The Burrow

Or so the gerontologist said yesterday, while showing me my DEXA Scan results.  She gave me a sandwich - good news on the outside, the bad news smooshed in the middle.  There were 6 pages of information, but she said the last 5 were less important than the top sheet, the one with the Densitometry Results. My spine is Normal.  That's abnormal for a person of my age, sex, complexion, eye color, and heritage.  I should be in the Osteopenia range.  I'm not.  In fact, my spine is in 7.9% better shape than it was two years ago when I last had a scan.  That was the good news, surprising to my doctor and comforting to me.  My right side seems just fine, too. The filling of the sandwich was filled with less wonderful news.  Apparently, my left femur neck is Osteoporotic.  It's such an ugly word.  It sat on my heart.  My eyes began blinking back tears I didn't know were hiding, up close and ready to drop.  As the physician des...

I thought of the phrase before Big Cuter posted this link to Alexandra Petri's column , the one entitled It Is Increasingly Clear That None of You Read My Report. I'm on page 92 of The Mueller Report , and I've been outraged for 90 pages.  Elizabeth Warren came to that conclusion right after the report was issued.  Congressman Amash read it on a plane ride home, came out for impeachment, and was greeted by a standing ovation at a Town Hall a week later.  If I could, I'd vote to open hearings on obstruction of justice by the President of the United States.  But I can't.  Instead, I called my MoC and left a message - TBG and I have moved from let the voters decide in 2020 to if not for these misdeeds, then for what? I've spent the week carrying the big, fat, white book around town, exhorting people to read it.  Consider this post my exhortation to you. It reads like a denser Harlan Coben thriller.  Lots of players, lots of connections, more lie...

It's been an odd day.  It started out breezy and sunny, a perfect day to open the garage door and try to make sense out of the chaos within.  Now, it's cloudy and the air is full of larger than average flying insects, which the bats, a bit earlier than usual, are competing with the birds to devour. My printer/scanner decided to dis-invite the computer, or vice versa.  I've unplugged and restarted and removed and downloaded.  I have to re-install and align but I just don't have the emotional energy to deal with what I fear will be not much more progress than I made this afternoon. The glitch was discovered as I tried to print, scan, and send a secured document.  JannyLou wasn't home.  Amster's office is further than I wanted to travel.  Kinko's seemed the obvious answer, except the secure document wouldn't open on a pay by the minute computer.  It cost me 2 minutes at 59 cents each to find that out.  I headed to the public library....

I had a real job, a social work job, an Agency job.  I needed a car to visit my clients.  I had $663 in the bank. It was the summer of 1972.  A brand new Mustang went for around $3000 at Fleischman's, our Ford dealership in Long Beach.  They didn't have a used car lot, though.  I had to peruse the classified ads in the newspaper to find something within my price range.  Did I mention that my family drove Ford products?  My grandparents drove Chrysler's.  My uncle drove Buicks.  We drove Fords, or Mercury's when Daddooooo was feeling a bit more upscale.  The one thing no one in the family drove was a Chevy. "Only idiots drive Chevy's." "All Chevy drivers are idiots." "Look at that idiot; of course, he's in a Chevy." Naturally, the car I wanted was a Chevy.  Reluctantly, I showed the ad to my parents.  The mileage was right, the price was "negotiable,"  it lived just a few miles away.  But, it was a Chevy....

The first iteration of this post appeared in  2009.   ***** I used to march in the Memorial Day parade. I was dressed in my Brownie uniform, and then in my Girl Scout uniform - replete with those embarrassing anklets. I wore them because the troop leader said we couldn't march without them, they were part of our official uniform.  Marching was too cool to pass up.  I wore them and bore the scorn. All the school bands marched too, and the moms on Benjamin Road provided the materials and the labor to make the capes the high school kids wore. There must have been a military presence there, but I didn't pay enough attention to notice. I was marching and I knew that, all over America, other kids were being Americans and marching, too. I belonged. In Marin, the Memorial Day parade was always good for a  controversy  or two. Or three. Should the anti-war protesters walk alphabetically in the main march, or have their own march, or walk 50 yards beh...

