The Burrow

For the first time since my nose Mohs  situation began a week ago,  I wasn't visually impaired when I rolled out of bed this morning.  My left eye was a functional source of information in all directions.   For the first time in a week, I don't have to see over or around the swelling.  Now I can see the keyboard without constantly readjusting my position, and I had a rather full day, at last. I tackled the garage and have reduced one pile to 2 large boxes containing several years worth of  Stroll and Roll t-shirts.  The holiday decorations are sorted into temporary containers, on their way to permanent places in the closets lining the walls.  The kids' toys are still in the dining room, awaiting their return to those same closets.  Preparing those closets will have to wait for another day. I decided that my face could be seen in public, so we went to lunch with TBG's girlfriends .  I put in another stint sorting and organizing...

The theme may have been Vote Early, but the posters were still on the same subject.   She and a colleague came with only their stoles and smiles.  There were lots of extra signs, though. Some signs were thrown together that morning.  Others were retreads from No Kings gone by. I'm not sure about the mixed messaging here (does McD's have pudding?) nor do I know what is in his left hand. He just smiled and smiled at everyone. The crowd was much younger, at least when I was there at the start. So true. My favorite: I was there for an hour or so, representing all of you who couldn't join in the fun.  90% of the cars passing by honked in support. Fingers crossed.  

Fixing the men who thought being 7th in line for a gang rape would be fun is something best left to others.  I cannot imagine their home lives, the parenting they received, the friends they chose.  There's a lack of decency there that I can't remember being around, anywhere, any time.   I've been scrutinizing my past.  I'm wondering if there were signs I overlooked, signals I missed.  Was the neighborhood's naughty boy  reacting to his closeted older brother or his cold and forbidding parents?  What did he grow up to be? The houses on our street were built all at once and inhabited all at once by young families with small children.  We grew up together, playing across our front and back yards, waiting at the bus stop, sledding down the steepest driveway (ours).  Within that group there was no bullying, no feuding, no harassment... or was it there and I just didn't notice? I'd never been warned to look.  My parents protected us from ...

I'm tired, because I have to sleep with my head elevated and not on my sutured side, which is my preferred side.  Fitful describes it best. I'm itchy because that's what healing feels like.  Knowing that doesn't help much. My bandage is smaller and the swollen area around my eyes has mutated from fire engine red to a soft rosy glow.   My lips are still doing their Donald Duck imitation.  TBG has me doing mouth exercises to counter the effect.  It makes us laugh and sometimes seems to make difference. With big, black, dark sunglasses I ventured out to the store and lunch with TBG.  The restaurant was dark, I wore my glasses in the store, and as far as I could tell no one was totally disgusted by my appearance. I have two places to go for solace. One, is Ogden Nash:           My face, I don't mind it           B ecause I'm behind it.          It's the people out front th...

Typing through swollen eyes and a potato on my face to say that the Mohs surgery was successfu.  The stitching was necessary and I somehow never got the memo.  Thanks for the love.  I'm going to ice my face. 

I thought the Mohs doctor was going to compliment me on how well I was healing.  Instead,  he sewed up the remaining own wound and put a potato on my face to bandage it up. I'm to expect more swelling, bloodshot eyes, and, maybe, itching under the packing. No exercise (even walking), no sleeping on my side, ice packs and ibuprofen and acetaminophen and I can't promised to post anything for the next few days.   It's an hour after I got home and my eye is almost swollen shut.... this should be fun. 

The usually responsible Garden Leader took it upon herself to douse her colleagues with the hose. The 3rd grade girls were using the full size shovels to move mud from one end of the Digging Bed to the other; they were no longer very clean.     The 2nd grade girls filled the plastic wheelbarrow with potting soil, with no particular use in mind.   The Dollar Store's plastic wrap was a total failure.  The box collapsed, the cutting edge began to curl, and finding a section that was not over-wrapped by another section became, by the middle of recess, an exercise in futility. Spinach seeds are round balls, easily held in a palm opened to those with soil filled pots.  It was hot.  Her palm was sticky.  She had fun turning it upside down as we tried to put them back into the packet. 4th grade boys were engaged in serious negotiations beneath the mandarin orange tree, over what I do not know. And, as usual, the 5th grade girls began to hover around ...

