And Still...

Some numbers go up, some go down. Mostly they go in the direction of health,  but that's usually followed by something else to worry about. 

The physicians are alarmingly young. The only grey hair to be found is on the patients. 

The staff is an interesting collection of Americans from all over the globe, all respecting the particular hierarchy of their niche.  Techs defer to nurses.  Fellows defer to Attendings. We've only been visited by one student, and that only after her supervisor asked our permission. 

That's all I can think of.  Hospitals are exhausting, even for visitors. 

Well....

We're still here.  He's feeling better but there are still meds to be given via an IV so we are literally tethered to the institution. 

Home tomorrow, we hope.  I'll have more to say then. 

We'll Talk Tomorrow

TBG and I are spending some quality time in the Emergency Room.  It will all be fine,  but writing will have to wait   It's hard to write with all the beeps and pokes and questions. 

Thanks for understanding. 

It's May

 As Guinevere sings in Camelot, it's a month when everything goes blissfully astray.

There are two and a half weeks of school left.  There's not much learning still going on, although the teachers are making a valiant effort to educate while their students are counting down the days until summer vacation.

The Amphi High School seniors held their Grad Walk on Friday.  Dressed in caps and gowns, they marched through the first floor and the playground, high fiving and smiling.... at least the ones without earbuds.  

Standing next to Miss Stella, currently the tallest 5th grader, I mentioned that she probably might not be the tallest student in Middle School next year, and that she certainly wouldn't be the tallest student in high school.  We don't know what they are feeding those kids, but they were BIG.

Attendance in the garden always slows down in May.  I don't know why.  The tomato plants and the mandarin orange tree have many green blobs (they don't look much better than that) which are taking their own sweet time ripening.  Apparently, they are not clued in to the school calendar.

One Garden Leader, talking to no one in particular, opined that the garden was her favorite place in the whole school.  No one fights.  You can plant.  And you can be quiet.

It seems that, for this year at least, my work here is done.

A Delightful Surprise

The BEYOND! t-shirts were a big hit as smocks in Grandma's Garden last week.  So that others could use them, I asked the scholars to take them off before they left. 

Two girls ran away, laughing, with their smocks over their t-shirts.  

I didn't notice that, but the other scholars did.  I looked out over the playgroound for the miscreants, to no avail.  I shrugged it off.  They've been sitting in my garage for 15 years; I have 2 huge boxes still there; the girls were laughing and that's always my goal; and I couldn't remember who they wtere, anyway.

A few minutes later, they came back, slightly abashed.  T  They couldn't return the smocks; they had removed their original t-shirts. Nudity is not encouraged on our campus.  I reminded them that they had misbehaved and that I was not thrilled with them..... but they could keep the BEYOND! shirts.

There were doctors and surgery and more doctors this week, so Thursday was my first day back in the garden.  While I was setting up the day's project, the two naughty third graders suddenly appeared before me.  

We're sorry we took the shirts, Grandma.  We're really sorry.

They came on their own.  They were properly abashed.  Their faces were really sorry, as they met me eye to eye, confident and diffident at the same time.  

I almost cried.  Instead, I told them that I was proud of them.  Everyone makes mistakes and does dumb things and I know that I did  (pause for a painful memory or two to flash across my brain) and the fact that they took responsibility for their actions and came back to repair the damage impressed me a whole lot more than their absconding (yes, I said absconding) with the t-shirts had depressed me.  

No, they didn't want to stay and paint. We shook hands and they went on their way.

It was a good day in Grandma's Garden.

Apparently, I Hit A Nerve

Almost every one of my usual comment writers chimed in on the understanding tv post yesterday. 

dkzody's right : You enjoy this entertainment and use it a lot so it's worth it.

Carol's idea is a classic :  Somebody write a book about this, and SOON.  Although I fear that publishing a book means the information will probably be outdated before it hits the bookstores' shelves.  

Linda Reeder is like me, and relies on the voice remote to find what she seeks.  TBG remembers all the station numbers.  I prefer to filll my brain with other things.  I know how to find the apps on the home screen.... sometimes.... and Netflix and Amazon Prime are the only places I go on my own, and then, only rarely.

Laura and Jim Davis offered practical solutions.  JES wants to fix the problem by visiting (something we've been trying to do since 2010).  

What I need is a college kid with aging parents/grandparents who understands our need to watch on the tv and not our phones.  She should be a good explainer, with a high tolerance for ignorance and ineptitude.  She must not judge our choices (yes, he needs Perry Mason and Leave it to Beaver on METV).  This could be a high paying gig for someone with the knowledge and time.  If only she existed outside of my imagination.

Nobody Understands TV

Little Cuter and SIR are considering cutting their cable.

Our provider is no longer contracted with ABC, which is now a problem since TBG has entered his Sports Deprivation Season and is forced to follow professional basketball, many games of which are on ABC.  

You would think that this would be a problem with a solution, and I'm sure you're right.  There ought to be a way to send my computer's input to my television.  They tempt me with apps names like CastTV, which I download and then am unable to use.

We pay Xfinity a hefty fee each month for cable and internet.  There's streaming music on a surround sound system inside and outside the house.  It's fun when I'm swimming laps, not so much when I'm trying to have a conversation in the living room.

Since I first posted about this I've been asking random people if they understand TV these days.  The first person who says yes will be hired to explain it to me.

Here's Monday's Post

I was peeved and I used you to hear my rants and I typed until I felt better and that was supposed to be Friday's post.  At least it was supposed to be Friday's post, if only I had remembered to click Publish. 

Not wanting you to feel neglected since I messed up my every day schedule, here, without extraneous verbiage, are the pictures from Grandma's Garden that were to be (with extraneous verbiage) Monday's post.

It's a follow-up to Thursday's post about painting pots for the faculty and staff.  (And yes, this is a shameless plug for someone new to The Burrow to jump around and see what we're all about.)

