The Burrow

My summer was planned right through the last weekend in July.  I had appointments with Pilates or Yoga or the gym or walking with Brenda Starr filling the bulk of my calendar.  I was in waiting mode, not signed up for classes or planning short jaunts to cooler climes.  A grand-daughter was coming, and I was in hurry-up-and-wait mode. Three weeks later, I came home for five days, then left again for a long weekend.  We came home on Monday afternoon; TBG had cataract surgery on Wednesday morning. I must have unpacked and repacked and unpacked again, because there are no suitcases in the halls.  I have no memory of any of it. There's not a lot of laundry, because we haven't been around and in the gym and swimming and going out to eat.  Instead, I have several white plastic bags emblazoned with hotel logos sitting mournfully on the floor of the laundry room.  I don't need them right now; I can live out of my closet instead of my suitcase. I'm home....

It's oxymoronic on its face - there are always clouds and fog and cool ocean breezes in Monterey in the summer.  My backless yellow filmy dress for the reception was aggressively summery... until it was absolutely perfect. We left Arizona under lowering clouds.  We returned to thunderstorms.  In between, we had nothing but sunshine.  It may have been a little overcast on Saturday morning, but we slept late and had a lovely breakfast and by the time we were ready to venture toward the beach there were clear skies overhead.  After spending Friday afternoon poolside with our books and sunglasses, a second day of brightness was an unexpected pleasure. The bride and groom certainly deserved it.  They took care of the entire event.  Calling themselves geographic mutts , their guest list involved travel from Washington, DC, Pittsburgh, Illinois, Boston, California, and points across the Atlantic.  Everyone would have to travel, so the kids...

It's not the prettiest part of the desert, nor the pretties part of the Golden State. Still, it had its moments. The road is straight and flat, even as it goes up and down for miles  The crags of Arizona give way to softer hills in California. The scale of the roads expand, too.  The trucks are lost in the immenseness and closeness of the hills. The road steepens, and the Runaway Truck Ramp signs begin to appear.  They are on both sides of the road, with blockades where there isn't enough room to slow down.  I'm not sure how effective those metal barrels would be. There wasn't anything on the other side of that ramp, either.   The San Joaquin Valley feeds America. The greenery is an overwhelming contrast once you come down into the valley. Trees and more vines   and more trees line the roadside.   So does James Dean.   There are also oil rigs, dipping and raising and dipping a...

Five days passed in 1600+ miles driven, two parties attended, old friendships renewed and new friendships made, outstanding food at almost every stop, and a thunderstorm to greet us as we pulled into the garage here at home. I really need to sit outside and breathe some fresh air.  The lightning ionizes the atmosphere and the creosote is pungent and Cousin Brucie is no longer on Sirius radio, tripping over his thoughts in between giving He Who Will Always Be The Driver tunes to hum.  ***** The driver owns the radio .... and I never drive.  I tried reading on the Kindle, but the power kept running out. I could rant about paper books not requiring anything but ambient illumination, but the need to recharge the thing gave me time to chat over Chad and Jeremy... who were an improvement over the bubblegum theme... who were a disappointment after Dusty Springfield, my favorite she-should-be-more-famous artist of that era. ***** Many of the wedding guests had travel...

Sorry, denizens. Spotty internet reception, a laptop which even Big Cuter couldn't get to turn on, a wedding anniversary to be celebrated..... suffice it to say that today's post was a victim of circumstances.   I'll be back tomorrow. Today, I'm enjoying a road trip with my sweetie, on the first day of the 40th year of our marriage.   Wow.

Driving for hours, and I wasn’t bored for a moment.  I brought the NYTimes Crossword Puzzle pages and a bright green pen, along with a paperback and my Kindle. I never felt the need for more than the occasional clue.  It’s not the prettiest part of America, but it held my attention for seven hours. It rained for a while.  TBG and I agreed that new windshield wipers are nearly as wonderful as new tires, and the only thing more wonderful than new tires is that new car smell.  We had it all and we were happy. We became connoisseurs of road surfaces.  I pretended I was in an off-road vehicle as their tracks across the open space provided the road map for my fantasy.  We had a Coleman cooler filled with ice tea on the floor behind the driver’s seat and my sneakers stowed neatly beneath my own seat. Mr. I Am Too Nervous To Be Anything But The Driver” mentioned the possibility of my getting behind the wheel, but thus far it’s only been another fantasy. ...

Big Cuter's friends are getting married. TBG and I are the only parents of friends who were invited.  It's an honor we couldn't refuse and so, today, Mr. I Hate Hotels and I are packing and planning for a road trip. He's got a brand new BMW 435i, dubbed FlapJilly's Uncle Beemer by Little Cuter, which is clean and shiny and ready to roll.  His knee is acting up, he's anxious about travel, and I'm trying to ignore the angst and concentrate on the adventure .... and on the love at the end. It's been much too long since I've seen my son; I'm looking forward to lots of big hugs and long talks and leisurely walks.  He has no compunctions about straightening my gait and complimenting me when I self-correct; it's physical therapy with lots of love and it makes me very happy. It's a two day drive to Carmel, the destination wedding's destination.  We cross Arizona, eschewing the no-tell-motels in Quartzite.  On our first drive to Tucson ...