Your hair is getting lighter  she said, referring to the black stripe going back from the top of my forehead, my skunk line, my last excuse to say  mostly grey  instead of  white , or, as TBG just suggested,  salt and light salt.... salt and pepper but not much pepper left. It's been a tough summer. Obviously.  Tell me. And for an hour, as she snipped , we traded stories .   Her daughter is now a Staff Sergeant. FFOTUS is a fool.  Penzeys makes great spice blends.  And so on and so on as I felt my shoulders relaxing and my face smiling and then we were both laughing at I can't remember what and, for a moment, all was right in the world.  

Living in Marin, I got used to seeing famous people in the grocery store.     For a while, Andre Agassi and Steffi Graff lived next door; we'd drive down our road behind his shiny convertible with the top down, watching him smile at passersby.  Dana Carvey and Peter Coyote and I worked out every morning at the same small gym; we and the other gym rats shared post workout beverages on the benches outside.     When The Cuters were in high school,  I gave Phil Lesh and George Lucas the parent tours for 8th grade applicants.  Jerry Garcia and I shared a lovely conversation one holiday season, waiting in line at the art supply store.     Grace Slick liked the pet accessories store in our small downtown; she'd sit in the comfy chair with cats in her lap and a floppy hat on her head. Carlos Santana was a mainstay, appearing everywhere and charming everyone.  Halle Berry rented my friends' home one year.   It was commonplace ...

I sat and looked at the screen and searched my mind and I came up empty. Do you care that I spent 15 minutes unsubscribing from political emails I never signed up to receive? Do you care that writing colorful postcards for candidates in far off districts makes me happy? Do you care that nothing very exciting happened in the garden today - either at home or at school? I know you care about politics, but it's just the same old same old with lots more money attempting to change the narrative.  I'm having trouble coming up with a new angle to explore. I know you could care less about Kash Patel's engagement or my take on Taylor Swift's Cleveland . I am hopeful that tomorrow will offer more possibilities. Right now, this is all I have.

There's talk about prestige, sexual citizenship, and personal responsibility.  The poor girl was lured.... except Annie Savoy would dispute that. I did not get lured. I accept full responsibility for my actions. YARNmemes Mothers of boys are freaking out.  Lawyers are warning that there is no basis for a criminal suit, despite Letitia James's investigatory powers.   And I am deciding to ignore the controversy and immerse myself in the memories, some of which I share below. There was once a pumpkin atop this spire on the undergraduate library in the middle of campus. No one knows how it got there. Walking down these stairs takes you to the Suspension Bridge. The top of Libe Slope, with a viewing platform atop the underground piece of the library. Dorms and a student center at the bottom of Libe Slope. Really old dorms next door. And mostly, there's this. There are chimes in the tower, and they ease you into evening. This is what I'll be remembering, regardless of what...

I was morose all day.  I'm really feeling the loss of a big piece of who I am .  I cannot imagine wearing a Cornell t-shirt right now. I tried to talk myself into a smile, but then the radio told me that the Tompkins County DA misrepresented  lied about the victim's original statement.  Now I'm mad at him, too. The Prince gardeners brought me joy, as always, although the mud play may have gotten just a bit out of hand.  But driving home was a rerun of driving down there. There's no escaping it. Plus, the Cleveland Browns quarterback has recovered from his knee injury; an unrepentant serial sexual predator, he was booed at first.  Now he's winning games and the fans are cheering.   I wouldn't want to share a locker room with him.   Plus, more reporting confirms that Bibi knew what Hamas was planning plus the Republican candidate for Ohio's governorship wants people on Social Security to get off the couch and go to work PLUS goddamn if tha...

I used to really love Cornell.   I did volunteer alumni interviews for 40+ years; my name is on a plaque somewhere.  TBG and I donated a landscape installation alongside a well traveled path; our names are on a bench there, too.  I've been on Alumni Boards and College advisories and been president of our local alumni club.   We've donated every year since graduation; Cornell is mentioned in our will.  At least it has been up until now. First, there were internal machinations within the Colleges that drew my attention and ire.  I protested and supported the student protesters and wrote letters/emails which received boilerplate, anodyne responses.  Then, the administration complied instead of fighting the bullying, sending control over $60 million to the Felon in Charge.   That's when we stopped sending them money.  I didn't stop telling every entity asking for my dollars why they were being denied.  There was a say-nothing ...