Our scholars are the face of America - immigrants and refugees from Afghanistan and Sudan and all over Central America.

One color per brush, under the umbrella for shade.

I said Smile! and she posed.

Someone created her own quiet space.

He found just the right perch.

The Beyond! t-shirts are relics from the early days after our perforation. They are our new smocks.

I Am Taking It Personally

I've been writing postcards for Tony the Democrat for a long time.  

Recently, I wrote Turn Out the Vote notes for the Virginia redistricting plan.  The accompanying explanation seemed reasonable, the message refuted Republican misdirection lies, I requested 5 addresses and did my part for our representative democracy within 3 days, as requested.

We won.  I felt great.  Tony's research shows that our postcards have a measurable effect so I decided to take personal pride in the outcome.

When what to my wondering eyes did appear, but a pop up notice reported that a judge had quashed the thing before I even got a chance to raise a glass to myself.

There will be appeals and outrage and much ado.... about something this time.

Meanwhile, I'm peeved.

Don't Worry

I went to sleep before I published Friday's post. 

It will all work out over the weekend, I promise. 

Notes from Grandma's Garden

My alternatives today were to write about FFOTUS's Cabinet (the swamp has been draining quite nicely in the last few weeks); or California Democrats doing their best to get shut out of the gubernatorial race entirely; or the fact that I can do both of things the internet correlates to longevity (getting up out of a chair and up off the floor without using your hands).

I opted for photos from my school garden, a place where kindergarten and second grade meet and mingle and complain about getting soil in their eyes while being wheeled around and around in giggly circles.  

The fact that she filled the purple cup herself, 

asked to be dizzy-fied, and threw the offending particles herself never really came up.

This scholar decided to build a big lump to cover the broken irrigation system.  There was so much care and patience in that little corner of my world.  

We don't remember what the dead plant was, but it really doesn't matter.  It didn't take long for a 5th grader with the snips asked permission to prune it.

Earlier,  four boys and one tiny girl were in that same raised bed, digging a very, very deep hole with the real shovel and trowels and their hands.  

Today,  it was a place for quiet reflection. 

That space serves many purposes, even if none of them involve growing plants right now.

One of the Garden Leaders took it upon herself to carefully fill the painted pots with soil, all the way to the brim.  

Today, another solitary gardener and I watered those soil filled pots and planted basil seeds in one row of them.  Pre-watering is an experiment I'm doing.  I don't want to drown the seeds but I want them to have moisture to germinate.  Tomorrow we will plant others in dry soil and we will see if this makes a difference.

There are lots of ways to use the garden.  Science in action was my theme for today.

Happy Earth Day

This is the 8th post I ever wrote, back in 2009.  I've updated it just a little, but republish it here for the 17th time.  

I like Earth Day. I was there at the start, after all.

Created in large part by U.S. Senator Gaylord Nelson, in the world of 1970 it was a touchy-feely alternative to the harsher realities of the anti-Vietnam War protests. War was such an uncomfortable subject and arguing against it made your parents wonder why they were spending tuition dollars while you were telling the lawfully elected President of the United States of America that you knew more than he did. With your picture in the crowd on the front page of the NY Times, at 18 years of age, no less. 

But planting trees? Recycling newspaper? Not littering? All this in service to Mother Earth. Who could be aggravated about supporting Mother Earth?

Earth Day had teach-in's. They were more fun than sit-in's, which invariably involved police and disciplinary action. They were less fun than be-in's, which owed more to Timothy Leary and The Grateful Dead than to anything political or practical. Teach-in's were earnest and had hand-outs and statistics and pictures of desolate landscapes ravaged by the cruelty of man. There was science and legislation and outrage and lots of free tree give-aways.

Earth Day had no mandatory family gatherings. It required no gift giving, no card sending. You went outside and did something - cleaned a playground, weeded a median strip, planted one of those free trees. You felt good because you were doing good.

And Mother Earth was grateful.

*****

This paragraph is part of the original post:

Now there is Earth Week. Were this still 1970, there would be protests about the idea  being co-opted by the man. Instead, Sheryl Crow is designing re-useable grocery bags for Whole Foods and Wal-Mart is selling others next to the discounted paper towels.

Earth Week?  We can't even agree on climate change.  We are still protesting a venal administration, but most of us are recycling, or feeling guilty if we're not.  I always have a pretty reusable bag or three in the trunk because there's too much packaging in the world.  

Why that statement made my children cringe and shush me remains a mystery to this day.  

Here's wishing you a sunny and productive Earth Day.  If nothing else, buy yourself some flowers and send thankful vibes to the grower.

Fact and Fiction

I have been re-reading John Scalzi's Old Man's War series.  Science Fiction is not my favorite genre.  If not for the books Big Cuter recommends I wouldn't read it at all.  It's too much science and the fiction gets lost for me in the details, most of which I don't understand at all.  

Ender's Game came to me after he read it in middle school. It's still one of his important books (along with Plato's Republic.... yes, I know.....), and for good reason.  It opened my eyes to the possibilities within the genre, but nothing grabbed me that way until I found John Scalzi.

I saw him at the Tucson Festival of Books in March and picked up the books soon thereafter.  They are filled with many types of sentient beings.  Some are asteroids.  Some are room sized bugs with arms designed for slashing.  Some are human, although some of those humans are green, with self repairing bodies.  

Not all of them have consciousness.   

What that meant was hard for me to grasp, and Scalzi seems to recognize that some of us might have issues.  Several times the story takes a little leap backwards, with someone/thing explains the gift of consciousness once again.  Two of the major characters were part of a race that was sentient but had no notion of being individuals.  

I'm still grappling with it.  

So, apparently is the robotics community.

NPR told me about robots that can be trained to make my bed, empty my dishwasher, wash and fold the laundry.... the list went on.  The question facing the designers is not Can they be taught to figure other things out on their own?  but Should we really be creating thinking robots?

