Healing

It comes in waves.  The change is not steady, it is not predictable, it is uncertain.  Just when I think that I've made a break-through, that I will be pain-free and fluid-of-gait, I wake up the next morning to find my muscles locked and my hip laughing at my plans.

It makes keeping a smile on my face more of a challenge some days than others.

Between the pool and the vibration platform and the tender ministrations of my PT and my pilates instructors, I had a great day yesterday.  I was able to distribute my weight evenly on my feet, left to right, front to back.  After being reassured that the first few steps were less important than the overall quality of the walk itself, I gave up my disgust at the hitch-in-my-gitty-up as I rose from the couch.  Concentrating on getting the synovial fluid moving in and around my joint, I circled my hip in the socket, rocket back and forth, and strode out.

It felt great.  I pushed off my right foot as my leg found itself further behind my body than it had been in years. Years.... I try not to think about how long it's been and most of the time I am successful.  Every once in a while, though, the reality hits me like a brick.  Yesterday, the weight was not that heavy.

I found my hips on an even plane, centered above my ankles.  My right hip was not hiked up.  My right shoulder was neither in my ear nor reaching for my waist.  I could feel the long vertical muscles in my back engaging as I admired my posture in the window I passed.  I haven't admired my posture in a very long time.  It was a lovely moment.

Curled on the couch as TBG watched Kevin Durant fail to rescue his Oklahoma City teammates from elimination, I finished the Merle Reagle crossword puzzle from last Thursday's paper.  As I rose to recycle the page, I realized that my legs really had been curled up on the couch.  My knees were fully bent and my hips were creased.... folded.... bent.... in a way they had not been for years.  Years.... only this time it made me smile.  I've come a long way.

I've been working on my endurance, on stretching out the length of time I can walk-with-good-form.  I've been able to put together five or six steps for a while; crossing a wide avenue with that gait before the light changes has been something else entirely.  Yesterday, I didn't have to think about it at all.  It was just there.

I summer-ized the irrigation system the way I used to winterize Annabelle, my first car.  I checked for leaks.  Annabelle was a '67 Chevy Impala; she was large, but her parts were all in one place and she required minimal walking for a full assessment.  My irrigation system covers 1.3 acres and cannot be fully seen from any one spot.  I had to walk, and walk I did.

I bent, I sat, I knelt.  I carried the box of goof plugs and scissors from the garage-cum-potting-shed to the leak beneath the lantana, to the spray under the mesquite tree, to the middle of the long length of tubing.  I needed my kneeling pad and I walked back to the shelf to retrieve it.  I crouched beneath the desert willow and moved the emitters out to the edge of the expanding canopy.  I was up and down and leaning forward and sitting backward and notice my hip at all.

It took me a mite longer to stand up than it might have before I was perforated, but that was perfectly okay with me.  I was down there, on the ground, doing the work.  Eighteen months ago that was merely a dream.  Yesterday, I had the dirty hands and sweaty brow to prove that it was real.

This business of retrieving the self which was lost is full of twists and turns.  Though I woke up today with muscle soreness and bone weary tiredness, I have yesterday tucked firmly away for those moments when it all becomes too much.  I've proven to myself that there is hope, that I will get better.

I know I will heal.

Eating Veggies, Prince-Style

Almost everyone at Prince Elementary School eats the lunch that's provided by the cafeteria.

 As the construction on campus proceeds, the offerings become less creative, although the uses to which they are put continue to amaze.  Yes, that is apple sauce being eaten -???- through a straw.  

                                      There are quasi-healthy alternatives, of course.

Mostly, the boxed lunches involve packaging.

 I heard my mother's voice emerging from my lips as I admonished this poor child.  

"Don't use your teeth!!" sounded much harsher than I'd intended, I'm afraid.

I never realized that a small, peeled, baby carrot 

would be frightening 

even when your friend is right by your side. 

 She tried it.... with attitude... but she tried it 

and she kept her eyes open. 

Some were tentative.

Some were not sure what all the fuss was about.

There was generosity,

 and a certain savoir faire alongside a valiant effort to eat just one,

 but mostly there was silliness.

