Who Is Running Against Him?

Six long months before Election Day, the Republicans have come to town.  

In the median strips along every major artery, at every intersection with a traffic light, the northwest side of Tucson is awash in cardboard.  Mayoral, congressional, town council, gubernatorial wannabes have their names in red and blue gigantic fonts screaming in my face.

One street has Believe in Peace signs in the median.  Those calm me down after being reminded of all the FFOTUS Followers (Andy Bigg, Juan Ciscomani) trying to attract my attention.

Are there Democrats or Independents or Libertarians or Democratic Socialists vying for my gaze?  Nope, not a one.

In their infinite wisdom, the DCCC or DNC or Ken Martin himself chose Joanna Mendoza to run against Ciscomani for my seat in the House.  No one I know has ever heard of her.  In fact, no one I know even knows of her existence.  Who's running against him? is the typical reaction.  In my post about the rally where Mark Kelly introduced her to invested voters I didn't mention her at all.  

I imagine she's qualified beyond being a Marine veteran and a lesbian activist.  She left a bland impression on those of us in the audience.  I see no mention of her when the local rags (can I still call them that if I read them on line?) write about community events.  

In one of the most vulnerable races in the country (the DCCC moved it up from 5th to 4th) the Democrats' candidate is absent.  According to The Sentinel's coverage of a Conservatives for America poll,

Ciscomani was viewed favorably by 32 percent of those surveyed and unfavorably by 36 percent and had a name ID of 83 percent.

Mendoza, a Marine veteran who previously ran unsuccessfully for the Arizona Legislature in 2020, was largely unknown by those who were surveyed, with only 23 percent saying they were familiar with her name. She was viewed favorably by 6 percent and unfavorably by 3 percent.

I'm going to do everything I can to oust the current occupant of that seat.  I just wish the DCCC were doing the same. 

AI Failed Me

I try to avoid the AI results at the top of the Google search.  Anything that has "there may be errors" as a concluding statement is specious enough to make me question to information. Although the algorithm that sends me the links is also an artificial intelligence, somehow it feels less creepy to find the answer from an original source.

But last night it was raining and I was tired and it was Sunday which meant that the garbage cans needed to be at the curb for our Monday pickup, if Memorial Day was a Waste Management holiday.  My pool company takes only Thanksgiving and the week between Christmas and New Years as vacation days.  Was trash collection on the same schedule?

I picked up my phone as TBG was turning off the inside lights, preparing for bed.  Waste Management Memorial Day pickup was my prompt, and AI told me right away that WM didn't really care about honoring the fallen.  My cans needed to be at the curb.  I was obedient, and we dragged them out under cloudy skies.

I woke up this morning feeling smug.  Ours were the only cans along the street.  Everyone else in the neighborhood thought it was a holiday.  I had done the research.  I knew I was correct.  I drove to Amster's, worked out in her home gym, and drove home to find that our cans had no friends.  No one else had dragged their refuse from the garage or backyard enclosure outside.

My confidence was failing.  Before I began this post, I Googled the same prompt on the laptop.  This time, Waste Management Tucson was the first link, appearing before the AI review finished AI'ing itself onto the screen.  A quick click revealed that, indeed, Waste Management does care about those who lost their lives defending our freedom.  Pickup is delayed one day.

All of a sudden, my cans don't feel so proud of themselves.

All of a sudden, I'm feeling foolish for believing the AI answer.  I know better.

Memorial Day

   First posted 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 to something bigger than my family, my school, my town.  

Belonging means different things in different places. 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 this discussion: should weaponry be allowed?

That was fairly disingenuous even for Marin.

There were bands at this parade, too, and with Bobby Weir as the Grand Marshal you know the music was worth hearing, especially at the picnic in the park afterwards. Not exactly your typical VFW-sponsored event, but no one was complaining. It was Memorial Day; there had to be a parade and a picnic and a coming together as Americans.

I've got the flag G'ma bought us for a housewarming present, which replaced the one Dadooooo got us in Chicago.  I'll wear the tie-dyed tank top the Cuters and I made early one July.  I'll remember the fallen and recommit to doing everything I can to make this country worthy of their sacrifice.

We have a long way to go, but I have confidence in the future.

Yawn

I have no energy to comment on the recent rash of rational actions by certain Republicans.  

Caregiving is hard work.  It's a good thing we like each other. 

I'll be back on Monday. 

Grandma's Garden Farewells

Today was the last day of school.  

I gave the kindergarten teachers their end of year, for their personal libraries, gift book.  They each had Caps for Sale; this year they received The Lorax.  One is moving back home to raise her baby-due-in-December closer to her family.  That was a hard goodbye for me.

She's the one on the left. The one on the right left last year.  They were joyous.