And there I was, back trying to figure out if the robot thinks but doesn't recognize another robot as a similar but distinct being does it lack consciousness?  And is that a good thing or a bad thing?  

This post has taken a long time to write, because my brain is off on tangent after tangent, trying to figure it out.  I'm having a hard time finding the words.  That's not a bad thing.  I love it when a book captivates me this way.

Standing Up

I went to the Old People's Protest outside Congressman Ciscomani's office on Saturday.  

That's not what it's called in the weekly emails I receive,  reminding me of the event, any specific theme to reflect on our signs, and the parking suggestions.   I usually parked in the lot for my Congressman's office.  But over the few weeks since I've been there,  a fence has gone up.  The email noted that a locally owned toy store,  Mildred and Dildred, supported our efforts and invited us to park behind their nearby store. 

So, I did, aided by the handy dandy sign at the curb.  If you look at the upper left corner, you can catch a glimpse of a fellow sign waver.  I drove around back, grabbed my sign and my pinwheel, and joined the throng.

Can I call 75 75 year olds a throng?  Waxing and waning over a two hour window, the organizers call it 75 strong every week.  Some are older, some are younger, but no one is as old as we were when we did this 50 years ago.  Where are they?

That last part was a major topic of conversation along the street corner.  The internet?  Not teaching civics in high school? A generation that's glued to their phones and eschews making eye contact with the real world?  We reached no consensus other than agreeing that we, ourselves, standing at a busy intersection, were doing our part.

There was a lady in a blow up American flag costume.  There were huge American flags and one Ukrainian flag.  There were signs reminding drivers that their President is a pedophile, a liar, a rapist, a criminal, and a dirtbag.  Draft Barron first was a popular meme.  

And then a gentleman of a certain age offered me one of these Gas Station Stickers.  

I am to place it, subtly, on the pump, with his finger pointing to the price per gallon.

I think I'm going to have to skip Costco next week and stop in for a few gallons at a QuickStop.

Buying Gas

The Chevron station at Prince and Oracle Roads usually has the least expensive gas on my way home.  Today, regular was advertised at $4.65/gallon.  Drive right in and pull up to one of the six empty slots.

So, I drove to Costco.  There, the line for the 20 slots snaked through the parking lot and out to the street, and regular gas was $3.85/gallon.

That's eighty cents per gallon in my pocket, or $8 for the ten gallons I bought.  $8 a week, 52 weeks a year..... we're talking serious money here.  

I spent the afternoon worrying about people living paycheck to paycheck and being very grateful for my situation in life.  

Ooops

How do you know that you don't know something if you don't know it?

This was the question TBG posed after recognizing that 75% of the kerfuffle over the doctor's return call was not because the doctor didn't make it but because modern technology was, in this instance, totally inaccessible to him.

He was unaware of the feature that would have avoided a lot of angst.  

And so he asked how we could hold him responsible for not knowing something he didn't know.  If he didn't know it how would he know to ask for it?  

All of these are reasonable interpretations of an uncomfortable situation.  But TBG is right - he was an idiot.

Things Fall Apart

Chinua Achebe's novel, Things Fall Apart, was a high school staple when the Cuters were young.  I read it, liked it, let it fuel my interest in western African authors, and forgot about it.  But the title stayed with me.

As our medical situation devolves into absurdity, my house began falling apart, too.

The toilet in the bathroom kept running.  Deaf as I am, it didn't bother me.  TBG, on the other hand, was driven crazy by the intermittent rushing of water in the tank.  

The refrigerator in the garage decided to die while Little Cuter's family was here, on Thursday, as the garbage cans were collected by Waste Management.  The smell of defrosted frozen left overs was potent.  I kept the freezer door closed until Sunday, the night before our Monday collection.

Opening it was traumatic, nauseating, gross, and awful.  Figuring out how to dispose of it all took some concentrated thought.  With TBG in no condition to do any heavy lifting, my first thought was a multitude of plastic grocery bags.  Unfortunately, the first one had a hole in the bottom.  Defrosted goo was all over the floor and my flip flops.  

There was a big box on the floor.  I dumped the Halloween decorations out and dropped the bag in.  That jump started the cleansing.  Pastries, chicken chili, pot roast - it all went into the box.  The Tupperware which had contained them had an odor ... a stench ... a stomach turning combination of scents that required immediate dousing with Dawn and hot water.  By the time I got back to the box, the liquids were beginning to destroy the bottom.

I pushed the box all the way to the curb, mustered all my strength, and heaved it into the can.  The pushing was a great leg and glute exercise, the lifting strictly mind over matter.  Someone was watching over me; the can didn't tip as I had feared.

With two projects in mind, I called Scott the Handyguy, our savior in times like these.  He picked up the fridge I selected at Lowes, moved the old one and installed the new one.  It's beautiful.

He worked on the toilet, fixing one part and discovering yet another piece of our house that was falling apart.  A quick trip back to Lowes for the necessary parts and five minutes later the unwanted sounds were a thing of the past.

Things do fall apart.  We're lucky to have someone to put them back together.  Now, if the doctor would only call us back........

And Waiting

I understand the logic behind it.  I wonder if anyone thought about the unintended consequences.

Lab and imaging and blood work results all appear, quickly, via email.  Too quickly.  They arrive, tempting you to open them and read them and try to make sense of values and <'s and >'s and long words with Latin or Greek roots.

They arrive before the physician receives them, or so we've been told many, many times.  And so, we wait.  Waiting for a phone call promised within a day or two, only it's been four days and okay, two of them were the weekend, but still......

There are people in our orbit who could interpret them.  Dr. Google is always available.  But the medical people started this and they ought to close the loop.  They have the expertise and our trust.

I wish they would act like they deserve it.

*****

I'm purposely oblique in these posts because it's not my story to tell. 

I feel the love even if I'm not answering questions <3

Paper or Plastic..... or the Cloud

Remember in the Before Times when the cashier at the grocery store would ask you if you preferred paper or plastic bags?