 There was lots

 and lots

 of silliness.

Was it a cigarette (I hope not) or are they sticking out their tongues at me? 

 Who cares?  It was silliness.

 Shyness and silliness and lots of Grandma love,

 even for those who are just about too cool for school.

Of course, there were those who ate the whole thing

 and were proud to share their accomplishment.

Lest you think that I was encouraging play at the expense of nutrition, 

let me assure you that every carrot which went into a mouth was swallowed.

Sometimes, this was followed by a surprised look and a nod of satisfaction.

Another carrot lover was born.

Being the Official Adopted Grandmother of Prince Elementary School has many perks.

Encouraging kids to eat their veggies is just one of them.

Random Thoughts - The Almost Interesting Items Edition

There are so many of these around, I just don't know where to start.  It's not that they are silly.  It's not that they don't reveal pieces of our character, our governance, our way of life.  They are not and they do.  It's just that I don't think they are worthy of discussion.

And yet, here I am.
*****
Who is Jodi Arias?  Why should I care?  Was she abducted by aliens?  Beyond that, what made her murder trial any more heinous than any other murder trial?  What made it so interesting?

No, don't tell me.  I didn't follow it then, and I don't want to follow it now.
*****
The IRS seems to have taken an unhealthy interest in the tax status of groups identifying themselves with the Tea Party edge of the political spectrum.  There is a great deal of moral outrage running around, and it is warranted.

On the other hand, it's not the first time that politics has played a part in the administration of rules and regulations and it won't be the last.  It should be investigated and punishment should be meted out appropriately but it is ultimately not that interesting.
*****
Darryl Issa is on a witch hunt. Today it's Benghazi.  Yesterday it was Eric Holder.  Tomorrow it will be something else.  Facebook is full of Democrats didn't try to overturn No Child Left Behind a zillion times the way the Republicans keep going at Obama-care and it's true and it's annoying and I don't find it compelling.

We are screaming at each other across an ever widening divide.  Then, again, so were my father and I during Vietnam; he with his American flag waving from the Austin America's antenna and I with the American flag patch on my jeans.  That seemed un-breachable just as today's state of affairs seems un-breachable.  It's nothing new.
*****
Angelina Jolie is talking about her prophylactic double mastectomy.  She's raising awareness and creating the opportunity for conversation and that's wonderful.  A Google search for her image is a sea of breasts and pouts and provocative glances; her message is powerful  because of how she is defined.

If she saves one life by making her story public, I am glad.  But the meta-story, the lurking-behind-the-medical-piece story, the focus on those marvelous breasts which no longer exist... that's just not that much fun for me.
*****
Tiger Woods exhibited bad behavior and Sergio Garcia's bogeys were all Tiger's fault and character is being called into question on all sides.  Watching Stephen A Smith try to justify it was one of those train-wrecks-you-just-can't-ignore but beyond that, who cares?

Two men who make enough money in an afternoon to send a kid to college for four years behaving badly is no surprise to me.
*****
The NBA playoffs are happening and TBG and Big Cuter are loving the Bulls-who-have-no-bench-and-are-exhausted and Kobe's not around and I've read several mysteries and done many crossword puzzles while it's been going on.  I just can't seem to muster any interest in the subject.
*****
I think I need a vacation.... from the news, at least.

Do Not Engage

It was a lovely, sunny, Saturday morning at Ft. Lowell Park.  Daniel Hernandez and I were together two and a half years ago on a similar morning, he taking names at the registration table, Christina-Taylor Green and I chatting him up as she filled in the form.  I don't think there's been a cloudy Saturday since then.  I know that because I find myself saying "a day just like this one" more often than you'd imagine.

This past Saturday, we were creating paper flowers as a reminder of that other Saturday, the one that took Christina from us and catapulted Daniel to national prominence.  It's easy to forget that he's only 23 years old; everyone from Mayors Against Illegal Guns to AIPAC has him on their short list of favored participants as he manages a position on a contentious school board here in town.  Mostly, he's a gentle giant of a man, who's always willing to hold a crying baby, or help a child fold and cut a paper flower.