The kindergarteners were acting like the first graders they will be.  They waited politely until I arrived at the garden gate, they lined up without prompting to take a turn or three on the umbrella's handle, and they dove right into the storage bin to find what I'd hidden away.  A little mischief is welcomed; invading my personal space demands a conversation.  

I settled them down with white paper plates and markers, then proceeded to give away the painted ceramic pots to any and all who wanted them.  My usual friends stopped by to talk about their summer plans and to hug me.  The hugs were the most important part of the visits.

Some are moving away.  Omaha, Nebraska felt very far to the Garden Leader whose family was relocating.  

Some are going next door to middle school, often without their best friends who've been switched to another school amidst the District's round of school closures.  

There were tears.  There were reassurances - I won't let you feel lonely! I'll defend you! There was excitement about starting a new chapter.  Miss Stella is thrilled that she will exist in a world with scholars taller than she.  

I signed yearbooks and t-shirts and sweaters I'm not sure were parentally approved for Sharpie signatures.  Every plant in the garden has been adopted and is not living in a new home.  Only the tomato bush and the mandarin orange tree remain, both with ripening fruits.  

It's a good thing summer school runs through June.  

And Then There's This

Yesterday's post was full of joy.  Allow me this moment to rant.

*****

If one more person says he's more likely to get hit by a bus than die from what ails him,  I am afraid that violence may ensue.  

As one lovely (really, a kind and decent soul) human followed up with this: After all, you've had more opportunities to be hit by a bus than someone who is 30.  

Hey, we know we're old.  We aren't feeling young-ish right now.  We don't need the reminder.

It's comforting to be told that you don't need to rush to a lawyer and put your affairs in order, but, as another kind and decent soul said after looking at the two of us, that's because you probably already have that taken care of.

If that is to be our fate, then we'll go out as G'ma wished for herself - to be hit by a bus run by a solvent municipality.  I promise to be laughing all the way to the pavement.

Feeling the Love

This is just some of the love coming our way.  

I had forgotten how good it felt to read letters and cards from friends and strangers and strangers who became friends (I'm thinking of you,  Lolly) after my perforation.  The mail carrier has something to put in our mailbox that isn't trying to sell me something. 

Funny, sincere, thoughtful, personal missives arrive almost every day.  It's not only texts and emails from our circle.  We're surrounded by love at the treatment facilities, too.

It's everybody we encounter, from the valet parking ladies with the sparkling smiles and reminders to wait in the shade; through the scheduler who called late in the day to say he wouldn't have the information until the morning, but he didn't want me to go to sleep thinking he'd forgotten about me; to the clinicians and technicians and the people behind desks who smile if I should happen to catch their eye.  

It makes everything a lot easier.

We have one plan.  We are preparing to plan for a second, contemporaneous plan.  While serious, there are relatively benign yet effective plans to treat what ails him.  

I'm not jinxing anything by typing any more, and I'm closing the comments because I feel your love without them.

What I will say that Victor Wembayana is a very tall, very talented, young man, and watching a closely contested, double overtime, playoff game is a fine way to raise one's spirits.

Fauna in the Neighborhood

Two brothers purchased the 12.5 acres across the street, saving us from staring at 152 one and two story, cookie cutter, single family homes.  They have landscaped what was untended overgrowth into a lovely, liveable space.  There are two houses behind the old, rusted, fancy gate with its ironworked mural, the gate that clanked for years until they arrived and dealt with it.

They cleaned up the low lying plants and tree branches that swept the ground, and in doing so removed habitat that had lain undisturbed for the two decades we've lived here.  We would see coyote parents and their young carefully crossing the road, Dad blocking passage and alert for any danger, Mom bringing up the rear of the pup parade, on a regular basis.  

Not so much any more.

There were lots of bunnies munching on my rosemary and lantana and crepe myrtle before the electic saws and power blowers got to work, clearing out their habitat.  My plants are uneaten, and that's a good thing.  But I miss the critters twitching their noses on the rocks outside my window.

The javelina are still roaming the countryside, leaving their footprints behind in the rocky ground cover.  The lizards of all shapes and sizes and colors are everywhere, as are the bats and the wrens and the mourning doves.  

The hawks ride the air currents looking for snacks.  The giant, hooting owl lives in the eucalyptus tree next door.  He's surprised many a visitor with his I'm-right-next-to-you-and-I'm-very-loud notifications of his existence.

And the newest fauna I've discovered is our currrent next door neighbor, an anesthesiologist.  I met her husband, a contractor, a year ago.  It's taken that long for them to renovate and move in and for us to become acquainted.  

For every thing there is a season.... that feels apropos right now.

Garden Leaders

They come in all shapes and sizes, from kindergarten through fifth grade.  They show up and learn and help and sometimes they find treasures.  

One of them found a ripe tomato hidden under the leaves, resting on the soil, just begging to be sliced and eaten and shared with friends.  

