The Burrow

Celebrating the Saturday before left us in a quandary.  Everyone else was getting ready, buying groceries, setting the table, preparing for family and friends. We were finished, celebrated, overfed, and feeling the love.  There was no anticipation as the week wore on; we'd been there, done that. It was fun while Little Cuter and SIR were here, celebrating our faux-holiday.  Once they left, it ws merely awkward. ***** The buffet at the Country Club at the Omni Resort around the corner was a true extravaganza.  JannyLou and Fast Eddie invited us to join them for a meal none of us would have to cook ourselves.  Big Cuter, nursing a head cold, stayed at home.  Fast Eddie's sister declined to join us.  The four of us, old friends getting older, had omelets and crepes and roasted potatoes, skipping the oatmeal on the breakfast bar for the much more interesting shrimp and cucumber salad. Lunch was on the other wall - salmon and turkey and ham and potato...

..... of sunny freezing Thursdays, waking to the smell of Nannie's turkey in the oven, rolling over on the old bed on the third floor, surrounded by my babies..... ..... of full bellies lying on the couch, begging for relief, as Hough's creamed spinach wound its way through an overloaded digestive tract..... ..... of my first niece, a veg even as a toddler, eating cucumbers for dinner and feeling just fine..... ..... of walks around the neighborhood, wrapped in scarves and hats culled from the front hall closet, surrounded by all ages and temperaments, mellowed by tryptophan and love. Thanksgiving was in Cleveland Heights.  My family was too far and too expensive to visit, plus, there were all those arguments which never seemed to end.  TBG's folks put out the welcome mat for us, and we wiped our feet and joined the fun year after year after year.  The drive from Chicago wasn't too onerous, especially as we crooned Over the River and Through the Woods... we real...

I'm doing my best to keep a smile on my face.  There have been easier times. After my early morning Pilates, I drove over to the pod castle to check on G'ma.  She was up in her chair, wearing a warm-up jacket and watching Law'n. It was my mom in that chair, although the body she is occupying bears little resemblance to the woman she once was. If I close my eyes when I hug her close, I recognize the soft skin and gentle pats on the back that have always felt like Mommy to me.  It's only when I open my eyes and see the skin and bones human in the chair that I am reminded of how far she has come, and how far she has to go. I spent some time calling social service agencies, looking for one which wanted to pick up her full-size bed.  The mattress is comfy, the bed frame is sturdy, the box spring has no holes or dents, and still, no one wanted it.  It was the wrong size, it was not appropriate for the facility, there was no answer at the agency.... after fifteen m...

There's so little left of what used to be my mother.  She's toothless and listless.  She's not eating because she's not hungry.  Even chocolate can't entice her to put sustenance into her body; the same large bag of Hershey's Kisses has been in the bowl at the side of her chair for two months now.  When G'ma's not eating chocolate, you know there is something amiss. She's still sparkly when I walk in the door, but there's no gleam of recognition beyond responding in kind to the smile in my eyes.  She knows she's supposed to be glad that I am there; she just doesn't remember why.  I remember when that kind of forgetfulness made me very sad. Now, it's just part of the gestalt. She weighs less than I do, which is wrong on so very many levels.  Losing twenty pounds since May has left her without any padding. Her pants fall down unless her underwear is bunched up, preventing gravity from undressing her in public.  She's always cold...

Saturday was faux-Thanksgivukkah, and if that isn't clear to you, perhaps this visual will help: http://tinyurl.com/m8ufdza Modern Tribe Thanksgivukka Card So, the first night of Hanukkah coincides with Thanksgiving evening.  The next time this will happen is in 70,000 years.  I'm thinking that's a good thing. Somehow, I'm behind and it's not even December.  Sigh. All the kids were here this weekend, so we celebrated Thanksgivukkah on Saturday.  Little Cuter and I cooked up a storm and the five of us gathered around the dining room table, holding hands and feeling lucky, as the sun was setting.  By the time the dishes were done, the first star would have been visible if the cloud cover cooperated, so we lit candles and said the blessings and sang songs and exchanged gifts and collapsed on the couch.   I went next door to return the pies we hadn't finished to JannyLou's family and friends; we'd been invited but decided that the one full ...