Thursday, May 23, 2019 -  The Last Day of School  A friend is getting on with her life, and Grandma's Garden inherited her "I know I'll use them someday" collection of plastic pots.  I carted them, organized them, and stacked them neatly. I debated taking on the destruction of the parsley forest, when the big kids, allowed to wander during their last recess before middle school, wondered if they could do anything for me.    Yes, I'd be happy to sit on the bench and watch them work.   Taking advantage of one of the gigantic trash bags the delightful groundskeeper bequeathed me ten minutes before, I set them to pulling plants. I signed a yearbook or two, I helped them pot the carrots and onions they unearthed, and I repeated the plant care instructions I'd been giving all week - Plants are not fish.  They do not swim.  Water Wisely. Of course, there were beasties to be discovered.  This small grasshopper  (t...

School ends this week.  With no one around to tend the raised beds, it's time to retire the plants.  There was giant lettuce (yes, those stalky things are lettuce run amok) and an alium looking flower atop what we took to be an onion..... until I remembered that alium are part of the onion family so why wouldn't they share a similar blossom? As with all good retirements, planning was crucial.  Grandma Suzi thought that 50 pots would take care of all the plants fit to share; she was off by a factor of 4.    There are no 3" or 4" plastic or ceramic pots left in Tucson - unless they cost more than fifty cents a piece.  After three days spent cleaning out all the Dollar Stores within a 10 mile radius,  I can confidently assert that this is true.  Everyone wanted a plant to take home.  Scholars who had never set food in the garden before were suddenly bound and determined to be farmers over the summer.  Big kids and little k...

Written in 2012, updated in 2019 There's a lot to love about my little girl.  Just ask her husband; he'll be glad to share.  So will her in-laws..... and her brother.... and her co-workers....and I. Watch her childrens' faces when she enters the room and you'll see what I mean. In first grade she came home flummoxed and out of sorts.  The girls in her class had made up a list to take the guess work out of who would get to sit next to Little Cuter at lunch.  Another child might have been flattered; my girl was annoyed.  Why?  What made them think that she was special? She hadn't done anything to merit such attention. And anyway, didn't she have a say in the matter? I smiled, remembering TBG's oft repeated advice on how to be cool -  just act as if you don't care.  Her trick was that she really didn't care.  She didn't keep score.  She was friends with everyone. Nothing had changed by middle school.   "Mom, why do t...

I've been listening to the NBA playoffs, sporadically and disinterestedly, as the background noise to the rest of my evening.  Big Cuter's devotion to the Golden State Warriors impels his father to follow the games more closely than he might otherwise choose.  I love the boy, too, but that doesn't translate to slavish attention to the nuances of rebounds and free throws and temper tantrums. Honestly, I don't think that the presence (or lack thereof) of Kevin Durant is all that big a deal.  I can think of many other things with which to occupy my mind. And so, I have been reading novels and preparing end of year notes for each kindergarten scholar, and playing Candy Crush Soda, all without my hearing aides amplifying that which I've chosen not to hear. But some things do penetrate.  Today, Draymond Green credited his mother and his fiance for telling him to sit down, shut up, and get out of his own way.  He labeled his own behavior disgusting, admitted th...

I read two novels this week - Lee Child's latest Jack Reacher (who does not look at all like Tom Cruise) and Jeffery Deaver's newest main character's first book.  Both feature strong, silent types with a variety of lethal skills and backstories worth exploring.  Both men operate outside the law, in a Paladin  role, rescuing the weak, restoring sanity to the universe, then moving on.  Both authors write tight prose, construct surprising plots, and keep me coming back for me. So, I was struck when, at about the same point in each book, the main characters encounter a feisty female police officer whose orders are the same:  Thanks for the offer of help.  Please leave town now,  and don't come back. Were Child and Deaver having drinks one night, concocting their plots, planning the overlap?  Or is it merely coincidental? Inquiring minds want to know.

Another Branson Parent (what the grown-ups called ourselves at the kids' high school) had an awful experience.  She's far from hysterical.  She's traveled a lot.  I like her.  She's got a cautionary tale that I'm happy to share.  Here are her words, with minor editing. ***** So, I was in LA to help my daughter move. She is in Manhattan Beach which is 15 minutes in normal traffic south of LAX.   After going out to dinner in Manhattan Beach with a friend, I ordered an Uber.  I  was staying at the LAX Hilton.  Upon his arrival,  I checked that the driver had my name, that I had his name and that his license plate was the same. He seemed like nice guy. After about 15 minutes I noticed we were changing from the 405 - which goes right to LAX - to the 118 - going east-away from the airport. We got way into a strange dark neighborhood.  He exited and drove into a housing development with no street lights.  He pulle...