They organized the loading of the painted pots onto the playground monitor's three tiered cart (oops.... she thought it was lost and gone forever) and gathered friends to navigate it over the bumpy grass, up and over the edge of the paved walk, up to the door near the staff mailboxes.

I chose the three in the front, who joined me in putting a pot in each cubby, right on top of the cards with flowers on one side and A snapdragon for you from Grandma's Gardeners sticker on the other.

It was a lovely way to spend a sunny morning.  

It's impossible to be sad while being hugged by little ones; I get so much more than I give.  

How Is He Still In Charge?

Taking a break from the medical scene, I'm going to let myself rant a bit about FFOTUS.

The man slurs his words so badly that there is no way to understand the ends of most sentences.  MSM is finally showing photos of him sleeping in meetings on the nightly news.  They aren't pointing out the fact that the Commander in Chief is taking a nap while surrounded by visitors, cabinet members, and Congress people.  I suppose they are relying on the viewer to make the connection.

Cowards, one and all.

His plan for his boring war is No Plan, I have no plan, no plan at all.  Meanwhile, he and Hegseth are pursuing Mark Kelly (once again) for pointing out that we've depleted our military stock to a danger point.  No, Mr. Secretary, that wasn't classified information.  You said it in a hearing. 

I'm not too worried about my senior Senator.  He has $25million in the bank and more coming in every day.  But Jon Ossoff, Sherrod Brown, the governorship of California --- they all have me worried.

Redistricting while elections are being held is absurd.... unless you are a Republican legislator who wants to curry favor with FFOTUS.  The voters in Virginia made their wishes known only to have a court tell them NO.  My County Clerk sent a Important Message urging everyone to check their voter resgistration status asap.   

There was a woman in a 45-47 decorated ball cap sitting at the counter when I picked up our lunch today.  I was tempted to approach her and ask her WHY???? but I kept my cool.  The thing is, I was really interested in her why.  Is she seeing the world through a different lens than I am?  

I drove home thinking about my latest act of political rebellion:

I'm leaving my mark.  It is all I can do.

Home, At Last

Yesterday was a whirlwind of pokes and examinations and consultations and then his Ticket To Ride (seriously, that's in the header of the order for transportation) arrived and, after a stop at the pharmacy for 6 prescritions) Sam wheeled him out to the car.

It was 102 degrees.  My car had been sitting in the sun for 6 hours.  The air conditioning did its best, but standing up was a challenge for my sweetie.  We got home and put him into his own bed - ahhhhhhhhhh - and filled his nightstand with Diet Coke and iced tea and Smart water and graham crackers.  

He'd have ensconced himself on the living room couch if the television had been working, but for some unknown reason it refused to connect to the cable box.  I have to say it felt like the world was conspiring against us.  Or, as the Golden Gopher put it, if he didn't have bad luck he'd have no luck at all.

It took me an hour to make a chart with the names, doses, times and what it's for.  6am, 10am, noon, 2pm, 6pm, 10pm, and midnight are the times for the regularly scheduled drugs.  Should he need the oxycodone, that's a whole other timeline.  We napped through the noon dose and hoped that his body wouldn't notice that we were an hour late.

We're managing several diagnoses at the same time.  Everyone wants to be sure we understand all the directions and parameters and contraindications; as long as I'm taking notes to review later I'm doing fine.  

Now we're trying to reschedule the appointments we missed while he was hospitalized.  This is harder than one might imagine; one phone was busy from 8am until I called the main switchboard at 3pm and the lovely receptionist somehow managed to get me through.  I'm waiting for the doctor to talk to the scheduler who will call us back on one of the three phone numbers on file.

Sigh.

We've spent the day wondering how those without our particular set of skills and free time manage any of this.  I'm grateful for good insurance (even with that there's a $2000 co-pay for one drug) and money in the bank and family and friends who support us emotionally from near and far.  

And we're only just getting started.  

Chin up. Shoulders back. Smile pasted on my face.  We'll get through this together... and by that I am including all of you who've left loving comments on The Burrow.  Please understand if I'm too tired respond as I usually do.  

Onward and upward, as Daddooooo would say when life struck another blow.

Perhaps Today

Infections are nasty things.  

Lightheadedness and white blood count and creatinine and pain.... we spent another weekend in the hospital, coming close and then failing to being discharged.

This morning we'll give it another try.  

There will be posts about FFOTUS's boring war , he of the attention span of a toddler.  There will be a garden post or two, along with an end of the school year retrospective.

But now, I must dress and go, once again, to sit by his bedside and wait for others to make decisions about our actions.  To say that this is disconcerting would be the understatement of the 21st century.

Thanks for hangin in here with me.

And Still...

Some numbers go up, some go down. Mostly they go in the direction of health,  but that's usually followed by something else to worry about. 

The physicians are alarmingly young. The only grey hair to be found is on the patients. 

