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.

An Arrogant Ask

This showed up among my texts today

Susan, I'm AZ State House Leader Oscar De Los Santos, and I just stood up to DHS Secretary Kristi Noem. Here's what happened.

Kristi Noem just visited Arizona to push for the SAVE Act, Trump’s voter suppression law that blocks married women who changed their names from voting unless they get a new birth certificate.

She called our elections an “absolute disaster,” repeating false claims about widespread voter fraud by undocumented immigrants. 

But when reporters and I asked for examples, she couldn’t name a single one. 

This is embarrassing and disgraceful, but it's also dangerous. Arizona is a swing state, and the 2026 and 2028 elections could come down to just a few votes here.

Susan, that's why we need to elect leaders in our legislature who will fight to protect our election laws and our democracy. Will you chip in today to help us elect a Democratic majority in Arizona? odls4az.us/0311a?t=qeGoWs
Text STOP to quit

This is what I replied.

Typical DCC verbiage.  Noem is a nothing now. What did you do to stand up to Arizona sending our ballots to DC for investigation??? Nothing.  No money for useless people doing nothing to save our democracy.  

I'm sure no one will read it, but it made me feel good to write it.

 

His War

We've already won in many ways, but we haven't won enough.

Those ships should go through the Strait of Hormuz.  There's no danger.

We have enough oil.  No one should worry.

FFOTUS via MSNOW

I'm sorry to inflict that upon you.  I am.  

But this post was to be about his inability to calm even the calmest of Senators; the moving of the Overton Window to make saying the Department of  Defense War commonplace; and the general terrifying-ness of the whole situation being run by a man who used to (sic) drink his lunch supervised by a small man who punches little girls in the head when they bite him.  

(Until I see the FBI's handwritten notes disputing the girl's claims, yes, I'm believing her.)

One wants to dispense with silly rules of engagement.  The other .... the personification of evil, unable to see beyond himself.  Never having faced consequences, he bumbles on and on.

Cuba is next, unless he decides to cancel the mid-term elections first. 

I can't believe I'm typing this, but I am.  

Teaching Plant Science

Once again, I broke out my folder and organized my mind for a presentation to the 5th grade.  From pollination to photosynthesis, with a slight diversion into human biology around the whole seed/embryo/ovule situation, we covered the life cycle of the plant.  

There's a test on the basics coming up soon, and I was entrusted with the responsibility of preparing them for the plant part.  Teaching to the test isn't something I love, but it was a useful rubric for a rookie. I looked at the sample questions, reviewed the information I've collected over the years, and consulted with my handwritten suggestions to myself.  

I was ready.

Starting at 9am, I had 45 minutes with each of three groups of scholars displaying varying degrees of interest. Some were totally engaged, willing to try even if the answer wasn't at the tip of their tongues.  Some were delighted to be chosen for the starring role of Plant With Roots.  Some had very interesting questions and observations, some were just trying to stay awake. 

In the past, I've brought celery from home to show them xylem and phloem in action.  This year, we had celery growing right in Grandma's Garden.

We also had the dill that I let bolt.  The flowers were a perfect demonstration of pollination; the bees were busy.  The desert marigold offered anthers filled with pollen; I invited them to visit over the week to see how much has been transferred by those busy bees.  

We finished the lesson around the mandarin orange tree.  It is filled with flowers and buds and one very small green fruit which I've named Fred.  The stages from bud to flower to fruit were easy to see.  It was a lovely way to end the class.

Even with an hour between the second and third groups, and fueled by a DQ strawberry milkshake, I was physically exhausted.  Our teachers are vastly underpaid.

Random Thoughts

That's all I have these day, random thoughts. 

*****

I've gone a week or more without a good book to read; the library's Lucky Day shelf has been empty all month.  I found Bill Clinton's collaboration with James Patterson on the Large Print shelf at my last visit, though, and it's just perfect.  

The story is so light it practically floats which fits well with my inability to think deeply right now.

*****

Billions of dollars of ammunition are being rained on Iran instead of being shipped to Ukraine.  The start of this war was triggering for Queen T, whose brother has been living under constant bombardment for four years.

This is something that I cannot think about without spiraling down the rabbit hole.