The most fabulous picture I ever took of Big Cuter and The Bride happened there. They were smiling and looking wide eyed because a pigeon had just pooped into Seret's long, luscious, curly, tangle of hair and I was taking pictures instead of helping her clean it out.   Thirty years later, all on my own, I could find the restrooms still behind the sundial, inside, and down the stairs, and I could watch the pretty pink birds for as long as I wanted without having to explain why they have orange feathers or why I insist that they are pink.   I can watch the camels recline  and admire their grace as they lower themselves, slowly and carefully placing first one hump and then the other on the ground, in the shade or in a pool of water, clear enough to reflect the sunlight  and there was no reason to move on until I wanted to see something else.   Like the apes' indoor/outdoor habitat. The indoor part is the white building ...

It's my favorite place in my favorite city.  It was when I moved there in 1973 and it was when I was cruising downtown two weekends ago.  I always find a perfect parking spot. Charo the Car-O in the first free space across from the old Academy of Sciences. I'm never disappointed.  I'm usually surprised.  I'm happy with whatever is in front of me ... and there's a lot in front of me. After lunch with my cousin once removed (thank you, Dr's N for the relationship information), I tried to link up with old friends.  They were, unfortunately for me, on their way to a wedding.  The Realtor wasn't ready to receive me until 5pm.  I had a block of time and no place to go.  The Zoo called my name. I had my phone/camera, a water bottle, and comfortable shoes.  There's no charge to enter the animal paradise, nor for walking on the Yes, the murky pond on which The Cuters and I would take paddle boats on lazy summer afternoons is now a na...

I admit that I never heard the hoopla.  I'm catching up well after the fact.  Perhaps that's a good thing; initial reports so often are fast and inaccurate.  Still, it was a bit disconcerting to find out how much I had missed. No, Brother informed me, Ferguson was not a person. Rather, it was a town in turmoil.  I'd been in total baby mode; the news which interested me was related to a seven pound human.  If it wasn't FJ-centric, I didn't notice it.  The kids, used to catching up on current events on their phones, never had the news on the television. Newspapers are an anachronism in their suburban neighborhood.  I listened to country music on their XM radio in the car.  I was cut off.  I didn't care. Then, the kids went out on a post-baby-first-date.  Brother and I were providing child care; once FJ fell asleep and the left-over pizza was boxed up in the refrigerator, I put Daddooooo's favorite talking head, Gwen Ifill, on the scr...

They are asleep on the couch.  Brother and SIR are watching the Cubs lose to the Brewers, I'm typing to you, Thomas the Wonder Dog is sleeping in the sunshine, and the stars of the show are out for the count. It's an exhausting time.  Little Cuter likes her rest and she's not getting very much of it these days.  She's typically in bed by 9:30 at night.  That seems to be when FlapJilly decides it's time to boogie.  She's not a cranky baby, she's just awake and alert and ready to enjoy human interactions. Unfortunately, her paternal adult human has to leave for work by 7:30 in the morning, and her maternal adult human does not do well when operating on fumes.  Enter Grandma. It took them a while to recognize the value of an adult who was in the house and willing to hold a squirming infant at 4 a.m.  In the beginning, I was responsible for keeping Thomas calm and peaceful and far away from the she-finally-fell-asleep child.  That was compl...

I hold her for hours.  She's peaceful on my chest, or on her father's chest, or on my daughter's chest. Sometimes, if I'm lucky, I can align her heart right over my own.  Hers is strong and fast and deep. Mine is nearly bursting. ***** Little Cuter and her fancy camera take much better pictures than the in-hospital photographer.  I think the difference is that her lens is using the love filter. We place FlapJilly on different blankets and quilts thrown not-quite-carelessly over the Boppy pillow and her mother coos at her and her furry brother nuzzles her and I can't get enough of it. It's okay.  My own personal Annie Liebovitz takes two or three hundred shots at a time.  We have lots to choose from. ***** When Big Cuter was a newborn, the 1-hour-photo-shop offered a free 5X7 print every month. To its regular customers, new parents all, this was a godsend.  We had validation for our photographic mania, proof that the money we'd spent on those expensi...

Robin Williams.... Lauren Bacall ... Little Cuter is wondering who will be next.  "These things always seem to come in threes," she told SIR ... as I nodded agreement from the other end of the couch. I could write about depression and addiction and the empty feeling in the pit of your stomach when there doesn't seem to be any escape. I could write about a long life well lived and a peaceful death, leaving caring family behind. I could, but I won't.  The interwebs are filled with mournful posts.  Cartoonists are drawing blue genies hugging princes.  There's not a lot left to say. I'm feeling the losses and remembering my own.  G'ma, like Bacall, a sad but not tragic event.  CTG, like Robin Williams, gone too soon.  It's like ripping a bandaid off a not-quite-healed wound; the pain is close to the surface. I mourn the fact that FlapJilly will never know any of them.  She'll never pass Robin Williams on the bike path in Tiburon.  She'l...