The staff is an interesting collection of Americans from all over the globe, all respecting the particular hierarchy of their niche.  Techs defer to nurses.  Fellows defer to Attendings. We've only been visited by one student, and that only after her supervisor asked our permission. 

That's all I can think of.  Hospitals are exhausting, even for visitors. 

Well....

We're still here.  He's feeling better but there are still meds to be given via an IV so we are literally tethered to the institution. 

Home tomorrow, we hope.  I'll have more to say then. 

We'll Talk Tomorrow

TBG and I are spending some quality time in the Emergency Room.  It will all be fine,  but writing will have to wait   It's hard to write with all the beeps and pokes and questions. 

Thanks for understanding. 

It's May

 As Guinevere sings in Camelot, it's a month when everything goes blissfully astray.

There are two and a half weeks of school left.  There's not much learning still going on, although the teachers are making a valiant effort to educate while their students are counting down the days until summer vacation.

The Amphi High School seniors held their Grad Walk on Friday.  Dressed in caps and gowns, they marched through the first floor and the playground, high fiving and smiling.... at least the ones without earbuds.  

Standing next to Miss Stella, currently the tallest 5th grader, I mentioned that she probably might not be the tallest student in Middle School next year, and that she certainly wouldn't be the tallest student in high school.  We don't know what they are feeding those kids, but they were BIG.

Attendance in the garden always slows down in May.  I don't know why.  The tomato plants and the mandarin orange tree have many green blobs (they don't look much better than that) which are taking their own sweet time ripening.  Apparently, they are not clued in to the school calendar.

One Garden Leader, talking to no one in particular, opined that the garden was her favorite place in the whole school.  No one fights.  You can plant.  And you can be quiet.

It seems that, for this year at least, my work here is done.

A Delightful Surprise

The BEYOND! t-shirts were a big hit as smocks in Grandma's Garden last week.  So that others could use them, I asked the scholars to take them off before they left. 

Two girls ran away, laughing, with their smocks over their t-shirts.  

I didn't notice that, but the other scholars did.  I looked out over the playgroound for the miscreants, to no avail.  I shrugged it off.  They've been sitting in my garage for 15 years; I have 2 huge boxes still there; the girls were laughing and that's always my goal; and I couldn't remember who they wtere, anyway.

A few minutes later, they came back, slightly abashed.  T  They couldn't return the smocks; they had removed their original t-shirts. Nudity is not encouraged on our campus.  I reminded them that they had misbehaved and that I was not thrilled with them..... but they could keep the BEYOND! shirts.

There were doctors and surgery and more doctors this week, so Thursday was my first day back in the garden.  While I was setting up the day's project, the two naughty third graders suddenly appeared before me.  

We're sorry we took the shirts, Grandma.  We're really sorry.

They came on their own.  They were properly abashed.  Their faces were really sorry, as they met me eye to eye, confident and diffident at the same time.  

I almost cried.  Instead, I told them that I was proud of them.  Everyone makes mistakes and does dumb things and I know that I did  (pause for a painful memory or two to flash across my brain) and the fact that they took responsibility for their actions and came back to repair the damage impressed me a whole lot more than their absconding (yes, I said absconding) with the t-shirts had depressed me.  

No, they didn't want to stay and paint. We shook hands and they went on their way.

It was a good day in Grandma's Garden.

Apparently, I Hit A Nerve

Almost every one of my usual comment writers chimed in on the understanding tv post yesterday. 

dkzody's right : You enjoy this entertainment and use it a lot so it's worth it.

Carol's idea is a classic :  Somebody write a book about this, and SOON.  Although I fear that publishing a book means the information will probably be outdated before it hits the bookstores' shelves.  

Linda Reeder is like me, and relies on the voice remote to find what she seeks.  TBG remembers all the station numbers.  I prefer to filll my brain with other things.  I know how to find the apps on the home screen.... sometimes.... and Netflix and Amazon Prime are the only places I go on my own, and then, only rarely.

Laura and Jim Davis offered practical solutions.  JES wants to fix the problem by visiting (something we've been trying to do since 2010).  

What I need is a college kid with aging parents/grandparents who understands our need to watch on the tv and not our phones.  She should be a good explainer, with a high tolerance for ignorance and ineptitude.  She must not judge our choices (yes, he needs Perry Mason and Leave it to Beaver on METV).  This could be a high paying gig for someone with the knowledge and time.  If only she existed outside of my imagination.

Nobody Understands TV

Little Cuter and SIR are considering cutting their cable.

Our provider is no longer contracted with ABC, which is now a problem since TBG has entered his Sports Deprivation Season and is forced to follow professional basketball, many games of which are on ABC.  

You would think that this would be a problem with a solution, and I'm sure you're right.  There ought to be a way to send my computer's input to my television.  They tempt me with apps names like CastTV, which I download and then am unable to use.