You'll be reading this on the date the National Weather Service has decided our monsoon ends.  The official declaration notwithstanding, that same NWS predicts lots of rainfall for the rest of this week. It poured all day.  Big fat raindrops making a satisfying plop on the pavement.  My windshield wipers working overtime.  People driving 20 miles under the speed limit because, y'know, it's raining. But now the sun is out.   The air smells of creosote. The sky is blue overhead, though there's a storm brewing over Mt. Lemmon that is heading our way.  I'm going outside to pull weeds and plant seeds, taking advantage of the softer, rain drenched soil. I'll be back tomorrow with something deeper.  Right now, the earth is calling.

He showed up on my news feed.  He was interviewed by one of the lesser MSNOW talking heads.  He sent me a solicitation text for a minor candidate somewhere not in Arizona. When asked, he intimates that he is, in fact, still considering a run for the 2028 Democratic nomination. I'm not so sure that will go well for you, Senator Gallego. His BFF in DC was Eric Swalwell, former darling of the left leaning media until his sexual predations made him untouchable.  Ruben, Eric's doppelganger, disappeared at the same time. Here's Eric. Punchbowl News Here's Ruben. Wikipedia.com Aside from Eric's squinty eyes, they look like privileged white boy twins, and the media used the besties interchangeably.  Ruben spoke on immigration more than Eric, but they both spouted the DCCC script-of-the-week.  They were reliable, dependable, predictable, and useful until they weren't any more. As young adults, TBG and I had a friend who made questionable choices.  I ignored the rumo...

The big, beautiful sunflower was the victim of monsoon winds and rain.   Even the tiny bugs and birds are uninterested in anything much any more. But another giant beauty, a little different but stunning all the same, joined us from another container. The bees are very interested in this one. He's carrying a plug of pollen in his tiny little feet/pincers//fingers/who knows.   I was so taken with the whole operation I forgot to take his picture until he was just about out of focus. You can really see the Fibonacci spirals in this one.

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...

They called me The Walking Dictionary in elementary school;  I wrote about this in one of my earliest posts. Daddooooo never used a fifty cent word when a two dollar one would do; I seem to have inherited that trait. I rarely come upon a word I don't know, or can't figure out.  Immiserate , for example.  I never saw or heard it before, but from the context I could deduce its meaning.  At first I thought that Harry Litman was showing off in The New Republic, writing about the prosecutions of innocent enemies whom Trump simply wants to immiserate . But it's a really good word, isn't it? In that same article, he gave me another new word.  I was merrily reading along until I stumbled over this:  Descriptions of (diGenova) typically append the kenning “Trump loyalist” or “longtime Trump ally.”  Kenning?  Did it carry positive or negative connotations? Did it imply that the phrase was trite?  Did it have something to do with the quotation ma...

If the monsoon is generous, as it has been,  Tucson is blessed with an abundant second bloom of our summer flowers.   The hanging basket is sporting an impressive beard.  The zinnias, after a serious haircut, rewarded me  and the birds.  But the show stopper,  grown from a small seed,  smiles at us from every room in the house.  For scale, that's a 4' wall, on the far side of the far side of the back yard.  It's special from a distance,  but up close,  it's spectacular That was two days ago, in the morning. As the sun comes up, light sneaks around the corner of the garage and she turns her face to greet it. I left my oatmeal to capture her joy.   This afternoon,  just before it rained, she looked a little forlorn.  Can you see the whorls? I spent a lovely time with them this afternoon,  remembering TBG  and Big Cute...

(I wrote this last Thursday before noticing that it would be published on 9/11... and I had a post for that.) The 49'ers flew all the way to Australia to open their season.  Since the boys have been looking forward to this with great anticipation, you can guess what is on the television. Wanting to be close to my sweetie, I am on the couch, typing to you.  I can't say that the football is front and center in my mind, but some piece of my consciousness is registering the highs and lows, the kicks and the picks, TBG's groans and shouted advice. I usually take out my hearing aids when football is on the screen; it's white noise that way.  But tonight is the Congressional debate for my district.  It's streaming on PBS and I'm listening and watching on my phone.   Or, at least, that was the plan.   The moderator is delightful.  The candidates are not.  Neither has a voice worthy of settling in next to my brain.  In fact, they are both an...