Now, of course, we all carry reusable bags (in California they rip out your fingernails if you show up bagless).  Whole Foods will use an old fashioned paper bag with two handles and the bigger chain stores use only plastic if you show up without your own toting equipment.

It's the same with paper records.  Everything is in the cloud.  Everything, that is, except for TBG's information.  He asks for a printed copy of everything anyone financial sends electronically.  I no longer laugh.  When we need something he knows just where it is, while I'm busy searching for the right folder, the right password, the damn machine to turn on and stop updating itself.

This morning he asked for some help.  Apparently, a decade's worth of statements have begun to outgrow their drawer.  He thinks he only needs a few years saved.  Did I have any 3 ring binders that expanded?  

When I told Amster this story later this morning, she reminded me that her office is now paperless and all those white binders I used to admire were now sitting, empty, in a cabinet.  Everything is in the cloud....oh, but it's TBG.

And that is why Amazon's same day delivery service just provided the solution my delightfully Luddite of a husband wanted.

He's a very happy man, easy to please with Amazon Reward Points. 

Waiting

Is there anything lonelier than waiting in a hospital?  

The testing will take a couple of hours.  Family members are not allowed behind the DO NOT ENTER door.

We do better when we can be together.  

So, I sit and I wait and I worry, even though the worrying is useless.  He's where he's supposed to be, doing what he's supposed to be doing, while I stare at Happy Patient Access Week posters on the wall.  

G'ma always said she felt safest in the hospital, because they know what they're doing and I don't.  Bleeding on the sidewalk outside the Safeway, I felt an eerie sesnse of calm when I heard the sirens heading our way.  

But now, powerless, waiting, wondering, uncertain about the next steps, I turned to my keyboard to control my anxiety.  Your presence is comforting, even before I send this out into the ether.  I'm not sharing details, and I'm closing the comments on this post because I'm trying not to focus on the what if's.

Know, though, that right now you are keeping me quite sane.  Less medicinal than downing another Ativan, I'm relying on the fact that writing has always helped me keep things in perspective and that sharing it in The Burrow takes it out of the worry loop in my brain.  

Really.  I just took my first deep breath of the day.  

Thank you for being here.  

And Again

Yesterday featured swimming,  more swimming,  Jenga, hot dogs on paper plates with all the trimmings.... all that after the kids drive up to ghost town near Phoenix to meet up with SIR's brother and nephews. 

This morning it's Uno for the boys (Grandpa gets a quick nap as Dada takes over) as the girls sleep in.  

Grandma's crazy pants came home with them yesterday,  a gift from the extended family. They are wild and wacky and so totally me. 

Two more days of love and fun in the sun.   My heart is full and my schedule is destroyed. 

Once Again

There was just too much fun and no time to write.

There was mini golf

There was New York style pizza. 

There were go karts and bumper boats and then a long drive home for the pool and dinner and kiddo bedtime before introducing SIR to The Music Man.

I may never get on schedule while they are visiting.  Sigh.......

I could write about Pam Bondi, but why?

I could write about Todd Blanche, but except for noticing that he has an extra letter at the end of each of his names, why?

I could write about the Arizona Wildcats being demolished in the Final Four, but I don't want to think about it any more.

I could write about managing the health care system, from billing to appointments to physcians, but who wants to dwell in that space?

Instead, I'm going to continue cleaning up and putting away and washing and dusting and grocery shopping and fill my mind with thoughts of the hours dwindling away as I wait for my mid-West family to arrive.

Now, if I could only find a way to work dwarf into this post I would have used all the dw words in the English language.  (Does anybody else miss The West Wing?

******

That was supposed to be Friday's post, until I remembered that it was Easter and I had my Marc Chagall vs bunnies post.  I put it in the queue to be updated and posted today but then the grandbabies came and we've been swimming and eating and swimming and eating and we took a nature walk  because Giblet fell on our hike when he was a little boy and now he refused to hike any more.

There is more joy ahead. I hope there's enough that I don't have to wonder where the Cabinet and VP are... if there isn't enough evidence to invoke the 25th amendment right now ..... he's absent and rambling and clearly not up to the job..... what more do they need?

I have to admit that having these 4 humans around has been the best antidote to the crumbling of our national stature on the world stage.  I have barely thought about that at all.  

Happy Easter Weekend

First posted in 2014; lightly edited over the years.

Happy Day Off From Work to those observing Good Friday (by choice or executive fiat).

Happy Easter to those who believe,

to those who like getting dressed in frilly finery,

to those with great hats,

and to those thinking deep thoughts.

*****

wikiart.org

Confronted with Marc Chagall's White Crucifixion at the Art Institute of Chicago, a very young Big Cuter wondered (quite loudlly) why that guy has a towel and nails through his hands.  

I directed him to his father, who was raised in various Protestant denominations, because his question highlighted the central problem I had with teaching the Cuters about Easter.  I was stuck between bunnies and lambs and a crucifixion. 

Nannie was eager to help, but she, too, was flummoxed.The bookstores didn't offer much.  Their descriptions of the Last Supper and The Passion and The Resurrection were either glossed over or overly grotesque for a sensitive, half-Christian, half-Jewish, little boy.  

We decided to stick with the bunnies and rebirth.  It was spring, after all.

Passover presented some of the same issues.  Why did God want to kill little boys, my own son wondered. Walk softly and carry a big stick came to mind as an answer, but it wouldn't do much to assuage his worry.  He was, after all, a first born son.  We wondered about a merciful God, about a righteous God, about a jealous God before the soup was served.  

I didn't worry about those issues when I was a child.  I thought it was weird that someone could die and be reborn, but if my Catholic girlfriend thought it was true, then who was I to argue?  Weird worked through elementary school.  

By high school, I was doubting the whole religion thing in general. I was able to conflate my problems with the stories to a problem with mythology in general.  I didn't give the Bible more credence than Edith Hamilton's Mythology.