We pay Xfinity a hefty fee each month for cable and internet.  There's streaming music on a surround sound system inside and outside the house.  It's fun when I'm swimming laps, not so much when I'm trying to have a conversation in the living room.

Since I first posted about this I've been asking random people if they understand TV these days.  The first person who says yes will be hired to explain it to me.

Here's Monday's Post

I was peeved and I used you to hear my rants and I typed until I felt better and that was supposed to be Friday's post.  At least it was supposed to be Friday's post, if only I had remembered to click Publish. 

Not wanting you to feel neglected since I messed up my every day schedule, here, without extraneous verbiage, are the pictures from Grandma's Garden that were to be (with extraneous verbiage) Monday's post.

It's a follow-up to Thursday's post about painting pots for the faculty and staff.  (And yes, this is a shameless plug for someone new to The Burrow to jump around and see what we're all about.)

Our scholars are the face of America - immigrants and refugees from Afghanistan and Sudan and all over Central America.

One color per brush, under the umbrella for shade.

I said Smile! and she posed.

Someone created her own quiet space.

He found just the right perch.

The Beyond! t-shirts are relics from the early days after our perforation. They are our new smocks.

I Am Taking It Personally

I've been writing postcards for Tony the Democrat for a long time.  

Recently, I wrote Turn Out the Vote notes for the Virginia redistricting plan.  The accompanying explanation seemed reasonable, the message refuted Republican misdirection lies, I requested 5 addresses and did my part for our representative democracy within 3 days, as requested.

We won.  I felt great.  Tony's research shows that our postcards have a measurable effect so I decided to take personal pride in the outcome.

When what to my wondering eyes did appear, but a pop up notice reported that a judge had quashed the thing before I even got a chance to raise a glass to myself.

There will be appeals and outrage and much ado.... about something this time.

Meanwhile, I'm peeved.

Don't Worry

I went to sleep before I published Friday's post. 

It will all work out over the weekend, I promise. 

Notes from Grandma's Garden

My alternatives today were to write about FFOTUS's Cabinet (the swamp has been draining quite nicely in the last few weeks); or California Democrats doing their best to get shut out of the gubernatorial race entirely; or the fact that I can do both of things the internet correlates to longevity (getting up out of a chair and up off the floor without using your hands).

I opted for photos from my school garden, a place where kindergarten and second grade meet and mingle and complain about getting soil in their eyes while being wheeled around and around in giggly circles.  

The fact that she filled the purple cup herself, 

asked to be dizzy-fied, and threw the offending particles herself never really came up.

This scholar decided to build a big lump to cover the broken irrigation system.  There was so much care and patience in that little corner of my world.  

We don't remember what the dead plant was, but it really doesn't matter.  It didn't take long for a 5th grader with the snips asked permission to prune it.

Earlier,  four boys and one tiny girl were in that same raised bed, digging a very, very deep hole with the real shovel and trowels and their hands.  

Today,  it was a place for quiet reflection. 

That space serves many purposes, even if none of them involve growing plants right now.

One of the Garden Leaders took it upon herself to carefully fill the painted pots with soil, all the way to the brim.  

Today, another solitary gardener and I watered those soil filled pots and planted basil seeds in one row of them.  Pre-watering is an experiment I'm doing.  I don't want to drown the seeds but I want them to have moisture to germinate.  Tomorrow we will plant others in dry soil and we will see if this makes a difference.

There are lots of ways to use the garden.  Science in action was my theme for today.

Happy Earth Day

This is the 8th post I ever wrote, back in 2009.  I've updated it just a little, but republish it here for the 17th time.  

I like Earth Day. I was there at the start, after all.

Created in large part by U.S. Senator Gaylord Nelson, in the world of 1970 it was a touchy-feely alternative to the harsher realities of the anti-Vietnam War protests. War was such an uncomfortable subject and arguing against it made your parents wonder why they were spending tuition dollars while you were telling the lawfully elected President of the United States of America that you knew more than he did. With your picture in the crowd on the front page of the NY Times, at 18 years of age, no less. 

But planting trees? Recycling newspaper? Not littering? All this in service to Mother Earth. Who could be aggravated about supporting Mother Earth?

Earth Day had teach-in's. They were more fun than sit-in's, which invariably involved police and disciplinary action. They were less fun than be-in's, which owed more to Timothy Leary and The Grateful Dead than to anything political or practical. Teach-in's were earnest and had hand-outs and statistics and pictures of desolate landscapes ravaged by the cruelty of man. There was science and legislation and outrage and lots of free tree give-aways.

Earth Day had no mandatory family gatherings. It required no gift giving, no card sending. You went outside and did something - cleaned a playground, weeded a median strip, planted one of those free trees. You felt good because you were doing good.

And Mother Earth was grateful.