It was a "kid and mom friendly event."  There were name tags and bottles of water and snacks under Ramada #1.  There were, inevitably, some spills, but the flowers didn't mind.

The issue attracts all sorts of helpers, including this young man who admitted to seeing Daniel as a man to be emulated.  He's interested in politics and government and making the world a better place, just like Daniel.  Don't tell me there is no hope in this world.  I sat across from some of it on Saturday morning.

It didn't matter how old or how young you were; making the flowers was seriously hard work. taping the rolled up scrolls of fringed paper to the straws was no easier than unfurling it to resemble something vaguely reminiscent of a flower.

There was no reason to take pictures of the finished products; they were not photo-worthy.  Megan was right, when she commented last week.  This was not an easy project.

Still, we persevered.  We accordion folded and cut fringes and wrapped, often even remembering to put the bended piece of the straw inside the paper.  We taped and we unfurled and we laughed at our efforts.  It was a lovely, sunny, Saturday morning.

And then a man came by and wondered if we were "protesting gun violence."  Yes, we were.  I was about to ask him if he wanted to join us when he continued, wondering "if any of you have been shot by a gun."  Yes, I have, said I as I showed him the exit wound on my back, clearly exposed by the sleeveless blouse I wore.  "By a gun?" he inquired.  "Yes, three times," I replied.

By that time I was up from the table and standing across the sidewalk from him, and his two young boys.  I didn't notice the event organizer, but she noticed us.  She'd made her way to my side as my interlocutor went on, surprising me with the intensity of his next comment.  "No, not a gun.  Guns don't shoot people, people shoot people."

That's true, just as flames don't burn people, fools who put their hands in the fire burn themselves. But not all people should have guns, and our system is not set up to weed them out.  I was prepared to continue the conversation, albeit with my heart pounding in my chest, when the organizer stepped between us.

"This is a family friendly space.  We are working on a project.  Please, leave us in peace."

That may not be it exactly, but it covers her intention.  She wrapped her arm around me as, quaking, I returned to my bench next to Daniel.  "The police advised us not to engage in conversation outside our group," she said.

I'd skipped most of the local Moms Demand Action events here in town because I was worried about the security surrounding them.  This one, set in the middle of a busy park, with Little Leaguer's and swing swingers in every direction, under a covered ramada far from the main street, felt safe enough to entice me to join the fun.  And then, as the organizer noted, I engaged in conversation and the whole atmosphere turned.

The man and his two boys walked away and I went back to folding and cutting and wrapping. My soul was hurting.  I shouldn't argue ... I should stick to the task ... I should stay safe.  I can't find fault with any of that, but the missed opportunity rankled.

Not that I would have changed his mind.  He was spouting platitudes, not asking questions.  I have some answers (lunatics and terrorists should be precluded from owning weaponry, our laws exist but are broken, do you really need a gun to buy a burger?) .  It probably wouldn't have gone anywhere.  But still....

When the police tell you to call if ignoring the outside world still makes you feel vulnerable, is that a good thing?  They didn't send an officer to keep us safe. They told us to keep our mouths shut and not make waves and we'd be okay.  The organizers wanted a family friendly event.  They were not seeking tumult or immediate change.  They are looking to grow the organization, and that requires much preaching to the choir, it seems.  Getting people involved and keeping them involved is not an easy task. Fierce argumentation is not a part of that plan.

And yet, we were out in public, making a statement that we exist.  Would it have been better to do it at my house, and avoid the issue of interacting with strangers entirely?  Was there a way to communicate our goals without endangering our safety or the sanctity of the event itself?  Was there something else I could have said or done?

I'm not sure.  I am learning as I go, bringing my scarred psyche along with me. That which used to leave me nonplussed now sends me spiraling, my head exploding.  I have to figure out a way to meld the activist with the shootee.  It's an interesting challenge.

The Desert in Bloom

We went to the Tucson Botanical Garden on Saturday, my elementary school friend and I.

She was in town for the UofA's graduation, featuring Brooke, god-daughter extra-ordinaire.

