The Burrow

Along with more pain meds than anyone could ever need,  I was sent home from the hospital with a Healthy Shopping List.  The goal was to be certain I ate enough protein, since protein builds bones. Now, I thought Wonder Bread helped build strong bodies 12 ways, and it turns out I was right.  Who knew that there were 4 grams of protein in the slice of brioche bread I ate this morning.  Add two hard boiled eggs, a glass of milk, the can of tuna fish for lunch and the apples and pears and cheese and nuts for snack last night and it seems that I'm doing quite well on the Protein Calculator 's scale. And that's without eating trout or kale, two items on the hospital's list that made TBG's face turn just a little green.  He's allergic to fish.  He and kale had an unpleasant, roto-rooter type experience several years ago that left him reluctant to try it again.  I can safely avoid these two triggers and still meet my daily needs. As the swelling goes down I f...

 First posted in 2008.   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 behind the official march? I especially liked thi...

It hides in plain sight, this particular genre.   The Candy House  is serious fiction, a family history, and a story of computing run amok.  Jennifer Egan doesn't go out of her way to remind you of this; she's a more subtle writer than that. But just when you're rolling along with the details of the plot, the overarching nemesis reappears. The computers are watching, and there's really nothing we can do about it. I started what I thought would be a quick read, and found myself, once again, in computer dysphoria.   Happy For You  led me to believe that it was a story about being the other , a theme that has run through many of the novels I've picked up recently.   We Are Not Like Them   and  Hell of a Book  explore otherness deeply, beautifully, and terrifyingly.   If An Egyptian Cannot Speak English  reduces the concept to bare bones, leaving the reader with no answers, and lots of confusion.  The concept is...

I love the fourth graders.  They are deep thinkers who are uninterested in the pre-teen/tween dramas that await them.  They are into bugs and getting dirty in the garden and spraying one another with the hose and none of them should be worrying about being shot to pieces, bodies so destroyed that it took DNA evidence to identify their corpses. Gabby Giffords  is doing great work on the state and local levels, but Steve Kerr says it best. Steve Kerr just walked out of a pre-game interview after laying the blame squarely on Republican Senators and Joe Manchin - 50 people blocking the will of nearly 90% of the American people. Bill Penzey  has been including the  Republicans are not good people  mantra in his weekly emails for years now.   Do we really have to live like this?   How brave does a parent have to be to drop her child off at school in the morning?   The kindergarteners when I was shot will be seniors in high school whe...

Are you printing something, wondered from the other side of the couch.   He was listening to sports talking heads, I was reading James Lee Burke's painfully personal new novel , and neither of us had been near the computer for hours. Yet there it was, the peculiar whirring and clanking and here I am getting ready for the onerous task of doing that for which I was created  noise this printer makes as she's gearing up, followed by the rhythmic back and forth as the lines appear on the page. Except there was nothing in the queue, at least nothing since 11 o'clock this morning, six hours ago. It was a label for a package of sweet treats I sent to Big Cuter and Queen T this morning.  I already printed out the label and pasted it on the flat rate envelope and put the whole thing in the mailbox.  Why the USPS decided to print me out another one is a mystery.... as is the fact that my printer responded. Technological wizardry  was how the Carvana ad described their...

Little Cuter liked the Getting Better label on yesterday's post, and, as usual, she goes right to the point - my work isn't over, it's just taking a more positive trajectory.   TBG and I laugh about the fact that,  at this stage of life, there aren't a lot of body parts that are getting better.  Maintaining the status quo feels pretty damn good most of the time.  But today the surgeon took out my stitches and sent me on my way - without the walker, without any medication except one big aspirin twice a day, and instructions to swim, but not cannonball off the side of the pool. This most conservative of physicians thinks I'm getting better.  Who am I to say him nay? He brought me a titanium ball and socket and the anchoring shaft that went into my femur when I wondered what was put where.  They were (and, I suppose, are) surprisingly heavy; perhaps I can chalk up my weight gain to implanted parts and continue to self-medicate with Baskin Robbins ice...

This will be brief, because the joy is too much to contain in words. I left the walker in the bedroom today.  I have been gliding around the house with greater assurance as the day goes on.  Except for the annoyance of the mega-waterproof-help-me-heal bandage whose adhesive is beginning to chafe, I have no discomfort.  I certainly have no pain. Just typing that makes me smile.   Little Cuter and FlapJilly were quite impressed on our video call this afternoon.  TBG has been ogling me all day.  I keep finding mirrors to walk towards.  And nothing hurts. It's been 4, 152 days since I had a fluid gait.  Here's to the next 4, 152 days of carefree ambulation. Thank you, Science.