The Realtor and I went clubbing on Saturday night. She'd found the manger and his wife the perfect condo in The West Loop, and they invited her and a guest as a thank you.  Since I was spending the night in her townhouse, I was the obvious choice as a date. She dressed me in Chicago appropriate attire, replacing my Anthropologie polka dotted purse for a white Bally bag for which she'd paid too much money. Mine was too big for the slinky cotton dress she'd decided was the best of the outfits I'd brought into the City.  She was gracious enough to avoid snarky comments about my luggage, at least.  The Big Brown Bag which contained the baby clothes we'd purchased at Bloomingdales together the week before had been repurposed as a weekend suitcase. In what used to be called Greek Town, west of the Dan Ryan, south of what used to be the Cabrini-Green housing projects, a trendy new neighborhood has arisen.  SRO's are now luxury condos.  There are hipsters on the si...

We started at 7 am.  I was showered and dressed and ready for the day, and so were my girls.  Little Cuter was asleep on the long piece of Cozy Rosie, the couch, and FlapJilly was in her infant Boppy pillow, zoned out as well.  Law and Order: Special Victims Unit was on the tv. It stayed there all day. The girls roused themselves and at and bathed and slept some more.  There were some explosive diaper adventures from the littlest one, and an ongoing battle with the stain it created on the muslin baby blanket for me, the Laundry Wench.  I worked a crossword puzzle or two, I stared lovingly at my favorite females, and Olivia and Casey and Elliott were the background. TBG and I stopped watching Law'n several years ago, when Elliott's manhandling of suspects became too much for my darling husband to bear.  He hates seeing men acting badly; when they are wearing a badge it's even worse.  After I intersected with bullets, gunfire on tv was more than I ...

Sarah Garrecht Gassen called them out on Thursday .  Writing her weekly, bylined, column in the Arizona Daily Star, she laid the responsibility - dare I say blame? - for the sorry state of Arizona politics at the feet of mainstream Republican voters. They don't turn out to cast their ballots. Instead, they allow gubernatorial candidates like Christine Jones and Scott Smith and Doug Ducey to pledge No New Taxes and promise to Permanently Seal the Border and Send Obama the Bill. Candidates like Ken Bennett, with real records to stand upon and real plans for the future, are ignored in the more media-friendly outpouring of vitriol. Who wants to listen to detail when there's screaming all around? For the details on Arizona, click through to the link .  My interest in the article was less geographic-specific and more global.  Why would anyone opt out of the process? Perhaps it is generational.  I was 19 when the 26th Amendment was ratified; my college friends wer...

Seret and The Bride brought LJ over for a visit today.  It was Flapjilly's first playdate.  She slept through the whole thing. Our god-daughter delivered LJ three months ago.  She and Little Cuter shared stories of contractions and good nurses and handsome anesthesiologists while their mothers sat by and glowed.  Seret and I did the same thing three decades ago.  This circle of life stuff is quite amazing. The young mothers shared tips on feeding and pillows and blankets and diapers.  Product development in baby goods must have been a major growth industry since I was last in the market.  There are pillows structured to support the newborn when she's sleeping, and a larger size for a bigger baby.  These pillows have removable covers, but the whole thing can also go into the washer and dryer and come out unsmooshed and ready for use. We put the Cuters on a Baby Bjorn.  It was a portable baby tent - a hard surface covered by corduroy with...

Bubba and Zayda lived at Linden Blvd and E. 93rd Street in Brooklyn.  Zayda and Mr. Thompson built the adjoining three flats themselves, each family taking one apartment in one three flat and renting out the others.  I spent every Sunday of my childhood on their front porch, watching the city go by.   It was a different world fifty years ago.  Children could walk safely around the corner to the deli, buying knishes and french fries and Specials, giant hot dogs in fluffy buns.  Brother and I would store the money deep down in our pockets and cross the street in the middle, right in front of G'ma's watchful eyes.  Turning left onto Linden Blvd we'd pass two or three stores, go into the deli, and hope that the counterman would notice our small selves in front of the case. Three doors down from the deli was the bakery, where Bubba would buy me a charlotte russe. Sponge cake and strawberries and whipped cream with a cherry on top set in a giant, pleated p...

I promise - The Burrow will not turn into a grandma blog.  It's just that I am obsessed right now, surrounded as I am by baby paraphernalia and a nursing mother and a little ball of love.  But there are other things going on in the world, things upon which I must comment. First, let us take a moment an mourn the loss of James Brady.  Younger readers may not remember that he was President Ronald Reagan's press secretary early in Reagan's first term.  I enjoyed his repartee; quick wit is often frowned upon in political circles but he was a master of the art form.  His genial demeanor made up for the fact that he was working for a man whose idea of trickle down economics  made my blood boil. And then, in 1981, he was shot in the head by a mentally ill young man, as he was standing 10' from his boss.  Brain damage, partial paralysis, constant pain ... none of them stopped him from becoming an advocate for stronger, sensible, background check legislatio...