The Burrow

(I wrote this last Thursday before noticing that it would be published on 9/11... and I had a post for that.) The 49'ers flew all the way to Australia to open their season.  Since the boys have been looking forward to this with great anticipation, you can guess what is on the television. Wanting to be close to my sweetie, I am on the couch, typing to you.  I can't say that the football is front and center in my mind, but some piece of my consciousness is registering the highs and lows, the kicks and the picks, TBG's groans and shouted advice. I usually take out my hearing aids when football is on the screen; it's white noise that way.  But tonight is the Congressional debate for my district.  It's streaming on PBS and I'm listening and watching on my phone.   Or, at least, that was the plan.   The moderator is delightful.  The candidates are not.  Neither has a voice worthy of settling in next to my brain.  In fact, they are both an...

I posted this on  September 11, 2011.   It was the 10th anniversary of the falling of the towers.  It was also Christina-Taylor Green's 10th birthday, just  9 months and 3 days after she died, holding my hand. Today, once again we are marking a milestone in the passage of time by remembering those who were lost.  That is right and appropriate, as CTG would be the first to tell you.  She understood the importance of history and remarkable events.  She believed she was put here for a purpose, that her birthdate inevitably tied her to the United States, that she was meant to do something.  No one who knew her would dispute that claim.   This week, I was at a loss for words, just as I was 15 years ago.  So, I went back to the source.  It still rings true. . ***** I am at a loss.  I have no words.  I've tried all day.  TBG has offered suggestions, Little Cuter told me to stop apologizing for crying for no reason....

(Written on Tuesday) Yesterday was Labor Day.  Today there were more than 100 degrees dancing through Tucson.   TBG needed a sweatshirt at lunch; he's happily taking his hormonally challenged temperature regulator out these days.  I wore a short-sleeved, light knit sweater and cotton shorts; black shorts, not the white skirt I left hanging in my closet.    I really like that skirt.  I spent all summer wishing I were wearing it, but it is not a comfortable sitting in the hospital skirt.  Now, when I have the time and the company, the calendar is screwing with me. I wear outfits that Little Cuter describes as Mom, the world needs more people like you ... through her laughter.  If it's comfortable I'll wear it, no matter that I bought it for Big Cuter when we were same size (he was in 5th grade).  I'm not really a trendy girl. But there are certain things that were repeated over and over again when I was a little girl, and the one abou...

After a short and annoyingly uncomfortable dermatological intersection with cryosurgery, my body and I are taking the day off to recover from the trauma. 

This is what it looked like at the end. It seemed fairly simple.  There were perforated lines to guide the scissors. Fold and pull.... I can do that. Or, perhaps not. I'm not that strong; the corner came off quite easily. Unfortunately, the gel cap was still stuck. The scissors made a careful slice around the raised plastic bubble. Not just to the edge, but all the way around. And then I had to separate the backing from the bump, which I discovered required the use of the scissors. Those edges were sharp.  I tried to use my fingers to separate the layers.    Pause for a bandaid. The initial dose is two caplets.  I examined the situation more closely and realized that I was supposed to pull the piece I'd folded.  In doing so, it revealed that it was attached to the paper covering the gel cap and was perfectly capable of revealing the damn thing if I'd only follow directions. This is what it looked like from the other side. There's no way I could have anticip...

One of my favorite holiday posts, recycled year after year.  Enjoy yourselves... even if just for a moment.   My Zaydeh was a paperhanger. So was his son, my Uncle Paul. They belonged to the Paperhanger's Union. When he retired, my Zaydeh got a lapel pin and a photograph of himself and the also-retiring Union Rep. The Union Rep got a pension and health insurance. No one knows if he got a copy of the photograph, too. It was that kind of complicated relationship to Labor, with a capital L, that dominated my growing up years. Daddooooo's father owned a business. G'ma's father was a worker. That dynamic influenced their relationship in the same way that her parents' accented speech and his parents' religious devotion were there, bruising the edges of what must once have been love but wasn't anymore. I sat on my Zaydeh's shoulders as he bounced me around the living room, singing Zum Gali Gali , a Zionist work song with one line, repeated over and over: the pi...