Little Cuter works with a lot of very smart people.  They have PhD's and positions of authority at a Prestigious American University.  They are also delightful human beings.  We know this because she tells us so, but also because in the office of The Shakespearean Scholar hangs a handsomely framed Forbidden Planet   poster.  As the saying goes, he had TBG at Hello.   When he recommended this book, Little Cuter sent it my way for Mother's Day. Yes, it's Romeo and Juliet written in text messages.  Just as Elizabethan English is difficult for high schoolers, texting is often beyond obscure to their grandparents.  This slim volume may just bridge the gap.   Knowing what's happening allows the reader to notice the beauty of the  language.  In Marin, I paired Shakespeare with several picture book re-tellings, including Moss Gown .   The 5th graders gave formal readings (we had invitations and programs) be...

There are some people you can call. My Garden Guru is one of those people.   I sent him this picture and a plaintive plea: I have a leak that is beyond my competence :-( We texted back and forth then planned to speak after Garden Club. I watched the ground around the irrigation box get wetter and wetter as the little kids then the big kids came through to eat their scallions and examine our sunflowers Then I looked up and saw his smiling face. On his lunch hour, in the middle of a phone meeting, he drove across town, to Grandma's Garden, because I needed him.  My heart was bursting. And, as always, he had time to explain the situation to curious kids. I He shoveled mud with his bare hands, examined the assembly, and went back to his truck for the materials and tools necessary to effect a perfect repair. We left the hole uncovered, barricaded to prevent random trampling, and told everyone that the garden was closed for two days.   ...

Little Cuter wonders if I'm more like G'ma or Daddooooo. I always thought that I was my father, incarnate, until I realized that it was possible to remake yourself into a kinder, softer, more accepting version of that which both entranced and terrified you.  "You're just like your father," G'ma would snipe when the hangries got the best of me. Yes, she sniped.  It never felt like a compliment coming from her lips.  Sad, but not tragic, I suppose. I have his strong upper body and, according to my siblings, Daddy's limp.  Again, sad, but not tragic. Like him, I love Gilbert and Sullivan and Shakespeare and Mozart.  Like him, I am always enrolled in some class or other; people notice when I take a break, as they worried when he stopped showing up for class at Queens College.  I send postcards (often obscene, as his were, to test USPS's moral code) for no particular reason at all, each time remembering my delight when his travels took him to Oconom...

No, this is not a political diatribe.  This is an homage to a man who wouldn't let me present this in .  public.  He was emphatic - over several months, over a variety of formats - that he did not want to be feted. That, as you can imagine, was a hard pill for me to swallow.  I love telling people that they are wonderful. I love extolling virtues.  I love sharing small stories that illuminate larger truths about a special human being.  And all that was denied to me. But here, in The Burrow, he holds no sway.  This is my space and I will use it as I please. Let me introduce you to Our President. TBG and I came into his orbit through the Cornell Club of Southern Arizona.  He was Our President.  He'd been Our President long before we arrived, and he continued in that role until he couldn't do it any more.  That was three years ago, three years of reminding the membership that his tenure was drawing to a close, three years of searching...

Today I continued my week-long pursuit of medical care.  I'm seeing everyone I need to see, then plan to forget about them for 364 days.  Medicare gives me an annual wellness visit every 365 days, so I'll be back in the office next May. Today, I went for a medication review and found that it was time for my annual review.  As with all government programs, Medicare is awash in paperwork.  Am I afraid of falling?  Of course, who isn't? How much strenuous exercise can I do without stopping for 2 minutes?  A moderate amount, I suppose. Do I have someone to help me if I need it?  How often do I feel sad or lonely?  Do I have a living will? These are not questions designed to make you feel young. The geriatrician agreed with the gynecologist that tripping on my own shoelaces was evidence of klutziness but did not count as a fall for Medicare's purposes.  We discussed retiring doctors (she's young and in debt; she's mine for life)...

Once again, my mother proves her perspicacity. "Be sure your doctors are younger than you are.  Otherwise, they retire just when you need them." Today I had my last appointment with my gynecologist, a woman referred by a woman I respect, a doctor with a sense of humor and the ability to tell me I'm an idiot without making it seem like an insult. "Yeah, I'm prescribing you medication that will give you necrotic bone disease.  What else did you learn on the internet today?"  That was her snarky response to my derisive response to her professional opinion that I might need Fosomax.  She's retiring next month.  Paperwork has overtaken her life.  Everything has a code and conversations are parsed by the possibility of an attached diagnosis.  It's just not fun any more.  She loves her patients and wonders how she'll fill her days and it was fun to watch her delighted confusion. I tried not to feel sorry for myself. "Who should I see?...