*****

This paragraph is part of the original post:

Now there is Earth Week. Were this still 1970, there would be protests about the idea  being co-opted by the man. Instead, Sheryl Crow is designing re-useable grocery bags for Whole Foods and Wal-Mart is selling others next to the discounted paper towels.

Earth Week?  We can't even agree on climate change.  We are still protesting a venal administration, but most of us are recycling, or feeling guilty if we're not.  I always have a pretty reusable bag or three in the trunk because there's too much packaging in the world.  

Why that statement made my children cringe and shush me remains a mystery to this day.  

Here's wishing you a sunny and productive Earth Day.  If nothing else, buy yourself some flowers and send thankful vibes to the grower.

Fact and Fiction

I have been re-reading John Scalzi's Old Man's War series.  Science Fiction is not my favorite genre.  If not for the books Big Cuter recommends I wouldn't read it at all.  It's too much science and the fiction gets lost for me in the details, most of which I don't understand at all.  

Ender's Game came to me after he read it in middle school. It's still one of his important books (along with Plato's Republic.... yes, I know.....), and for good reason.  It opened my eyes to the possibilities within the genre, but nothing grabbed me that way until I found John Scalzi.

I saw him at the Tucson Festival of Books in March and picked up the books soon thereafter.  They are filled with many types of sentient beings.  Some are asteroids.  Some are room sized bugs with arms designed for slashing.  Some are human, although some of those humans are green, with self repairing bodies.  

Not all of them have consciousness.   

What that meant was hard for me to grasp, and Scalzi seems to recognize that some of us might have issues.  Several times the story takes a little leap backwards, with someone/thing explains the gift of consciousness once again.  Two of the major characters were part of a race that was sentient but had no notion of being individuals.  

I'm still grappling with it.  

So, apparently is the robotics community.

NPR told me about robots that can be trained to make my bed, empty my dishwasher, wash and fold the laundry.... the list went on.  The question facing the designers is not Can they be taught to figure other things out on their own?  but Should we really be creating thinking robots?

And there I was, back trying to figure out if the robot thinks but doesn't recognize another robot as a similar but distinct being does it lack consciousness?  And is that a good thing or a bad thing?  

This post has taken a long time to write, because my brain is off on tangent after tangent, trying to figure it out.  I'm having a hard time finding the words.  That's not a bad thing.  I love it when a book captivates me this way.

Standing Up

I went to the Old People's Protest outside Congressman Ciscomani's office on Saturday.  

That's not what it's called in the weekly emails I receive,  reminding me of the event, any specific theme to reflect on our signs, and the parking suggestions.   I usually parked in the lot for my Congressman's office.  But over the few weeks since I've been there,  a fence has gone up.  The email noted that a locally owned toy store,  Mildred and Dildred, supported our efforts and invited us to park behind their nearby store. 

So, I did, aided by the handy dandy sign at the curb.  If you look at the upper left corner, you can catch a glimpse of a fellow sign waver.  I drove around back, grabbed my sign and my pinwheel, and joined the throng.

Can I call 75 75 year olds a throng?  Waxing and waning over a two hour window, the organizers call it 75 strong every week.  Some are older, some are younger, but no one is as old as we were when we did this 50 years ago.  Where are they?

That last part was a major topic of conversation along the street corner.  The internet?  Not teaching civics in high school? A generation that's glued to their phones and eschews making eye contact with the real world?  We reached no consensus other than agreeing that we, ourselves, standing at a busy intersection, were doing our part.

There was a lady in a blow up American flag costume.  There were huge American flags and one Ukrainian flag.  There were signs reminding drivers that their President is a pedophile, a liar, a rapist, a criminal, and a dirtbag.  Draft Barron first was a popular meme.  

And then a gentleman of a certain age offered me one of these Gas Station Stickers.  

I am to place it, subtly, on the pump, with his finger pointing to the price per gallon.

I think I'm going to have to skip Costco next week and stop in for a few gallons at a QuickStop.

Buying Gas

The Chevron station at Prince and Oracle Roads usually has the least expensive gas on my way home.  Today, regular was advertised at $4.65/gallon.  Drive right in and pull up to one of the six empty slots.

So, I drove to Costco.  There, the line for the 20 slots snaked through the parking lot and out to the street, and regular gas was $3.85/gallon.

That's eighty cents per gallon in my pocket, or $8 for the ten gallons I bought.  $8 a week, 52 weeks a year..... we're talking serious money here.  

I spent the afternoon worrying about people living paycheck to paycheck and being very grateful for my situation in life.  

Ooops

How do you know that you don't know something if you don't know it?

This was the question TBG posed after recognizing that 75% of the kerfuffle over the doctor's return call was not because the doctor didn't make it but because modern technology was, in this instance, totally inaccessible to him.

He was unaware of the feature that would have avoided a lot of angst.  

And so he asked how we could hold him responsible for not knowing something he didn't know.  If he didn't know it how would he know to ask for it?  