After struggling with the mega-organization overseeing our smaller organization over the matter of sending out emails, I was convinced that I had seen the worst in organizational dysfunction. But now, as I type to you, it is going on minute 6 of a phone call to the hotel my niece suggests we stay at for her wedding this summer.  I have time to type to you because, at minute 2, the lovely Elisabeth at the registration end of this conversation asked me to hold on for a moment. There has been no Muzak.  There are no manly voices extoling the virtues of the site.  There is only silence. After minute 4, I wondered if she were still there.  Yes, please, a moment more. At minute 9:54 her voice reappeared.  She was ready to take the reservation, as task she performed with clarity and speed. I have no idea what she was doing while I waited.  I heard no typing, no talking, no breathing.   It was odd.

While Giblet's T-ball For Three Year Olds is barely controlled chaos, team sports have begun in earnest for his big sister.  She's got white baseball pants and cleats with pink laces . She's got two braids, placed strategically low to accommodate her bright pink batting helmet.  She's got orange socks and a green tee shirt from their sponsor - Beef O'Brady's.  She pulled up the socks, tucked in the shirt, looked at herself in the mirror and said I'm Beautiful!. SIR is the assistant coach, who's been called up as interim coach for every game thus far.  The ball field is his happy place, and sharing it with his little girl takes it to another level.  These are the fields he played on in his youth.  His parents and his cousins come to watch.  His wife takes pictures. He's teaching and helping and taking it seriously.  Just look at those game faces. FlapJillly's season is starting off strong.  She is hitting well and making intelligent defen...

After Perfect Patty was deported, after Pandemica ended, The Tornadoes came into our lives.  Two women with all their equipment arrive just after 9 am.  There is no down time, except for a quick lunch standing at the kitchen island.  I've demanded that they use the table; they laugh at me and go back to their conversation.   When the leave, we are afraid to disturb the CLEAN.  It is aggressively sparkly.  There is nary an errant long white hair to be found.  My cooktop looks like it was just delivered from the warehouse.  My main windows are washed, inside and out and my kitchen cabinet faces shimmer from their monthly wipe down. And they are pleasantly unobtrusive, self-sufficient, feeling no need to share their personal lives with me, although they are delighted to hear me describe the new framed photographs as they are being dusted.  Everybody loves grandkids, after all.   So today, when Gentle Ben called and asked if he was...

I didn't realize it at first.  The situation was being brought front and center, decisions were made, and I was led to believe that all was well in the world. Except the decisions weren't well thought out, and presented problems of their own.  I had a vaguely uncomfortable feeling, but felt no need to rock the boat. Then, the person who should have been at the center of the situation reached out to me.  What should be done about this situation, into which she had had no input, whose solution she had created in a much more user friendly way, and which was going to be a nightmare to unravel. After thanking her for her (really, much much much better) solution, I was forced to concede that I'd been swept up in the excitement, that she was absolutely right in asserting her dominion over the situation, and that, given the participants, arguing was inevitable. Her more inclusive plan will no doubt infuriate the instigator, who will deny instigating, insist on her right to instig...

We used to watch the fireworks on 4th of July and New Year's Eve with them.  Our family walked, usually in slippers, to the end of our street, high above Richardson Bay.  They drove in from Mill Valley and, every time, ended up standing next to us, oohing and aahing at the flashes of light. We didn't plan it.  It just happened.  Then it became a tradition that carried on long after all our kids graduated from the same high school. We saw them at that same high school's basketball games - both the boys and the girls made runs at the state championships - again, after the kids were gone.  I followed their daughter's music career on Facebook, another way to stay in touch.   They split their time between Marin and Hawaii.  There is always a beautiful sunset or sunrise to be shared on social media but, beyond that, there hasn't been very much until this month when she reached out to share that he was having his hip replaced 5 days after I did mine. Now...

The sun sets in the backyard.  My desk overlooks the front.  The colors are more brilliant, the kitchen is back there, and I'm usually done with the deskwork by then.  We can see the softer colors reflected in the dining room mirror, but I rarely watch the fauna our front during what appears to be a most delicious time of day. The quail are bobbing around.  I don't see any babies behind them, so maybe it's just mom and dad stocking up on groceries.   The lizards are quieter as the shadows grow longer.   The little birds, the ones I'm going to learn to identify with Cornell's help  this summer, are balancing precariously on the 15' shoot out of the yucca near the driveway. I'd take pictures, but balancing in the middle of my walker is not a great idea. (Can you hear Little Cuter shrieking MAMA DON'T DO THAT??  I can.) Have a wonderful weekend, denizens.  I'm going to continue to do laps around the pool, enjoying every single pain fre...

There was a time when I documented every book on the sidebar.  If you miss that feature, perhaps this post will help.  For while I was recuperating from the surgery, I read.  I read a lot.  TV was too jarring, my silly game on my phone made me jittery, but books took me right in and kept me company.  I was feeling everything very intensely; the characters and the authors felt like they were lying beside me.  Here's just a snippet of what the library provided. Do you get antsy when the author's politics rankle?  Can you ever be sure it's the author and not the character?  That's what I struggled with in  Shadows Reel  by C. J. Box.  I love his stories.  I love the animals and the scenery and each one of the finely detailed women in his life.  I never forget who's who or where they were when last I left them.  But this one, with Antifa a turning point, kept kicking me in the shins. T. Jefferson Parker's  A Thousan...