The kids wanted to do something.  I needed to be within thirty minutes of the house because the thermostat decided to give up the ghost last night and the repair man would be calling when he was on his way.  TBG wanted to come, too.  Finding a location was not much of a challenge; we drove two miles and entered the nicest private botanical garden in Tucson. It didn't look like much. This isn't a time when the desert blooms. Cacti are hunkering down, readying themselves to absorb the winter rains.  SIR thought these looked like they'd overdosed on valium.  It was a much funnier explanation than the truth, which is that this is how they grow.   The succulents are thick and strong but flowerless.  The ethnobotanic garden may have had seeds germinating beneath the dirt, but all we saw were the fences and the ground.  The children's garden was similarly bloom-free. Still, we walked amidst orange and yellow tecoma blooms, swatting little ...

The happiness is starting. I've opened two Chanukah shipments, though not the gifts themselves, since the holiday is still a few days away. The FedEx and USPS detritus is recycled and reused and the gaily wrapped presents are on a corner table, waiting. Little Cuter and SIR are finishing up their last day of work before heading to O'Hare and then TIA (yes, it's an international airport) and more parental loving than can be imagined. I've finished the grocery shopping; all that remains is to pick up the turkey on Friday afternoon.  Their visit can be filled with hugs and smiles and there won't be an errand to interfere with the joy. I'll get to stop into IKEA on Friday since it's one exit from the small airport where Big Cuter will be deplaning. I love bundling errands, especially when the bundle includes tchotchkes from Sweden and love from the young man who is too old for some things but never for hugging his mother. My chores as sous chef will assu...

"Hi, Grandma!" came floating over the playground this afternoon, high pitched and filled with glee. The words were followed by a flying wedge of third graders.  I moved toward a bench to reduce the chances that their greeting would end with me on the ground.  Hugs are wonderful, but sometimes they are overpowering. We walked, three of us, two Spanish-is my-first-language girls and a boy who weighed as much as they did, all by himself.  His tee shirt was tight across his bulging breasts; it was no wonder that the other boys wanted nothing to do with him.  He was delighted to stroll around the playground with us, feeling part of a group.  Recess is hard for those who don't look like everyone else, even when the everyone else  means the Nepali and Somali and Pakistani and Central American colors of the rainbow playing soccer and jumping rope during their fifteen minutes of free play time.  He's just too big; his shirt was drenched with sweat after two r...

It's sunny and warm and I'm in shorts and Chanukah begins next week. I have had ample time to prepare.  I just haven't used it wisely, it seems.  Little Cuter's bedroom is awash in unwrapped, mostly un-sorted, presents. I have pretty paper for all relevant holidays, I have gift tags and scotch tape and bows that won't get crushed in the shipping.  What I don't have is the desire to do anything with or about or for them. It just seems too early to start. ***** I found a wonderful read aloud book for boys and girls of all ages. Jean Jennings  sent me the link, and I was happy to participate in the process.  Dwight Knowlton used Kickstarter to raise funds for the project, and the goodies I received for my contribution are awesome. I've got stickers, I've got a personalized dedication (recognizing my status as "Official Side Seat Driver"), I've got a thank you note, and I've got the book.  I read it aloud to TBG, who got a kick ou...