Now there's FlapJilly and I'm faced with the same dilemma.  I asked her other grandmother, a Christian of many perspectives, if she had any ideas, but, sadly, MOTG was as lost last year as were Nannie and I, decades ago.

Once again, there were those bunnies.

Is that what faith is all about?  Believing that which is awkward because God is somehow involved?  If I had faith, perhaps I would know the answer.  But, I don't.  

So I am left with eating unleavened bread as I contemplate the Resurrection.  I wonder if the disciple to Jesus's right in The Last Supper really was Mary Magdalene.  I posit interesting tides and the parting of the Red Sea.  I dip my pinky in a wine glass and recount the ten plagues visited upon Egypt, and then I wash them off the plate and eat dinner.

It's not exactly what Sunday School or Hebrew School hoped for, but it's all I've got at the moment.

I'll celebrate by planting more pink and white  blossoms in my containers.  I'll watch the leaves appear from the bulbs planted years ago, and I'll concentrate on rebirth and miracles.  

And I'll try not to be angry at the bunnies eating the petunias.  It's their holiday, after all

Preparing For Grandkids

Every once in a while, Passover and Easter come around at the same time.  Given all that's going on in our lives, neither Little Cuter nor I noticed that was was one of those years.

So, to those who are celebrating, I hope your seders were/will be filled with love and memories and lots of soup and matzoh.  To those who are waiting for Good Friday and Easter Sunday, I hope your spirits soar and your days are filled with candy and sunshine and smiles.  

Here in my little corner of the world, the seder never happened (cf. paragraph one).  Instead, my focus has been on organizing my environment to accomodate two grown ups and two kiddos who will arrive with swim goggles and hugs on Saturday morning.

Clean sheets and blankets and pillows have been retrieved from their shrink wrap storage bags.  Flannel fitted sheet, no top sheet, his and hers favorite blankets on the correct sides of the bed for my darling daughter and her perfect husband.  

Those blankets have history.  His was an impulse purchaseI  made without knowing that it was exactly the blanket he'd loved as a child.  Hers was loved so much that G'ma had to add patches to save it from the rag bag.  

FlapJilly and Giblet will each have a single bed in the same room, bedecked with the bedclothes their mother and uncle cuddled with, many decades ago.  Do you remember Marimekko?  The linens are as bright as they were when I bought them. 

 (I'd show you a picture but the spin bike is occupying the space reserved for the second bed and we're too tired to do any heavy lifting right now.)

I have a grocery list that's heavy on the fruit and bagel side.  That's for Costco on Friday.  What remained was what their mother and I had forgotten - Easter baskets.

Were they little kids it would have been easy.  But they aren't little kids.  Little Cuter gave me suggestions for candy (the sour-er the better). I found the plastic eggs we'll be hiding, following the printed clues Little Cuter has printed out.  I found bath bombs and peeps in the shape of little ducks and small stuffies.  I am collecting coins to fill most of the eggs.  

But there is laundry and vacuuming and real grocery shopping yet to be done.  I'm going to get Barnes and Noble gift cards and consider myself finished.

Besides, I have a pool outside, heated to a perfectly lovely 90 degrees, and a hot tub if the clouds and cooler weather roll in.  Who needs candy?

LiLou, SF Pig

She was Queen T's first child.

When she arrived, as a piglet, she was the size of her grown up head.  Mama was Queen Pig, and LiLou was her subject.  Establishing dominance is an essential part of preventing Spoiled Pig Syndrome, which is a real thing.  Pigs live a hierarchical existence, showing weakness is not suggested.

So, grown up LiLou's brain has implanted Queen T as the TOP PIG,  the giant person who feeds her.  Even though she weighs as much as Mama, she is cowed into submission by a stern LiLou. No.  Not a shouted NO, because LiLou would think Mama was squealing right back at her. It's the way she speaks to her human children - equal parts love and do not do that.  

It's hard work being a piggie Mama, and that's part of the charm.  Taking her responsibilities seriously,  LiLou's hoof-icures were always a mainstay.

Queen T is all about new challenges and learning new skills, and this new skill came with affection going both ways, a routine that suited them both, and a career as a certified therapy animal.  Visiting nursing homes and charity events and meeting passengers at SFO filled their hearts.  

Sometimes, there were very special passengers.

A grape from Jane Goodall's fingers.

She learned to play the (mini)piano, dunk on a (mini)basketball hoop, and do a lovely pirouette.  She had a wide array of colorful ribbons to adorn her seasonally appropriate harnesses for her daily walks.  She wasn't an enthusiastic walker unless their route took her toward the fancy hotel 2 blocks away.  

While being admired at a charity event, LiLou smelled then snarfed their cookies.  Ever after, no matter  Queen T's intentions, LiLou was determined, trotting up to the front door of that hotel, a girl with a goal.

C'mon, she's a pig.  It's food.  

She's been getting old.  Pigs get arthritis, and tummy troubles, and they puke.  At a certain point, quality of life decisions had to be made.  

She's crossing the Rainbow Bridge today, at home, surrounded by love andd quality care.

Rest in peace, Lilou.  You were the best grandpig I ever had.

We Are Not In Control

We vote. We protests. We call and write and meet office staff. 

We are incidental to the results. 

There's an empty space in my brain where a conclusion ought to sit.  I'm used to being the master of my fate, directing my life, answering only to myself and those I love.  But the world has taken a darker turn, and I seem to be powerless to change its course. 

FFOTUS and his uber-Christian-nationalist minion are planning to send ground troops to the Middle East to open a waterway.  My poor brain cannot comprehend it.  

No one wanted this war.  We wanted to see the Epstein tapes and files.  Instead,  FFOTUS has set us on a path of destruction with nary an exit strategy in sight. 

My head hurts. My heart is sick.  