Every day is a new adventure.  Yesterday I was twitchy and achy and slow.  Today I am peaceful and achy and not quite as slow.  I took 2 steps straight forward today without thinking about the walker.  It wasn't a planned experiment, I just found myself at the island with both hands free. I must be getting better if my subconscious let me do that.  But I'm still keeping the walker.  Two steps are, after all, just two steps. After some confusion over the instructions, I've abandoned the fat Ace Bandage hugging my thigh.  It was uncomfortable and I am glad that it is gone.  The TED hose are still on, but I'm making them a fashion statement.  Scarlet said that yesterday's outfit could be taken out to dinner. (Of course, she then said without those socks, of course ..... but I'm pretending not to hear.) My head feels clearer every day,  which is the best part of all.  Not being able to keep two thoughts in m head simultaneously was emot...

My body takes its own sweet time shedding anesthesia.  I live a different life while it's in me, the most noticeable thing being the world's most vivid dreams. Like last night. We watched half of No Man of Her Own , wherein pregnant Barbara Stanwyck takes the full load when she's tossed over by her boyfriend.  The original version was I Married a Dead Man, which gives you some sense of how she found a chance at a new life, until the old boyfriend and his new squeeze show up to ruin it all. We got bored halfway through and went to sleep. And then I was dreaming, and the blonde bimbo was out to get me and I was in the car and she was trying to drag me out of it and it was all in Technicolor and going very fast and I knew that I had to get her to let go so I bit her hand. Only...... Sweetie.... babe.... please don't bite me. Yes.  I had grabbed his hand and chomped down.  This was not a nibble  he said through his laughter, holding his hand and examining the damage...

Every single thing about the experience was exemplary. You know that I am a harsh critic of just about every thing, so that must be surprising for you to read.  But it's true.  Others may have had negative experiences there, but I have nothing but praise for the folks I met at Banner last week. It went seamlessly (what I remember and what I've been told).  I never felt insecure or ignored.  The treatment team listened to me.  They spoke intelligibly, and didn't mind my (many) questions.   And then I woke up and, just as the surgeon and his team promised in his office, the pain in my hip was gone. The pain in my hip is gone. As I wince from the surgical process itself (itching and swelling and pain at the incision and having to sleep on my back and being nauseated by the pain meds and and and AND as G'ma used to say who wants to be around a crabby old lady  so I'll stop kvetching) I have to keep reminding myself that the pain in my hip is gone. The...

Little Cuter is arriving today. Tomorrow I'm having my hip replaced. For eleven and a half years I've been exercising, concentrating, reconnecting nerves, losing numbness, reclaiming my glutes, and limping all the while.  As long as the pain moved around, I knew that I was targeting weakness.  That was a good thing.   But for the past six months or so, the pain has been static - my entire hip joint hurts all the time.  My quads and my hamstrings are doing their best, but, as my x-ray showed us last month, arthritis has invaded my acetablulum and my femoral head.  It looked like snow in December - all white and crusty and definitely not as sharp and pristine as my youthful left hip. The answer was obvious - it was time for it to come out. I'm going to the same doctor who did the repair back in 2011, when the damage was new and I was younger.  I don't remember much from that hospitalization, but I do remember telling the surgeon that I wanted  to ke...

I have 11 books home from the library.   I went twice in 3 days, both times to pick up a hold that came in.  Both times, there were authors I love (Lisa Gardner, Michael Connelly, David Guterson) on the Your Lucky Day shelf (isn't that a great sign?).   Both times there were titles that smiled at me, like Hell of a Book , which turned out to be a hell of a book. As always, there were cover blurbs that inspired me to take a peek inside, like Reese's Book Club and Read with Jenna. And so, here I am, with more stories than I can keep straight.  I tried to take a nap this afternoon, but I couldn't remember which kid in which story was riding his bike when the awful thing happened.... and I couldn't keep track of which awful thing I was half-remembering. Does this happen to you?  Do you stand in front of the library shelves wondering if you've read this title before?  Do you get books home only to find, on page 3 or 4, that you know exactly why this ch...

When the first Play Group Dad died, it was an anomaly.  We were young, raising our growing families, but he'd always been a bit distant, close to reclusive, which, we found out after his passing was due to a long standing illness he chose to keep private. We mourned.  We supported.  We wept.  People our age weren't supposed to be die.  We were stunned, with no real framework in which to set the circumstances.  Holding it as a one-off, we moved on. But now Carey is dead.   Carey, with whom we'd vacationed.  Carey, whose son played on most of Big Cuter's teams when they were young.  Carey, whose daughter and ours were the young hangers-on to Play Group.  Carey, whose kids went to school with ours, went to the Menomonee Club after school for sports and crafts and companionship together.  He could be counted on for carpooling in a pinch, for sharing a freezing sideline at a flag football game, for showing up. The same could not be ...