There was a lot of sitting and clapping and eating; I took her around town for some fresh air and sunshine. 

The Botanical Garden is right around the corner from waffles-and-chicken where they'd had brunch; it was an easy destination. Standing under this tree, looking up, relaxing into the earth... 

it was a tonic for each of us.

We've been achy and surgerized and less able and out of sorts for about the same amount of time.

We weren't whining, we were sharing a common thread.

We weren't wallowing, we were in the company of a kindred spirit.

 It was nice to relax into the moment.

 We walked past these blossoms, very much in the present,

yet, for me at least, very much in the past.  

We caught up on family and friends and then all conversation stopped.

We'd stumbled into the birdhouse exhibit.

 These are obviously practical appliances, as the nest in the bottom circle attests.

Repurposed saguaro ribs with a nifty chapeau made me smile.

Am I the only one who sees a face?

 Some were not immediately understandabl.e

 This glass one would make me smile even if there were never a bird perched behind the butterfly.

 Boots with license plates on top

 looked like a one season wonder to me.

There is absolutely no cleaning that out.  

Nope.  

 This reminded me of the cabin in Yosemite's Curry Village, 

when the kids were just the right age to enjoy it.

 Ceramic flowers in a flower garden always seem a little creepy to me.

 There were benches in the shade for resting my body, which ventured through the whole park without benefit of assistive device.  It never crossed my mind to bring my hiking pole. 

I seem to be getting better without noticing it.

 Is this over-the-top or really pretty?  

I like ambivalent art, I think.

 And then, because every botanic garden needs one, 

there was a dinosaur.

Don't ask me why.

I have no idea.

Kind of like rehab - you think you have it figured out

 and then there's an allosaur in the middle of the road.

Being out among what passes for greenery in the desert Southwest does feed my soul, and lead me to flights of fancy...... and that's a good thing.  

Thanks for listening.

Slower and Slower She Goes

G'ma needed to see a medical practitioner.  The pod castle remembered that I protested the random visits by the Physician's Assistant as she made her rounds of the residents; it's four times as expensive for my mom to be seen in her home than it is for her to be seen in the office.  As long as I am around to shuttle her to and fro, there's no reason for Medicare and Empire (her public and private insurances) to foot the bigger bill.

The appointment was for 1pm, so I arrived at noon to join her for lunch.  I didn't eat, because a big meal in the middle of the day puts me right to sleep.  I looked longingly at her apple turnover with the whipped cream melting slowly on top, but I resisted that, too.  I'm trying to fit myself into my summer clothes, and whipped cream is not on my list of approved foods.  I did stick my pinky finger into a corner of the melting wonderfulness, just to reassure us all that it wasn't poisoned.  She laughed as hard as my kids laughed when I checked their french fries the same way.

I love it when I'm reminded of one end of life's spectrum by the other.

It's about fifty feet from the front door to the loading zone outside the pod castle's gate; it took us nearly 10 minutes to get from the dining room table to the car seat.  I am the slowest walker I know, these days, yet I feel as if I am rushing whenever I'm beside my mom.  She moves one foot and reestablishes her balance.  She moves the other foot and gets settled again.  The distance covered by each lifting and releasing of her shoes from the ground is minimal, minuscule, barely noticeable.

I have a hard time balancing all my weight on my right leg; walking that slowly is a true challenge.  I find myself next to her as we start out.  As I become more tired, I speed up.  It's counter-intuitive but it's true.  I'm anxious to get off my injured leg and onto the safety and security of my un-perforated limb. A slow pace requires that my weight really transfer from one side to the other and that it balance there for a beat or two.  Walking with my mom reinforces my belief that I have a long way to go before I am healed.

She didn't remember why she was outside, didn't know why she needed to go to the doctor's office, didn't know where she was leaving.  She didn't know where she was at all.  She used to keep those thoughts to herself.  Recently, she's been telling me that she's lost, uncertain, has no idea where she is or why she is where ever that is.  It's beginning to make her anxious.