A Warm and Wonderful Weekend

The crowds stretched from one end of town to the other along a main north south corridor, fanning out from the major east west intersections. There were the usual wonderful signs.  There was a 3rd grader inside an inflatable pink hippo in the family group beside me, his soccer cleats beating out a tune known only to him.  There were young mothers and middle schoolers and lots and lots of people born after voting for Obama, the first time.  

It's usually the plus 60 crowd, waving home made placards and smiling at the honking horns.  These newbies just added to the joy.  Tucson hosted a multitude of No Kings! events; they were packed with unhappy voters.

No one I talked to had received a paycheck.  As one sign read: I'm not getting paid.  I hate you for free.  

*****

It was almost as much fun when I drove past the last half hour of the demonstration.  I plastered part of my sign to my passenger side window and drove up and down, honking my horn in rhythm to a tune known only to me,

After 10 miles down and up, my palm was sore and my heart was happy.

*****

After contributing a significant amount of money to the local economy, we are now the proud owners of a Pentair pool heater.  It took Dave many phone calls and a trip or two to the hardware store and a night in between because the company works on East coast time and were unable to answer his totally reasonable (to Us, anyway) call at 4pm.

But early the second morning we were on our way and by the afternoon we were, as Daddooooo said, cookin' with gas.  There's no cold shock when you first get in.  It's not too warm and not too cold.  

There's not much to complain about living here in Tucson, but of all the things I love about it, swimming in  my own private pool without walking more than 10 feet from any of the doors to the patio.  I do some of my best thinking there.

I swam and pondered the 6 white men and their big souped up trucks who had commandeered a pull out along the protest route to display their pro-FFOTUS chops.  Blaming the Democrats seems a little behind the times, don'tcha think?

*****

And then Dr K and Not-Kathy came over and we watched the Arizona Wildcats sleep through the first half and then demolish their opponent in the second half to move on the the FINAL FOUR which I type in capitals because I've never had MY TEAM poised to win it all.  

In 1983 I picked Jim Valvano's Wildcats to take home the trophy, a decision which clinched my 2nd place finish in the Goldman Sachs pool that year.   That felt great, but this feels awesome. 

*****

Sunday morning in Amster's gym, then more basketball ending with a game ending 3 pointer to put UConn over Duke and into the Final Four.  

It had us jumping off the couch.

*****

FlapJilly's team took 2nd place in their softball tournament and they ae all quite proud.

I have Michael Connelly and Jeffery Deaver and John Scalzi and Reese Witherspoon and Harlan Coban on my bookshelf, thanks to the library's largesse.

Life, right now. is good.

My Poster

Thanks to Lisa Donnely for the free download. 

I'm Tired

It's been a week.  My brain is fried.  I'm taking the night off. 

Happy No Kings Day!

Robert Mueller and Me

Five days after bullets perforated me and killed my little friend, the Director of the FBI visited me in the hospital.  He was surrounded by many minions, who he introduced as colleagues: the US Attorneys and the FBI agents and the support people who would be in our lives for a while.  

He leaned over and asked if he could take my hand.  His was long and large and gentle and comforting.  His gaze was unwavering as he apologized for this terrible thing happening on my watch.  He promised that he and the minions were at our service.  

Then he bent over even closer and squeezed my hand and said I am so very sorry this happened to you.

*****

Months later, he met the survivors and families of the dead inside the US Attorney's Office, to update us on the legal matters, and to take our temperature on sentencing.  

It all became very real to me, the whole death penalty thing, and it must have shown on my face.  The people next to me reached out with their hands and their sympatheic smiles and the Director of the FBI looked me right in the eyes and acknowledged my grief.  

He just nodded his head until I could breathe again.

*****

After the verdict and the sentencing we gathered together one last time, less formally.  There was cake.  Director Mueller came in with a smudge of something white on his suit jacket, that jacket hanging open and not trying to impress anyone with its couturier.  

He rememberd my name, he held my hand, he guided me to the seat next to his, and throughout the meeting he'd give that hand a reassuring pat.  

When he left, he hugged me.

*****

What touched me and mine the most was this:

Not long after I was released from the hospital, my mail included a heavy, vellum, note card size envelope, with a mysterious return address.  My friends were opening my mail (nasty notes were not what I needed at the time; I had no snark with which to respond) but this envelope demanded my personal attention.

Inside, below the seal of the Department of Justice (embossed in deep blue and gold), was a handwritten note from the Director of the FBI.  He was pleased to hear that I was out of the hospital and he hoped that my recovery was going well.  He signed it Best regards, Bob.

Bob.  You know, my friend, Robert S Mueller, the Director of the FBI.  Bob. 

I cried.

******

That is who he was, behind the curtain, in person, with no cameras or reporters, just the head law enforcement guy looking out for those who were hurt.  Taking it personally and following through on his promise to take care of it.  

His death has sent me back to that January, revealing the layers I've managed to put between the sorrow and my everyday life.  It was never any one thing.  It was everything and nothing and things I couldn't explain (I know that CTG sometimes showed up in the niche across from the couch on which I lay for 14 weeks).

Through it all, I knew that Director Mueller was doing what needed to be done, the way it needed to be done.  I hope he knew how much that meant to us.

He was a true public servant.  The world is a lesser place without him.  May his memory be a blessing.

Painting Pots

It was approaching 100 degrees.  There wasn't a cloud in the sky.  There wasn't a breeze to be found.  

The Assistant Principal addressed each group of scholars as they left the cafeteria and were lined up along the garden wall. Don't stay out in the sun too long.  Play under the solar panels or in the shade near the K-1 building.  

I put up the umbrella in the garden.  We still have no water to keep our plants alive, so we didn't stress the spinach and celery by picking off leaves and sharing them with friends.  Instead, I got out the paper plates and the acrylic paints and the tiny paint brushes and the dozens of ceramic pots Rillito Nursery donated last month.  

The gardeners did the rest.

They wanted to take them home, for their brothers and mothers and grandmas.  But, we are saving them as gifts for the teachers and staff as an end of year gift from Grandma's Gardeners.  It's a secret.  Don't tell anybody.