*****

TBG and I have been watching old tv shows.  The sartorial choices of the 1970's - long pointy collars on men's jacket and overlapping shirt lapels on Columbo just now - are striking.  The writing - Have Gun Will Travel - is often very good.  

We definitely agree on one thing above all - Ward Cleaver is a terrible father.

*****

The International Fellowship of Christians and Jews (and no, I'm not linking to them) wants money to send supplies to those suffering in Israel.

They always forget to say that they need all those suffering souls to gather in Israel in order to facilitate the Rapture.  They also forget to say that those suffering souls - Jews - are not invited to their hereafter.

*****

Honey Bunny called us this morning, full of things to tell us as she ate pretzels and spinach quiche for breakfast.  Now that she's moved up to the big kids' room her language has exploded.  

Our plaintive Honey Bunny where are you going inquiries when she suddenly disappeared to retrieve a treasure to share are much more grown up right now.  Wait there.  I'll be right back.  

She knows we'll wait.... for a long long time.

You're Fired

Not for the murder of two American citizens on American soil by masked officers under her command.  

Not for lying repeatedly to Congress and the press.

Not for moving counter-terrorism experts to deportation duty.

Not for posing in a tight t-shirt in front of bare chested imprisoned deportees in a foreign land.

Not for non-compliance with dozens if not hundreds of judicial orders.

Not for being an adulteress with an adulterer, her supposed subordinate, in violation of moral and civil and federal employee laws.

Not for her self-promotional gazillion dollar DHS advertisement.

Not for awarding a no-bid gazillion dollar contract to a friend's 4 month old business.

Nope.

She was fired because she threw her puppeteer under the bus.  She told Congress that the President knew about and approved her gazillion dollar luxury Deportee Express.  

She was fine as long as she was prevaricating and protecting the brand.  But telling the truth (sic) was apparently a step too far.

It's a lateral move (to keep her quiet?) and her replacement is (is it possible) more abhorrent.  Let the subpoenas begin.

We Are A Threat

No, not we-the-Iranian-nuclear-threat.  We the people who voted for James Talarico.

At least, that's what the Democratic candidate for Senate in Texas said tonight in his victory speech.

Texas Tribune

I'm getting used to everyone, including politicians, getting younger and younger as I get older and older.  It makes me happy.  It's what I've been preaching for a long time - young people need to be involved in this world.  But watching it is just making me feel old.  

Be careful what you wish for, I guess.  

I liked James Talarico when he first showed up in my messages, asking for money as they all do.  But his words felt different and his message resonated so I sent him $3 and moved on.

I like Jasmine Crockett.  I like her a lot.  I'll miss her voice as a public servant.  But I wondered why she entered the primary at all.  

Talarico's message was simple.  We have to stop picking on one another, because that's what our corporate overlords   the Epstein class  billionaires want.  

It's as old as Aesop - united we stand, divided we fall.

Grapefruit in the Garden

One of The Girls harvested grapefruits from a neighbor's tree and gave me a big bag full of sweet smelling treats for the Prince scholars.  As always, when there is food to be had, there are lots of I've never been in your garden before visitors.

The Garden Leader hands out the slices I cut with the knife that lives in the bench.  No,  They don't get to use it, though they all ask to try.  I haven't killed anyone yet and I'm not looking to start now.  

The blue watering cans served as our trash can, and most of the rinds ended up properly stowed and deposited in the garbage bag in the corner.  

Not everyone comes to the garden to get their hands dirty.  Some just like a shady place to sit and sketch while they snack.

Did they enjoy the treats?  Her smile gives you the answer.

It's sweet and sour at the same time.

It's like an orange and a lemon all together.

What is this called again?  I'm going to ask my mom to buy 15 of them.

We're so lucky to have generous friends and donors.

Release the Epstein Files

Wag the Dog.   IMDB describes it thusly:

A spin-doctor and a Hollywood producer join efforts to fabricate a war in order to cover up a Presidential sex scandal

Is it a true story?  The AI Summary* tells us

No, Wag the Dog is not a true story.

Apparently, Google Search has not been updated.   Replace spin doctor with America's Goebbels and Hollywood Producer with Former Weekend Anchor and it is absolutely a true story.

Whatever is hiding in the interviews with the 13 year old survivor who bit him must be beyond horrible and completely reliable and undeniable.  He's destabilized the world to keep it hidden.  