All of these are reasonable interpretations of an uncomfortable situation.  But TBG is right - he was an idiot.

Things Fall Apart

Chinua Achebe's novel, Things Fall Apart, was a high school staple when the Cuters were young.  I read it, liked it, let it fuel my interest in western African authors, and forgot about it.  But the title stayed with me.

As our medical situation devolves into absurdity, my house began falling apart, too.

The toilet in the bathroom kept running.  Deaf as I am, it didn't bother me.  TBG, on the other hand, was driven crazy by the intermittent rushing of water in the tank.  

The refrigerator in the garage decided to die while Little Cuter's family was here, on Thursday, as the garbage cans were collected by Waste Management.  The smell of defrosted frozen left overs was potent.  I kept the freezer door closed until Sunday, the night before our Monday collection.

Opening it was traumatic, nauseating, gross, and awful.  Figuring out how to dispose of it all took some concentrated thought.  With TBG in no condition to do any heavy lifting, my first thought was a multitude of plastic grocery bags.  Unfortunately, the first one had a hole in the bottom.  Defrosted goo was all over the floor and my flip flops.  

There was a big box on the floor.  I dumped the Halloween decorations out and dropped the bag in.  That jump started the cleansing.  Pastries, chicken chili, pot roast - it all went into the box.  The Tupperware which had contained them had an odor ... a stench ... a stomach turning combination of scents that required immediate dousing with Dawn and hot water.  By the time I got back to the box, the liquids were beginning to destroy the bottom.

I pushed the box all the way to the curb, mustered all my strength, and heaved it into the can.  The pushing was a great leg and glute exercise, the lifting strictly mind over matter.  Someone was watching over me; the can didn't tip as I had feared.

With two projects in mind, I called Scott the Handyguy, our savior in times like these.  He picked up the fridge I selected at Lowes, moved the old one and installed the new one.  It's beautiful.

He worked on the toilet, fixing one part and discovering yet another piece of our house that was falling apart.  A quick trip back to Lowes for the necessary parts and five minutes later the unwanted sounds were a thing of the past.

Things do fall apart.  We're lucky to have someone to put them back together.  Now, if the doctor would only call us back........

And Waiting

I understand the logic behind it.  I wonder if anyone thought about the unintended consequences.

Lab and imaging and blood work results all appear, quickly, via email.  Too quickly.  They arrive, tempting you to open them and read them and try to make sense of values and <'s and >'s and long words with Latin or Greek roots.

They arrive before the physician receives them, or so we've been told many, many times.  And so, we wait.  Waiting for a phone call promised within a day or two, only it's been four days and okay, two of them were the weekend, but still......

There are people in our orbit who could interpret them.  Dr. Google is always available.  But the medical people started this and they ought to close the loop.  They have the expertise and our trust.

I wish they would act like they deserve it.

*****

I'm purposely oblique in these posts because it's not my story to tell. 

I feel the love even if I'm not answering questions <3

Paper or Plastic..... or the Cloud

Remember in the Before Times when the cashier at the grocery store would ask you if you preferred paper or plastic bags?

Now, of course, we all carry reusable bags (in California they rip out your fingernails if you show up bagless).  Whole Foods will use an old fashioned paper bag with two handles and the bigger chain stores use only plastic if you show up without your own toting equipment.

It's the same with paper records.  Everything is in the cloud.  Everything, that is, except for TBG's information.  He asks for a printed copy of everything anyone financial sends electronically.  I no longer laugh.  When we need something he knows just where it is, while I'm busy searching for the right folder, the right password, the damn machine to turn on and stop updating itself.

This morning he asked for some help.  Apparently, a decade's worth of statements have begun to outgrow their drawer.  He thinks he only needs a few years saved.  Did I have any 3 ring binders that expanded?  

When I told Amster this story later this morning, she reminded me that her office is now paperless and all those white binders I used to admire were now sitting, empty, in a cabinet.  Everything is in the cloud....oh, but it's TBG.

And that is why Amazon's same day delivery service just provided the solution my delightfully Luddite of a husband wanted.

He's a very happy man, easy to please with Amazon Reward Points. 

Waiting

Is there anything lonelier than waiting in a hospital?  

The testing will take a couple of hours.  Family members are not allowed behind the DO NOT ENTER door.

We do better when we can be together.  

So, I sit and I wait and I worry, even though the worrying is useless.  He's where he's supposed to be, doing what he's supposed to be doing, while I stare at Happy Patient Access Week posters on the wall.  

G'ma always said she felt safest in the hospital, because they know what they're doing and I don't.  Bleeding on the sidewalk outside the Safeway, I felt an eerie sesnse of calm when I heard the sirens heading our way.  

But now, powerless, waiting, wondering, uncertain about the next steps, I turned to my keyboard to control my anxiety.  Your presence is comforting, even before I send this out into the ether.  I'm not sharing details, and I'm closing the comments on this post because I'm trying not to focus on the what if's.