By the time the final whistle blew for the 5th grade to line up, we had nearly 50 painted pots drying along the edges of the old garden bed.

Once we finish painting the rest of them we will fill them with soil and seeds and create a living thank you note for everyone who gets paid to make Prince Elementary as wonderful as it is.

Grandma's Gardeners can hardly wait.
 

And, Once Again

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, here in the circus we're calling American Governance right now, our leader is dancing on the grave of one of the most honorable, kind, sincere, sensitive, smart people I've ever had the joy and honor to meet, more than once.

In a terrible moment, he was a north star.

I have a proper tribute coming (tomorrow?) but this asinine, hurtful, mean, petty man must be called out.  This cannot be normalized, sanitized, dismissed.  It is out there and it's awful and I just had to say it.

On the flip side, I have now given myself permission to use his words , with a small grammatical change, when he is at death's door.  I'm not waiting for him to be completely gone.  I want him to know how I feel.

Good, I'm glad he's dead. He (Donald J Trump) can no longer hurt innocent people!  

Sorry

It started when Siena ran Duke ragged. It ended when VCU sent North Carolina packing and St. Louis sent Georgia home. 

In the middle, there were moments of bliss and moments of frustration and, once again, I was reminded that reputation takes you only so far in March Madness. 

The mid-majors want to play with the big boys.  Charles Barkley still loves our Arizona Wildcats (there are lots of Wildcats in the brackets; one must be precise).

So a day full of basketball preempted my blogging.  I'm sure I'm find some time this weekend to type some more.... although,  be warned,  it will probably be about basketball. 

I love this time of year!

Did You Ever Just Want To Be Bad?

This afternoon TBG and I watched Barbara Stanwyck sleep her way to the top in Baby Face.  I've never wanted to be a brazen hussy more than I do right now.

She started out poor and abused, found a drunken mentor who encouraged her to broaden her horizons, and took off with her maid for the big city.  She flirts with a policeman, seduces an office boy, and as the camera shows us from the outside of the bank building, she works her way higher and higher.

Her clothes and jewelry get better and better.  Her apartments get bigger and bigger.  Her maid wears furs and is really more a companion than a servant.  She breaks hearts and lives and careers along the way, but none of it stays with her.  

It's the little things that make Ms Stanwyck and the movie so special.  How her hand lingers in his before she sweeps it away.  How she perches on his desk.  How she turns down fabulous offers with a smile and a smirk.  

Men become obsessed with her, can't live without her, wine and dine and dance with her, and she's above it all.  Her mentor sent her a Nietzsche quote reminding her to follow her own path without sentimentality, and she abandons the man who truly loves her to keep her jewels and bonds and cash.

She struggles while wearing ermine and diamonds and silks, drinking champagne and smoking French cigarettes.  She lounges on love seats with a sensuousness that is tangible all the way here on the couch.  Her hair is a marvel of mousse and curling irons.

The plot moves on to the obvious, pre-code redemption, but it's only marginally believable.  The greedy, selfish, social climbing, heartless girl shines through until the end.

Having spent 50 years happily married to one man, I had a great time spending 2 hours inhabiting the world of a wanton slut who did what she had to in order to find a better life.  And Better just kept getting Better.  I looked like a lot of fun, with very little emotional consequences.  

Every once in a while, I like to toy with the idea of talking a different path through life.  This afternoon, naughty looks very attractive.

I Really Do Love My Husband's Girlfriends

For the backstory, click through to this post.

I was the guest of honor at lunch today, and I've been smiling about it ever since.  There were gifts.

TBG and I chose the venue, not knowing that our favorite Mexican restaurant would be hosting what appeared to be the entire population of Northwest Tucson.  We gathered on and around the chairs on the edge of the small lobby, chatting up a storm.  

TBG sat quietly, as is his wont.  He wasn't uncomfortable with the silence or the conversations swirling around him.  He was, as I knew and he admitted through gritted teeth, practising the virtue of patience. 

He's never been good at waiting; it's the part of travel that annoys him the most.  As for waiting in a restaurant?  Not gonna happen.  But this was organized by The Girls, so he sat and stewed.  No one noticed. 

After about half an hour, I decided to evaluate our chances of being seated in a reasonable amount of time.  The manager said that he couldn't guarantee it.  I reported back and we all agreed that we needed a new plan.

The closest esablishment with food was quickly agreed upon.  Transportation was arranged and executed in a timely and organized fashion.  We arrived within a minute of one another, settling into a corner booth by the window around a five sided circle.  Everyone could see and hear everyone else; the conversations began, seemingly uninterrupted.

While we waited for seven glasses of water to appear, I opened my gifts.  This was a lengthy and delightful process.  It did nothing to speed the appearance of our waters, and by this time we were parched.  The restaurant wasn't crowded. There were two servers and at least two cooks in the open kitchen window.  It was, as so much of life is these days, inexplicable.  

The waters came, we ordered, we waited, we saw the food come up on the kitchen ledge, we waited, and then our food arrived, around the table in exactly the order we'd placed them.  Someone asked for an ice tea and that derailed the project for a bit, but otherwise it was a surprisingly efficient process.  

The food was good.  

And then we were done.  While waiting at the first place, TBG suggested that we do the talking part at the beginning instead of the end of the party. We were sitting and talking while we waited anyway, and not everyone might have an unlimited amount of time.  So when we were done we were done. We paid our separate checks, handed out like the food, around the table and in order, hugged and left.

It was the casualness of the whole afternoon that entranced me.  These are smart, accomplished, interesting women I would never have met on my own.  They have welcomed me into the fold.  At a time when my own social circle is an ever diminishing group of souls, it's a special pleasure to have a table full of new and wonderful girlfriends.... especially because they were my husband's girlfriends first.  

I Had An Idea

I was excited to type about it.

My computer was fully charged.

And then, there was this:

Updates underway.  You are (insert scrolling %'s)) there.