There's a locked gate at her pod castle.  Ever since one of the residents showed up at the Walgreens across the parking lot, clad in her sweats and her bunny slippers and unaccompanied by anyone who knew who she was or how she'd gotten there, the gate has been secured by a numeric code.  Each and every time we approach it, G'ma reminds me that she has no idea what the code might be... and then she wonders how she'd ever get out if there were an emergency.  I remind her that the staff moves more quickly than she does, and that they would be the ones to insure that the door was open by the time she arrived to go through it.

The problem is, she forgets the solution and remembers the issue.  It makes me sad.

Her hair is too long and it blows in her eyes.  Her vision is already cloudy as her baby blues are covered with the diseases of old age.  Cataracts or glaucoma, I can't remember which.  I was so stunned when Dr. Le announced the diagnosis that the facts fled my brain upon impact.  It really doesn't matter; it's not being treated.  G'ma's too frail to withstand even out-patient surgery and the smoky sense she has of the world doesn't impede her ability to find her food on her plate or her remote control for the tv.  If she were still knitting or doing crewel work or reading or sewing I'd reconsider the decision not to treat.  She's not, and so, neither am I.

I opened the car door and watched as she lowered herself, inch by inch, down into the seat.  There are no convenient handles or places to rest a hand so she has to rely on her core strength.... of which she has none.  Folding at her hips reminds her of the aches and pains she endured when they were replaced.  No, she tells me, they don't hurt her, it's just......

She couldn't finish the sentence.  She didn't have the words to describe what she'd lost.  I tried not to cry.

We admired the big blue sky and the soft white clouds and the bright yellow VW Beetle that turned in front of The Schnozz.  The doctor is around the corner from the pod castle, a quick drive when I remember which driveway is his.  We noticed the bright red oleander flowering along the walkway and waited until the PA was ready to see us.  She was examined and treated and prescribed for in a lovely thirty minutes of professional care and comfort.  We left with prescriptions and discount cards and a reminder that, when the PA had visited her yesterday afternoon - just to say "Hi," because that's what you do when you know someone, right? - there were no Hershey's Kisses in the bowl on the end table.

That was a problem which required immediate remediation, according to my maternal unit.  So, off we went to Walgreens, for drugs and lotions and cleansers and Kisses.  The fifteen minute wait for the medications was just enough time for us to peruse the aisles and select our items.  No, she had no idea which brand or smell she preferred.  I was to choose, so I did.  Again, I tried not to cry.

We put ourselves back in the car and drove through the parking lot to the front door of her home.  "This is where I live?  Without you, I'd never find it.  I'd be lost before I got to the street."  I reassured her, as I always reassure her, that she's not going anywhere without me, that she doesn't wander, that there is always someone around should she need help.

The problem is, she doesn't remember the comforting words.  They get lost in her dementia, crowded out by the fears and the struggles and the pains.  She's fading, disappearing, and watching herself go.

Her father's favorite toast was "You should live to 120 years!"  I'm not sure that's as kind a wish as he intended.

Well, as a recent citizen of Texas, I experienced what they called "gun day" last weekend. The legislature voted to let college students carry weapons in classrooms, amended the state constitution to ensure no one could ever deny them assault weapons, and above all make sure no one could ever run a background check. I lament my vote may never count for anything during my time here. It also makes me deeply regret my commitment to live here.

So wrote, Meg, a blogosphere friend, in the comments last week. She left her comfort zone in Boston last year, and relocated with her family to Texas... which is about as far from Boston as Long Island is from Tucson.  

She's trying her best, really, she is, but sometimes the culture shock is too great.  She went from living near Bunker Hill to visiting the Texas book Depository.  She's called ma'am. She's  trying to adjust, but it is not easy.

I feel her pain.

When we moved from California to Arizona, we placated our liberal friends' fears that we were moving to a land of neanderthals by reminding them that we had a woman governor and a Jewish woman representative, both of whom shared centrist, reasonable beliefs within the Democratic Party.  Arizona was "trending purple" and we were riding the wave.  