Think I'm overreacting?  Bibi has tried for 47 years to get the US involved in a war on Iran.  President after President has turned him down.  Only this one, a fool and a coward and a petty tyrant interested only in himself, said yes.

Now, tell me again how Wag the Dog isn't a true story.

* I didn't link to this.  I'm embarrassed that I used it instead of scrolling down and finding real reporting.  But Arizona is playing Iowa State right now and I'm sorry but I have to go.

Release the Epstein Files

 

I read Nobody's Girl today.  I'm glad the sun was out and TBG was next to me.  I needed all the comfort I could find, and I was just reading it.  Virginia Giuffre lived it, until she took her own life.  I am amazed that she survived as long as she did.

It's difficult to read how easily Maxwell brought girls under Epstein's influence.  The survivors call her evil and the devil.  I think that's too mild.  That the procurer of hundreds of girls is in a minimum security facility filled with women is frightening.  She obviously has very well connected protectors; Ms Giuffre refers to a former Prime Minister among those who abused her.

Her story of her father's sexual abuse started when she was just a little girl.  By the time she was a teen, working in the spa at FFOTUS's resort (a job her father found for her), she was ripe for Maxwell's offer to learn massage therapy.  Her descriptions are graphic without being pornographic; I'm not sure I could have read any more details.

There were rich financial rewards while she was in Epstein's orbit, but they were all tinged with terror.  There were rides on private planes, parties with famous people, all tinged with terror.  Escape was nearly impossible.  Her family was threatened.  Her home was burglarized.  Strangers appeared in her driveway, their headlights blaring through her front door.  

She bounced around the world with her Australian born husband, about whom she has nothing but wonderful things to say.  Unfortunately, the Introduction by her co-writer reveals that they eventually divorced, that her family describes physical abuse, that she was prohibited from visiting her children.  Even when she was telling her deepest, darkest secrets to the world, she was hiding her reality.

She was brave.  Her Survivor Sisters refer to her as their guiding light, the one whose public statements and law suits gave strength to the rest of them.  Speak Out, Act, Reclaim (SOAR), the foundation she started with the funds from her lawsuits, exists to help other survivors.  

Maxwell and Epstein were horrible people.  Our government is covering up FFOTUS's involvement.  Her story is hard to read, although the book is well-written.  You should read it too.   After you finish, call your Senators and Congresspeople and demand that it is all revealed to us.  The FBI seized thousands of video tapes.  We owe it to Virginia Guiffre and the others to see that the truth comes out.

Taking The Night Off

It's been a long week and a long month and I'm ready for a reset.  

I'll be back on Monday.

Did I Miss Spring?

I was wearing a sweater or a sweatshirt or a long sleeve flannel shirt until I wasn't.

I was planting and enjoying the breeze until I wasn't.

There wasn't a lot of warning.  It just happened.  The weather forecast tells me to expect temperatures in the 90's this weekend.  

Half the people I know are snowed under, with no end in sight.  The other half have been enduring rains and clouds.  Only we here in Southern Arizona seem to be moving right on into summer, without giving Spring a chance to say hello.

Taos Bubbe and I laughed last night - it seems we've waited too long to walk outside.  When she wondered how we got here I realized I wasn't hallucinating.  I've gone from jeans to sundresses without the usual pause for t-shirts and shorts.  

It goes down to the 50's at night.  We can still sleep with the window open for fresh air that won't boil us in bed.  The mornings are perfect until the sun begins its real work.  There was a line of sweaters on Grandma's Garden's wall; nobody needed them, especially when we were working hard.

The plants are wilting without irrigation.  We were forced to transplant some petunias from the low wooden bed to individual plastic hanging baskets to see if some personal care and attention will revive them.  

I'm not complaining.  I love my warm weather gear and the warmth and persistence of the sunshine.  I just wasn't prepared.

Hmmmm....

 It's seven minutes to the top of the hour.

The clock will tick and tock and we'll have to make a decision.

Somehow.  

We've been vacillating all day.  Blather vs physical prowess.  The certainty of cringe vs the expectation of excellence.  Allowing that man into my living room.  

We're recording both. We're watching MS NOW as the Supreme Court justices faux smile at the parade of faces passing before them.  