Brenda Starr and I went for a walk on Saturday.   We didn't know that we'd end up amidst farm animals and a squash arbor. Sometimes the best days are serendipitous, don't you think? Neither of us is ready to cover long distances, but we were game to try. The Rillito River Path has convenient parking and a fairly flat terrain.  Plus, it's paved, which makes tripping and slipping less likely. We are both grateful for those kinds of surfaces.  True Tucsonans, we knew that there would be nothing but scrub brush in the river bed; it's wet only when the snow melt sends water racing down the mountains.  In November, after a fairly dry monsoon, there were doggies and horses and runners cruising through the sand. Brenda Starr and I walked safely above them, admiring their splendor as we chatted.  And splendid they were, the young blond girl riding her pure white stallion bareback, the brindle boxer snuffling through the underbrush, the parents cradling the...

I get Dad because I am frighteningly like him. Thus spake Little Cuter.   It was via email, part of an ongoing conversation about a lifestyle change that makes me antsy but fills my loving husband with joy. I've been trying to lay out my concerns, my objections, my considerations, my rules, and my expectations.  I just seem to drive him further into a corner.  I look like the bad guy, when all I want is to set the parameters before we take the next step. I don't want to be in charge.  I will help, but I don't want to be the First Responder.  I'll do errands if they fit, but I don't want to be the one who thinks of them. I don't want to be the responsible party. I don't want to add one more thing to my To Do List. There will be daily chores and long term planning and clean ups and appointments and I start to sweat just typing them to you right now.  I've done it before and I'm not interested in doing it again. Why my sweet husband can...

From time to time, friends on-line ask that question.  I'm never sure just what part of "I" ought to be answering.  Do they want to check in on my limp or my heart or my head?  It always feels like a real inquiry, more than the "Hi, how are ya?" passed between acquaintances on the line at the bagel store.  I don't know if the difference is at my end or theirs, but I feel it, nonetheless. So, if you're wondering too, here's the answer: today I'm cranky, yesterday I was laughing, tomorrow will bring another interesting space to occupy.  It's a roller coaster, dependent on how the weather breaks, on who sends an email, on whether my body is cooperating or not.  It's never boring. It's never the same. Myofascial release is a painful but wonderful form of massage.  It involves dry rubbing and deep pressure and bizarre positions on the table to enable the therapist to get right at the part she's targeting. I can feel unwindings a...

Why we pay attention to those opinions is a matter for speculation.  All I know is that I am surrounded by people who are letting others influence how they feel about situations that are no one's business but their own.  A second wedding is being planned, and everyone is weighing in. I have zero tolerance for buttinski's around this issue, as those of you who've been reading for a while, and remember the posts surrounding Little Cuter and SIR's nuptials can attest. There is enough stress attached to the whole change of status piece of the event; there is no reason to make the celebration another place for angst.  Still, it's happening. Her boss has opinions on the validity and sanctity of a marriage performed by an internet-ordained minister.  Not taking it seriously was my favorite comment.... as if asking a best friend to consecrate what he's watched develop over time is somehow lacking in sincerity and depth.  True, there aren't many qualification...

Say  THANK YOU!!  to someone who served. And, perhaps, a moment of silence at 11am..... when the shooting stopped forever..... the first time.

"....  our Star Spangled Banner yet waves....." " ......purple mountains' majesty....." Say  THANK YOU !!  to someone who served. And, perhaps, a moment of silence at 11am..... when the shooting stopped forever.......... the first time.

To be in New York on a beautiful day is to feel razor-close to being in love.  Trees flower into brilliant clouds that drape across the parks, plumes of smoke and steam rise into the blue or curl away on the wind, and disparate actions each the object of intense concentration run together in a fume of color, motion and sound, with the charm of a first dance or a first kiss.   Isn't that wonderful?  Don't you smell it and taste it feel it in your bones?  I do. Mark Helprin paints pictures infused with love and an up;-close and personal attachment to the fiber of the city.  He's in love with Manhattan, from the Staten Island Ferry all the way to Central Park.  He knows what it looks like as you approach from Long Island,  driving past the early commuter trains with sleeping passengers leaning against the windows rumbl(ing) west to a city sleeping in gray. I've been that sleeping passenger, nestled next to my father. I'd felt the same frisson of en...