(I liked it when I wrote it last year, and I like it this year, too.) You've been a cheetah and a ninja. You've been Robin Hood and Zorro. You've worn capes and baseball caps and a fools cap. For a while, we wore the same size clothes; I'm still happy with your hand-me-downs. You introduced me to  Ender's Game  and George RRRRRRRR Martin and the Old Man's War series. You are always willing to Be A Tall Person, to Do The Heavy Lifting, to explain. How is it possible that you have grown to be a man while I, most certainly, haven't changed a bit?  O  frabjous day ! Callooh! Callay!  Happy Birthday, my Mothers Day bundle of joy.

G'ma used to love to stand in the doorway and listen to me type. She said it was one of the prettiest sounds she ever heard. I took piano lessons forever, and never really go the hang of it. I can’t carry a tune in a bucket, with the lid on it, and that complicated my relationship with music. My fingers were willing, but reading the notes and translating that into a tune was, for the most part, beyond my capabilities. Typing, though, was something that came easily. I took a class to learn the keyboard one summer, and breezed through it. My fingers flew. I could copy text fluidly. I got an A, although the teacher was never satisfied with my work. I was too fast. I would’t wait for the rest of the class. I was a problem. I loved it. We had a black, manual Smith Corona machine at home. The keys took some strength to push, but my hands were up to the task. There was something very satisfying about the sound and the pressure and the results. But, I lusted for an electric machin...

It's hard to be so far from those I love. One Cuter on the West Coast.  One Cuter in the Midwest.  Brother on the East Coast.  TBG and I in the middle of it all, a plane flight or two away from them.  It sounds closer than it feels. We toyed with the idea of moving to Indiana.  I float the idea of returning to California.  The East Coast holds no allure; we lived there and don't want to return to the congestion and the weather and the taxes. We love our home, our friends, our life in Arizona.  The weather works for our older and achy bones. The politics are in play, with a Senate seat up in 2020 and a blue wave creeping around the edges of the polity.  The body workers upon whom I rely to keep me moving' and groovin' are in place.  TBG has his spin class buddies.  My garden is finally taking shape. But those I love are absent from my day to day life.  FlapJilly and I spent a delightful 40 minutes playing Ninja Mini Golf arou...

TBG and I have taken to watching old Westerns instead of politics in the morning.  It's a much better way to start the day, focusing on the clear, black and white distinctions, between good and evil. "They knew why I shot him - he killed  my horse." "She loved me and left me - I shot her." "You emptied the water barrels in the middle of our trek across the desert - you don't deserve to live." Things were very simple back then. Without much ado, punches are thrown, bullets fly, dead men are left behind, and Paladin rides on. I loved Richard Boone when I was young; Paladin was my favorite of the oaters.  There was something comforting about a grown-up taking charge, trading his services for a jewel or a bag full of cash.  The characters he encountered were multi-dimensional (within the confines of a 22 minute episode) and needed him. You sent a telegram, explained your problem, and asked for his help.  Have Gun.  Will Travel.  His card ...

 There was conversation. There was bouncing. There was free play. And there was love. Lots and lots of love. While I watched, TBG and Giblet amused one another. It was a much better use of our time than watching William Barr. Giblet speaks the truth. Giblet does not dissemble. Giblet has not been bought off. Giblet does not embarrass his office. We were much happier playing with him than we'd have been if we'd spent the day watching our institutions crumble.   He's just love (and poop) all day long.

Today’s the day. Yesterday, we went to Mayor Pete’s campaign headquarters, took ourselves out to lunch, and ran between the raindrops.  I explored Mishawaka (isn't that a great name for a city?) on my way between Whole Foods and Notre Dame, came home and made dinner, played HQ and watched Golden State until way too late at night. Today, we're keeping the little man out of day care, looking forward to a bonding experience.  As you're reading this, he's eating or napping or playing in the playroom.  He might be taking a bath - the "if all else fails" option because he loves to splash. Little Cuter left us a list.  Like most second children, his schedule is less rigid than his older sibling's was.  After all, he joined a party already in progress and had to learn to get with the program.  It helps that he is the happiest kid on the planet, willing to go along to get along. Before we left Arizona, TBG declared that getting to know Giblet was his primar...