The Burrow

For years, asking a clerk or a salesperson or a nurse or a friend for something got you No Problem for a response. It annoyed me, implying that I had asked for something difficult, that the listener would handle the situation, that it was not a problem at all.  But I usually didn't think that my request might be a bother.   May I have ice tea to drink?  Could you hold the door for me?  Can you reach that item on the top shelf? Those are requests.  If I thought they might create an issue I wouldn't have asked.  I didn't want to make a tumult, cause an issue, initiate a problem.  No problem  assumes an issue, one I didn't see, anticipate, or intend to bring to the situation. Spending most of last month sitting with TBG in the hospital, I began to notice a change.  Instead of No problem  people were saying Of course. That's so much nicer, isn't it?  Instead of assuming a problem needed to be swept away, there's an acknowledgement ...

Of late, TBG has not been hungry.  There's no telling from day to day what will work.  Today, cold milk (and sometimes the accompanying Cheerios) was what he craved.  Yesterday, it was flautas from our Mexican restaurant .  He keeps sending me to Dairy Queen for a small chocolate milkshake.  His taste buds never get the message from his brain that says I love this! Drink me!  Instead, two spoonsful in his nose wrinkles in disgust. It's too bad I don't like chocolate... or maybe that's a good thing.  I've been well fed by eating what tastes terrible after two bites.  It makes meal planning very simple. I'm thinking about this because, in bringing out the toys for HoneyBunny and The IVth's visit this week, I came across Junior Kindergarten Recipes For Your Holiday Entertainment.  Created by Little Cuter's class of 5 and 6 year olds in the late 1980's, it's full of gems.  As I ease back into the swing of things, I'm taking a shortcut and sh...

I've been absent of late because sometimes life asserts itself quite forcefully. I'm going to take the rest of the week off and allow catastrophe to take a back seat for a while.   I'll be back, with recharged batteries, on Monday. 

Sometimes it's all just too much. Michael Pollan's  A World Appears  has broken my brain.  I can't let my mind run free; I'm constantly wondering if I am thinking the thoughts before they are verbalized in my head.   Is it my neurons firing or is it me , whatever that means.  Do I exist outside of the chemical and electrical impulses in my head?  Pollan notes that this problem is, in some ways, unsolvable since we cannot extricate ourselves from ourselves and observe ourselves from the outside. See what I mean?  Thinking like that can really tie your brain in knots. A kinesthesiologist chimed in on the subject this morning, giving me a very complex description of what goes on in my brain when I think or move.  Pollan calls this materialism  or physicalism , the need for something quantifiable as an explanation. But Pollan dabbles in psychedelics.  He meditates.  He spends time on silent retreats.   Do plants have cons...

The presumptive Attorney General of the United States thinks he is the man's lawyer, not the country's lawyer.  L'etat, c'est moi  seems to be the governing principal in DC these days, so his (misplaced) loyalty shouldn't be such a surprise. But, it is. John Cornyn is happy to let FFOTUS and family off the IRS hook now that he has a signed declaration that the pay-me-because-I-desecrated-the-Capitol fun is kaput.  I see no indication that Todd Blanche won't implement something similar once he's confirmed, nor do I foresee any such protection from tax audits for me and mine. My favorite crooked AG is John Mitchell, Nixon's cohort and someone who actually spent time in prison (19 months for conspiracy, perjury, and obstruction of justice).  Does hiding and lying about the Epstein files in order to protect his client, the guy in the gilded Oval Office, count as conspiracy, perjury, and obstruction of justice? I'm not a lawyer, and my personal legal eagl...

Appliances that were inserted to treat him are going to be removed tomorrow, along with the offending irritant.   This comes as a surprise, although not an unwelcome one.  The hospitalist managed to squeeze us into the surgeon's schedule. Once again, I'll be driving to the hospital, parking with the valet, and waiting. I've spent most of this summer in the hospital, waiting. Getting old is not for sissies.