Then, President Obama took Janet Napolitano to Washington and bullets took Gabby out of Washington and instead of living in a state that was moving, inexorably, into the 21st century, we found ourselves in the middle of a battle for our souls. Texas has "gun day" and we have a state gun.  It's hard to live with.

I've always been proud of where I lived, even though I seem to have been in each place at its nadir.  I was in New York during the riots and the fiscal calamity of the 1960's and '70's.  We were in Chicago under the series of mayors after Mayor Daley's death and before his son's election.  Streets weren't swept, let alone cleared after the snow, and the public housing projects were so bad one of those interim mayors moved in (with bodyguards) to prove to the residents that someone was listening.  Though we shared the tech bubble with the rest of California, we also barely escaped Gray Davis's economic debacle.  

The political realities were awful, but the places themselves remained unsullied.  I knew that the news was just an overlay on the map of wonderfulness that was the beach and the lakefront and the ocean and the history that made up my state.  My state.  I was connected by more than geography.  I felt at home. The problems were enormous, but they were not enough to separate me from my home.

Something is different now.  Meg and I are both feeling it.  Our legislatures are creating an environment which makes our skin crawl.  There is no sense of connection, of belonging, of feeling that our voices are being heard.

Big Cuter votes in San Francisco.  His socially liberal politics are well-represented by the voting public.  He, too, says that his vote doesn't really matter.... but that's okay, because he's happy with the outcome.  Meg and I are in a different place.  It's a place of futility, of anxiety, of dissociation.  

That's not to say that we won't be investing energy in trying to effect change. There's always hope... right?  We're able to admire the physical beauty of our new home, while bemoaning the actions being taken in its name.  Because we both know that it's hard to live in a place whose name is just-this-side-of-embarrassing-to-say-aloud.

Thirty

He takes his time.  He's always on time.  He never wears a watch; he sets his internal clock.

He's not quick to make friends, but the friends he makes he keeps.  He paid attention to his mother and his sister and he's a very good boyfriend, too.

He reads fantasy and Plato and finds some of the other in each.

He explains things better than most anyone I've ever met.  Physics to his sister, Socrates' cave to me, the Iliad to a table filled with high school jocks.  They wanted the long version, and he gave it to them.

He brought toy soldiers... and, I do believe, some orcs.... to Latin as he described Caesar's strategy in Gaul.  His classmates and his teacher, females all, needed the visuals, and he was there to provide them.

He has strong hands and wrists, remnants of years spent twisting and twirling his lacrosse stick as he watched tv, or waited for another piece of his game to download, or talked to his mom about his day. Those hands give some of the best back rubs on the planet.

He's come home and cooked me dinner, not only because he does a better job on the dish in question, but because it was a nice thing to do for his mom. I know that because he told me so.

He is not afraid to hug in public; "Hey, I like my parents.  What's your problem?" would be his answer if anyone dared to ask.

He is never too angry to get something down from the top shelf in the kitchen.

He's my boy, and has been for thirty years.

He is loved.

Moms and Mothers' Day and A New Idea

We're not props.  We weren't props when we demanded equal access to the American Way of Life as suffragists..  We weren't props when we marched for the ERA or in support of Roe v Wade.  We aren't props now, as we ask our legislators for sensible gun legislation.

We weren't deluded nor used as unwitting tools of an undefined evil then, and we are not now. Funny how those sorts of labels seem to attach themselves to women acting out, speaking up, making their voices heard.  "I don't care if he thinks I am annoying, I'm going to keep calling," wrote a female friend.  I think it's time to stop worrying about how they feel and start taking charge of things ourselves.

AT&T used to advertise that more calls were made on Mothers' Day than on any other day of the year.  Men who never picked out a card at any other time of year make sure to send one home to Mom every May.  As Big Cuter and I can attest, when babies are born on Mothers' Day, the hospital gives every new mother a rose. Unlike Columbus Day, no one worries if it is politically correct to celebrate it.  How can you be against Moms?

Moms Demand Action is calling this Mothers' Day Week of Action.  The link will take you to the program planning page, which suggests emails and letters to the editor and phone calls and gatherings.  I am more intrigued by the Do-It-Yourself Flowers.