So far, we haven't changed the channel and now FFOTUS is shaking hands and walking to the podium.  There aren't very many Democrats in attendance.  

He's finally buttoning his coat... TBG was just appalled and even though it didn't resonate that way for me I'm delighted to have another thing to dislike about him.  

The commentators have been talking over all the procedural stuff so we switched to NBC, whose feed was a good bit ahead.  

Did you know this is the Golden Age of America?  Me, neither.  He told me the things that are happening, all the wonderful things going on in just one year, have never been seen before in this country.  I cannot disagree with that.  He says What a difference a President makes and I feel a hollowness in my soul.  He says he's lifted millions of people off food stamps and the damn Republican lackeys stood and cheered about denying sustenance to their fellow citizens.

Oh No.  The men's Olympic hockey team just came through the doors.  They're taking selfies.  The goalie is chewing gum as FFOTUS tells him he's getting the Presidential Medal of Freedom.

And at this point TBG has had enough and we're switching to Uof A vs Baylor men's basketball.  I'm breathing more deeply already.

Just When You Think It Can't Get Any Worse

Kristi Noem found a pilot dumb enough to fly into a massive, windy snowstorm and land without warning at a New Hampshire airport that had closed due to bad weather.

Inside that plane were detainees,, all those dangerous shopkeepers and grandmothers and infants in respiratory distress hiding in plain sight among murderers and rapists.  

Whoever they are, they sat on that plane for 12 hours, or 15 hours or some amount of hours but the point is that it was reckless and ill-conceived and typical.  

I am just so tired of being embarrassed by that man and his cast of clowns, but I'm planning to watch the State of the Union.  I don't remember which Substack suggested  that we pay attention to the clapping.  Who claps and for how long - that was monitored by Nazi's and Communists, with dire consequences for those who stopped first.  

It can also show us in real time those whose moral compass is directed toward the podium, regardless of the blather pouring forth.  They are all complicit.   

Marty Supreme

The Doula and The Kibbitzer are in Tucson for their annual visit, and this year the sun is actually shining on them. We've been friends for more than 50 years. That's a lot of memories and stories to tell and retell, but there's one that always comes up first - the 2019 Oscar nominated Live Action Short Films at The Loft.  I wrote a post about it, and I think the title - Why? - says it all.

The Loft is Tucson's art house, showing films the chains ignore. I decided long ago that lunatics have never heard of it so I don't have to worry about intersecting with guns (cf Aurora and The Dark Knight). We three have seen lots of wonderful films there and I've seen some duds on my own.  But until Friday night, we've never seen one without a single likeable character.  

Not one, unless you count the Auschwitz survivor, and he's onscreen for two short scenes.  

That alone tells you something about the film in general, though there are lots of particulars to dissect.  The music is fabulous.  It tries to tell you how to feel, and, for the most part it succeeds.  That's important, because the unlikeable characters do unlikeable things and you're not supposed to smile at the silliness in which it's wrapped.  

Your eyes and ears are at war for two hours and thirty minutes.

Timothee Chalamet is a chameleon.  There was no boundary between the actor and the character.  He was totally believable.  Why anyone would want to inhabit that character is another story.  He is selfish and reckless and untrustworthy.  He's a grifter who avoids responsibility, invoking his talent and the respect he must show it as justification for putting his friends in jeopardy.  

And, it was long. 

Some of us liked it more than others, and all of us were glad that it wasn't about an abandoned kid on a beach; or a son, a father, and a shotgun; or quicksand.  Those 2019 films will live in our heads forever.

Painting Pots

Once again, Rillito Nursery provided the fun.  This time it was box after box after box of 2" ceramic pots and another box of 4" pots.  After a quick stop at Dollar Tree for paper plates and Harbor Freight for two 20 packs of tiny brushes, I was off to Grandma's Garden.  

I've had a 12 pack of acrylic paints in my car for a week or two.  I don't remember buying them but I'm glad I had them.  This is why.

         

 

Some of the pots were quite detailed.

  

But mostly it was about the smiles.

The seed which started in her red SOLO cup is now big enough to be transplanted into a 4" pot.

One of these scholars wondered if I had a bird house to paint.... and it just so happed that I did.  He was happy to share the chore of painting, 

but he took it home for himself.