I posted this on  September 11, 2011.   It was the 10th anniversary of the falling of the towers.  It was also Christina-Taylor Green's 10th birthday, just  9 months and 3 days after she died, holding my hand. Today, once again we are marking a milestone in the passage of time by remembering those who were lost.  That is right and appropriate, as CTG would be the first to tell you.  She understood the importance of history and remarkable events.  She believed she was put here for a purpose, that her birthdate inevitably tied her to the United States, that she was meant to do something.  No one who knew her would dispute that claim.   This week, I was at a loss for words, just as I was 15 years ago.  So, I went back to the source.  It still rings true. . ***** I am at a loss.  I have no words.  I've tried all day.  TBG has offered suggestions, Little Cuter told me to stop apologizing for crying for no reason....

(Written on Tuesday) Yesterday was Labor Day.  Today there were more than 100 degrees dancing through Tucson.   TBG needed a sweatshirt at lunch; he's happily taking his hormonally challenged temperature regulator out these days.  I wore a short-sleeved, light knit sweater and cotton shorts; black shorts, not the white skirt I left hanging in my closet.    I really like that skirt.  I spent all summer wishing I were wearing it, but it is not a comfortable sitting in the hospital skirt.  Now, when I have the time and the company, the calendar is screwing with me. I wear outfits that Little Cuter describes as Mom, the world needs more people like you ... through her laughter.  If it's comfortable I'll wear it, no matter that I bought it for Big Cuter when we were same size (he was in 5th grade).  I'm not really a trendy girl. But there are certain things that were repeated over and over again when I was a little girl, and the one abou...

After a short and annoyingly uncomfortable dermatological intersection with cryosurgery, my body and I are taking the day off to recover from the trauma. 

This is what it looked like at the end. It seemed fairly simple.  There were perforated lines to guide the scissors. Fold and pull.... I can do that. Or, perhaps not. I'm not that strong; the corner came off quite easily. Unfortunately, the gel cap was still stuck. The scissors made a careful slice around the raised plastic bubble. Not just to the edge, but all the way around. And then I had to separate the backing from the bump, which I discovered required the use of the scissors. Those edges were sharp.  I tried to use my fingers to separate the layers.    Pause for a bandaid. The initial dose is two caplets.  I examined the situation more closely and realized that I was supposed to pull the piece I'd folded.  In doing so, it revealed that it was attached to the paper covering the gel cap and was perfectly capable of revealing the damn thing if I'd only follow directions. This is what it looked like from the other side. There's no way I could have anticip...

One of my favorite holiday posts, recycled year after year.  Enjoy yourselves... even if just for a moment.   My Zaydeh was a paperhanger. So was his son, my Uncle Paul. They belonged to the Paperhanger's Union. When he retired, my Zaydeh got a lapel pin and a photograph of himself and the also-retiring Union Rep. The Union Rep got a pension and health insurance. No one knows if he got a copy of the photograph, too. It was that kind of complicated relationship to Labor, with a capital L, that dominated my growing up years. Daddooooo's father owned a business. G'ma's father was a worker. That dynamic influenced their relationship in the same way that her parents' accented speech and his parents' religious devotion were there, bruising the edges of what must once have been love but wasn't anymore. I sat on my Zaydeh's shoulders as he bounced me around the living room, singing Zum Gali Gali , a Zionist work song with one line, repeated over and over: the pi...

With temperatures in the 90's and no rain in the forecast, it was tine to reopen the garden..  A substitute teacher decided that it was her job to prune the mandarin orange tree.  This little one is deep watering the remains. The big shovel and the trowels were handy for digging, and the wheelbarrow was primed for traveling.....  once they found the wheels. Without much instruction, they set to work weeding and turning over the beds. We have serious weeds and roots. The garden scholars reminded me, once again, that it's impossible to be sad when surrounded by little ones.  They are the best therapy on the planet.