           Please keep your computer on. 

Well, of course I am keeping my computer on. I have something to say and this is the place to do it.

And so I watch the dots go round and round as the %'s get bigger and bigger and then, finally

You're 100% there.

Please keep your computer on.

As Inigo Montoya says, I do not think that word means what you think it does.  To me, 100% is everything.  If I am at 100% then I'm through.  I shouldn't have to wait for anything else, right?

Apparently, my operating system operates within a different framework. It probably means that the updates are downloaded, which is confusing in and of itself.... up and down have such screwy meanings in the interwebs.  To me, it means that I still have to wait.

And wait I did.  The screen went blank then told me, again and again and again,

You're 100% there.

Please keep your computer on.

I didn't feel like I was 100% anywhere, but I was obedient and didn't close the laptop or shut off the power.  I waited.  And, as I waited, I was distracted by MS NOW regaling me with FFOTUS's bragging about his beautiful ballroom.  I went down a rabbit hole of soldiers dying because he chose to send them to war as he's decorating something no one wanted or needed.... kinda just like his war.

And now that the screen is returned to my control, I have totally forgotten my great idea.

Alas.  Another dream FFOTUS smashed. 

 

 

 

 

 

Random Thoughts From TFOB

The annual Tucson Festival of Books happened this weekend.  There are stuctural issues (getting tickets,  parking, old people walking long distances) but it's still my favorite weekend of the year.  The lineup of authors was skimpier than in years past, but I managed to find sessions that appealed to me.  Here are some snippets.

*****

John Scalzi had the crowd eating out of his hand before he sat down, showing off his new UofA chapeau and complimenting the Wildcats on their victory the night before.  It was a room filled with rapt fans; their eyes never left his face.

"Loyalty and ruthlessness is my life."

*****

The difference between science fiction and fantasy?  According to three writers in the genres, it's Sandals vs Robots.

*****

Tochi Onyebuchi, who's written Captain America and Black Panther movies, said he turned to fantasy/sci fi because everything he was writing aboout turned out to be about race and he wondered if he could turn those ideas into more than a movie.

How does he find the heroism?  "When everything is awful, what do you do in the cave of that?  That's where you find the heroism.  Make the phone call even though it won't make a difference."

I suddenly felt a lot better about my Congressional phone calls.

*****

The panel with Aaron Davis, Jacob Soboroff, and Miranda Spivack on Investigative Reporting was almost as depressing as the one with Mr. Davis and his colleague and co-author Carol Leonnig.  Both talked about the shitshow that is American government these days and in the last few years.  

The second panel included one of the most articulate and disheartening speakers at the Fesitval.  Lisa Graves served as Chief Counsel for Nominations on the United States Senate Judiciary Committee under Senator Patrick Leahy.  She knows where the bodies are buried.  Here are some of her pearls of wisdom:

"John Roberts is not a centrist.  He is and has been a man promoting a right wing agenda. The Supreme Court is an appendage of FFOTUS's political agenda."

"Merrick Garland didn't respond to the facts that were available to him.  He was too deliverate and slow; people who knew im though he was a poor choice for AG.  He had noble intentions, but he was scared, worried about his reputation. "

"He was commanded to faithfully execute the law.  That shows up twice in the Constitution.  The framers did not give the president immunity; no one is above the law.  John Roberts orchestrated that decision and broke the rule of law in America."

*****

All three of them agreed that DOJ officials, in hindsight, recognized that they made a mistake by going from the bottom up in the January 6th prosecutions.  They began with the rioters instead of the former President.  By the time they realized it, it was too late. 

*****

The final session I attended was with Erik Larson.  He began as a journalist but moved on to books that "animate the historical period."  

"The more I learn about a person the less I like them.  I couldn't be a biographer."

"Rabbit holes are my life."

"You can't bring contemporary judgements to things that happened in the past."

"The Civil War was about slavery.  If anyone tries to tell you it was for states' rights, smack 'em."

*****

The Festival is free.  There's something for everyone.  If your travels bring you to Tucson in mid-March next year, you ought to check it out.

Ciscomani's War

I called the Tucson office this morning, in the ten minutes I had before Pilates.  The usual young man answered the phone.  I stated my name and asked how his day was going.  That was the last pleasant moment of the conversation.

I told him how deeply disappointed I was in my Congressman's nay vote on the War Powers Resolution.  You can imagine all the points I made - the cost in human lives, the lack of proper intelligence, the money spent on weapons instead of food here at home - and you can imagine my surprise when he offered to read my the Congressman's statement on the war.  

I'm reprinting it so you can snort along with me.

Today’s action by President Trump sends a clear message: the Iranian regime’s aggression and destabilizing threats will not go unanswered. For decades, the Iranian regime has funded terror, attacked our allies, and threatened American servicemembers. President Trump and his administration have continually been seeking peace, but Iran chose escalation. Protecting American lives and interest must always come first. I stand with our troops and remain committed to holding this dangerous regime accountable. May God protect our servicemembers and bless the United States of America.

First of all, he posted it on X.  Just clicking through to it made me nauseous.  I haven't been there since Musk took it over.  The propriety of using social media to make his opinions known is a battle I know I've lost but I will continued to fight.  The fact that there is no link to it, no reposting of it, no mention at all of it on his official website, even when I searched for Iran, tells me that I'm either too old for this world or he isn't interested in officially posting his thoughts.

I listened to his staffer until the end.  He added his own opinon - that it was time to take these awful people out, that we were in imminent danger, and no, Israel did not make us do it.  

I asked him if he'd seen Wag the Dog.  I wondered if this was just another distraction from the news that FFOTUS punched a 13 year old girl in the head when she bit his penis.  He said he hadn't heard that (does he live under a rock?) and he isn't sure that it is true.  

I thanked him for his time and wished him, once again, a good day.

He didn't change my mind and I didn't change his.  But he had to listen to me and write down my concerns and for me, this morning, that was enough.