The Burrow

In the stories, accepting the gifts of fame and fortune often leads to disaster.  Recently, I've begun to think about an old issue through that lens. How much would I have to pay you for the opportunity to do something you love and you do very well; with the promise of fame and fortune beyond anything you've known; with opportunities available no where else; with the chance to bring joy to others and the power to be heard when you use your voice? Strangers will look up to you, emulate you, admire you.  You'll have generational wealth, enough money to do real good, should you choose, or to live indulgently, if that's your bent. And all it will cost you is somewhere between a 25 and 40 percent certainty of developing CTE , a degenerative brain disease. I read that article and  this article  and I heard about it on NPR and the evening news, and I kept asking myself how much money it would take for me to accept that risk. Just posing the question makes me shudder. 

Monday was Yom Kippur. Senior year in high school I wondered aloud why turning down the corner of a pledge marker during the service was allowed, since it was obviously work and dealing with money.  Freshman year in college I broke the fast at an all you can eat chicken place. Junior year I sat on my bed and contemplated my life, then went out with TBG and had a great time, with only a modicum of guilt. I could always find a free place to pray with others as I aged, although the urge to do so has withered on the vine.   Not so the need/desire/opportunity/tradition that has me spending a good portion of today thinking about my life, my friends, my community, my country, the air that we breathe, and the coming AI Apocalypse. Where do I fit in?  What can I do better?  How scared should I be and what should I do about that? It's an interesting exercise, having nothing to do with bribing God to inscribe me in the Book of Life for another year.  I'm not living to...

14 years ago, in our backyard, Big Cuter formalized SIR's transition from Son In Rent to Son In Reality, thanks, he informed the attendees, to the magic of his sister and the internet. There were toasts and there was dancing and the police came by to ask us to turn down the tunes. The designed to their specifications ice cream served in personalized paper cups from the funky ice cream truck parked in our driveway was much more fun than cake. although I somehow remember eating cake, too.   The party went on until 4am.  My glass of bubbly was never empty (I don't know how) and my feet didn't hurt at all.   You couldn't ask for a better night.    Nor a better couple to celebrate.   They are still bringing joy and love and happiness everywhere they land.  Over-extending themselves in all the right directions, the world is a better place with them in it.  TBG and I are pretty lucky to have them in our lives.  

My daughter called the after-surgery-photo I sent next level . My husband texted Wow, that's some bandage. The puffiness moves around my face; this morning I woke up looking like Donald Duck. The small potato stuck to the middle of my face did nothing to improve the situation. Nothing hurts.  The bottom of a 16oz Costco water bottle fits perfectly over my eye, cooling above and below while avoiding my eyeball.  15 minutes on, 45 minutes off, my arm holding the bottle propped on a pillow when TBG's forearm starts to wobble.  It's an all hands on deck situation. The bandage is a distraction covering the occasional itch.  It's in my line of sight, which makes typing and reading a brain teaser.  I can ignore it only for so long before I have to cast my gaze to the horizon.  I've been listening to podcasts while football players run across the television; neither activity requires much of my eyeballs. I'm writing this Saturday morning.  Tomorrow I remove th...

I'm fine.   It was as pleasant as something like that can be.  Everyone was helpful and thoughtful and skilled.  Only one pass of the scalpel was needed; I was home before noon.   I am sporting a  gigantic bandage in the middle of my face.  I look  like J. P. Morgan.  That's the worst of it.  I'm a very lucky person. 

I am to be at the office at 6:30am, for Mohs on my nose, as the rhyme goes.   It is not life threatening , but last week the dermatologist told me not to wait to see the surgeon, so here I go.  It's an out-patient procedure in their stand alone, Medicare approved, state of the art clinic located 7 minutes from our house.   It takes 2 hours to develop and analyze the tissue samples.  If there aren't clear margins, they go back for another slice.... and so on and so on, in two hour segments, until the doctor sends me home, cancer free.   TBG insists on driving me there and back.  He would want company for the duration;  I just want to be left alone.  It took all my persuasive powers to convince him that watching him sit in a chair for 3 or 4 or 6 or 8 hours was not the way I chose to spend the afternoon.  I am quite used to being the one doing the sitting; from personal experience I advised him to make better use of his time. Wha...