You cut tissue paper or the Sunday comics or colorful magazine pages to somewhere between 8x14 and 12x8... the directions are kind of funky on the issue.  Fold it into 2" accordion pleats, cut the folded edge into fringe, tape one end onto the top of a bamboo skewer, roll it up,  and secure it with more tape. Unfurl and ta-dah!!  If you follow this link you'll find more explicit directions and pictures, too.  I excerpted them here so that you can see how easy it will be.

When?  Are you wondering what I have in mind?  Moms Demand Action is encouraging Mothers' Day Eve parties, and I'm jumping on the bandwagon.  You and the kids, you and your bridge partners, you and yourself... you can all make a difference.  Gather the supplies, clear off the kitchen table, and create eight home made works of wonder, to celebrate the lives of the eight children who die as a result of gun violence every day.

Then, take some pictures... take lots of pictures... and send them around.  Email them and tweet them to your local and federal officials. Post them on social media.  Send them to your local newspaper, leave them on the doorstep of your Senator's office.

That's where mine are going... right to Jeff Flake's heavily secured office door.  It's what I can do, right now.

Hello. My Name is Inigo Montoya.

You killed my father.  Prepare to die.

If you've seen the movie, you were saying it aloud to yourself after you finished reading the title.  I know.  I get it.  Best movie ever. 

Amster and Elizibeth and Miss Texas and Mr. 9 and Mr. 7-and-his-BFF-and-that-Mom-and-Grandma and I went to the Fox Tucson Theater this afternoon to watch it on the big screen.  It was perfect. 

(Spoiler alert - if you don't know that I'm writing about Princess Bride, 

continue reading at your own risk.)

I was the only one who'd seen it before, but the line at the will-call was full of "Mawwiage..." and "to the pain" and Miracle Max.  The smiles were beatific.  No one was in a bad mood.  Even the kids stopped fussing. 

Robin Wright (Penn-then-not-Penn)'s first film role was perfectly cast; she is Buttercup incarnate. Billy Crystal and Carol Kane ran around my kitchen, Humperdink-ing for as long as my kids shared a roof. The movie was a constant presence in our lives.

Mandy Patinkin's Inigo is Gene Kelly with a dark side; he lived in my house in the form of a little boy with a gleam in his eye and love in his heart for many, many years.  Actually, as I think about it, he's still in there, and not buried too deep, either.  No one was ever chastised for using the plastic sword holding the burger together as an epee... not as long as Hello... my name is Inigo Montoya was included in the duel. 

This afternoon, leaving the loge, the boys tried valiantly to escape my pointed finger as I warned them to prepare to die.  I'm not sure that we were the best behaved patrons in the theater; I know we were among the ones having the most fun.  I didn't want it to end.  With the double enticement of a new car (a loaner) and gelato, Messers 7 and 9 condescended to drive with me.

As we waited for the freight train to meander across the intersection, the conversation continued. Is iocaine real?  (No) What does develop an immunity mean and should we, could we try it? (Uh... no) The sportsmanship of bopping an opponent with a boulder consumed us as we took the short cut across Orange Grove to Skyline.  Westley's piggy-back ride gave Mr. 7 the giggles, although we all agreed that it was a fairly uncomfortable piggy-back ride.  

At Frost, the best gelato in the world, we wondered how Fezzik got that big (he was born that way) and discussed how pay back is like revenge. Over a small, a medium, and a large, Mr. 9 told us that he'd recognized Westley at As you wish; Mr. 7 didn't know until the mask rolled off at the bottom of the hill.  There was no brotherly I knew before you knew; we were more invested in the nuance than in the nudging. Anyway, neither of them knew that Westley was the man on the rope... the very strong man on the rope, even without carrying three people, too.

It was that kind of afternoon, and Rob Reiner's opus brought us there.  And, it gets even better. 

As we pulled into his driveway, Mr. 7 asked, "Is there a book of Princess Bride?"  

I'm picking it up at Barnes and Noble right after dinner.  It will be in his hands tonight, for Mom to read aloud.... because that's the perfect ending to a perfect day.