filled me. I was worried about barfing (oops!) instead of passing out, but I was better once the water was absorbed.

I returned and followed the process, and Liz ran me through it; I passed. The Iceland trip was not a reason to be excluded. I was soon squeezing a foam thing in my left arm as I filled a bag. I was happy not to be dizzy this time and chatted with Rodger, another guy who was donating at the other table. They can do two at a time. We talked about Iceland, and he was looking for a place to travel and burn up some of his flight miles. It was a pleasant chat, and it remains true that in our country, strangers can converse without fighting over politics. It gives me hope.

I was feeling tired, and walking seemed harder. It was not a balance issue, but I could feel the change, and my body was trying to adjust to less blood. I am happy to donate blood at my own church. It just felt right.

I dropped off Mom Wild’s card at the post office. I now deliver them to a post box every day instead of rushing them in the morning. I like finding a box or visiting a post office. It also gets me outside and more sun.

Somewhere in the day, I discovered that my eBay account is unreachable because the password reset is only available through a phone I don’t have. I do what everyone else does: I use another email and create a new account. For my email, alohawild@me.com is conveniently serviced by alohawild@mac.com. This came up as a “Persian Carpet” revenue stamp was on auction at 1/10 the usual price from a reputable dealer I have acquired stamps from before. My bid is not likely to succeed, but it is worth a try. That is how I acquired my last Zepplin stamp for a reasonable price.

I took Air VW the Gray to the Pearl District (not the flaming Hell stated by Trump and his allies, but an excellent tourist stop and home of Powell’s City of Books main store). I find no easy parking and park underground in a garage. There, I discover an EV charger is open and charge the EV while shopping. It is a slow charge and will likely add only 10%, but at a low price (84 cents, compared to a supercharger that would cost me $10 or more).

Plugged in, I head to Powell’s and walk through the store. I ask for help and learn that they do not have any of the 1920s crime novels I am looking for. These are before China became the focus of crime novels of the 1920s-30s. I wanted to see how well the villains match Sax Rohmer’s text. But they had none, and I just wondered and found nothing today except a cheap math book, I think I could use — I could risk $6 on it. I was also tired from the blood donation and could not focus. I did find plenty of new postcards and cards, and soon checked out.

My checker, a young man wearing a mask (a good idea when you consider the number of people he is exposed to every day at work), looked at the book and told me that he found math much more interesting now that he was out of school. I lingered and suggested that he consider data science and artificial intelligence. I explained that the coding involves calling prebuilt routines, but the understanding requires a strong mathematical background and a clear understanding of advanced statistical methods. He thanked me, and he said he would think about it.

On the streets, someone was singing — bright and wonderful, and I gave them a dollar, got a fist bump and a smile, and another young person was in some distress and got a dollar too. I try to remember to bring ones when I am out and about. I gave a buck to a gal I have seen often at post offices the day before, when mailing Mom Wild’s card.

I found the EV, unlocked it, paid the low price, and then paid an additional $14 for the privilege of using the garage. I try not to react to that, as I knew that it would be about that. I will search harder for Parking Kitty spots next time.

I met Kathleen at Schilling Cider House & Gluten Free Kitchen. We were both worn out by then, and we spent the next couple of hours in this new place, parking for free on the streets, and enjoying the food and staff. Recommended. I did have a cider and revised my list of drinks to one beer and one cider a week. Less booze in their house cider too; it was sweet and friendly flavored. Very much how I find Portland, fresh and a little drunk. We talked and had dinner; I went with a pulled pork sandwich (gluten-free), and Kathleen had the de rigueur fried chicken sandwich.

I wrote a bit, Kathleen made a few edits, but we agreed that it was too much for today. We headed out before sundown. We will be back; we liked the place and the area near the Clint Theater. Next time, I will walk the area, saving at least $14.

The trip home was bouncing all over Portland with Nav. Traffic was complex and weird for a Friday late. It seemed everyone was late leaving Portland. I hit the tunnel on Highway 26, and the traffic vanished. Odd. The sunset over the Coastal Mountains was incredible when viewed from Sylvan Hill on 26. The air was clean, and the high clouds burned golden with the sun behind the mountains and the sea. The alternative name for the highway is the Sunset Highway, and today everyone was driving slower to look at the view (yes, we get sun jams).

Home was reading, doing the dishes, and heading to bed. It was a good day. I ignored the invasion threat from Trump to Portland, as well as other political news meant to steal headlines and prevent one word from appearing in the press (E-something). I found my PJs, still in the pile I will someday fold and put away, and crawled into bed. I spoke to Deborah for some time that evening, and we just chatted on the phone. I did send her words I did not know from the 1920s story, an early story by Dashiell Hammett. It was excellent, and I was wondering how he managed those interesting turns of phrase. It was a remarkable short story, “The House in Turk Street.” Deborah rang off to sleep, and I read more until sleep took me. I slept the night except for one waking.

Thanks for reading!