Know, though, that right now you are keeping me quite sane.  Less medicinal than downing another Ativan, I'm relying on the fact that writing has always helped me keep things in perspective and that sharing it in The Burrow takes it out of the worry loop in my brain.  

Really.  I just took my first deep breath of the day.  

Thank you for being here.  

And Again

Yesterday featured swimming,  more swimming,  Jenga, hot dogs on paper plates with all the trimmings.... all that after the kids drive up to ghost town near Phoenix to meet up with SIR's brother and nephews. 

This morning it's Uno for the boys (Grandpa gets a quick nap as Dada takes over) as the girls sleep in.  

Grandma's crazy pants came home with them yesterday,  a gift from the extended family. They are wild and wacky and so totally me. 

Two more days of love and fun in the sun.   My heart is full and my schedule is destroyed. 

Once Again

There was just too much fun and no time to write.

There was mini golf

There was New York style pizza. 

There were go karts and bumper boats and then a long drive home for the pool and dinner and kiddo bedtime before introducing SIR to The Music Man.

I may never get on schedule while they are visiting.  Sigh.......

I could write about Pam Bondi, but why?

I could write about Todd Blanche, but except for noticing that he has an extra letter at the end of each of his names, why?

I could write about the Arizona Wildcats being demolished in the Final Four, but I don't want to think about it any more.

I could write about managing the health care system, from billing to appointments to physcians, but who wants to dwell in that space?

Instead, I'm going to continue cleaning up and putting away and washing and dusting and grocery shopping and fill my mind with thoughts of the hours dwindling away as I wait for my mid-West family to arrive.

Now, if I could only find a way to work dwarf into this post I would have used all the dw words in the English language.  (Does anybody else miss The West Wing?

******

That was supposed to be Friday's post, until I remembered that it was Easter and I had my Marc Chagall vs bunnies post.  I put it in the queue to be updated and posted today but then the grandbabies came and we've been swimming and eating and swimming and eating and we took a nature walk  because Giblet fell on our hike when he was a little boy and now he refused to hike any more.

There is more joy ahead. I hope there's enough that I don't have to wonder where the Cabinet and VP are... if there isn't enough evidence to invoke the 25th amendment right now ..... he's absent and rambling and clearly not up to the job..... what more do they need?

I have to admit that having these 4 humans around has been the best antidote to the crumbling of our national stature on the world stage.  I have barely thought about that at all.  

Happy Easter Weekend

First posted in 2014; lightly edited over the years.

Happy Day Off From Work to those observing Good Friday (by choice or executive fiat).

Happy Easter to those who believe,

to those who like getting dressed in frilly finery,

to those with great hats,

and to those thinking deep thoughts.

*****

wikiart.org

Confronted with Marc Chagall's White Crucifixion at the Art Institute of Chicago, a very young Big Cuter wondered (quite loudlly) why that guy has a towel and nails through his hands.  

I directed him to his father, who was raised in various Protestant denominations, because his question highlighted the central problem I had with teaching the Cuters about Easter.  I was stuck between bunnies and lambs and a crucifixion. 

Nannie was eager to help, but she, too, was flummoxed.The bookstores didn't offer much.  Their descriptions of the Last Supper and The Passion and The Resurrection were either glossed over or overly grotesque for a sensitive, half-Christian, half-Jewish, little boy.  

We decided to stick with the bunnies and rebirth.  It was spring, after all.

Passover presented some of the same issues.  Why did God want to kill little boys, my own son wondered. Walk softly and carry a big stick came to mind as an answer, but it wouldn't do much to assuage his worry.  He was, after all, a first born son.  We wondered about a merciful God, about a righteous God, about a jealous God before the soup was served.  

I didn't worry about those issues when I was a child.  I thought it was weird that someone could die and be reborn, but if my Catholic girlfriend thought it was true, then who was I to argue?  Weird worked through elementary school.  

By high school, I was doubting the whole religion thing in general. I was able to conflate my problems with the stories to a problem with mythology in general.  I didn't give the Bible more credence than Edith Hamilton's Mythology.

Now there's FlapJilly and I'm faced with the same dilemma.  I asked her other grandmother, a Christian of many perspectives, if she had any ideas, but, sadly, MOTG was as lost last year as were Nannie and I, decades ago.

Once again, there were those bunnies.

Is that what faith is all about?  Believing that which is awkward because God is somehow involved?  If I had faith, perhaps I would know the answer.  But, I don't.  

So I am left with eating unleavened bread as I contemplate the Resurrection.  I wonder if the disciple to Jesus's right in The Last Supper really was Mary Magdalene.  I posit interesting tides and the parting of the Red Sea.  I dip my pinky in a wine glass and recount the ten plagues visited upon Egypt, and then I wash them off the plate and eat dinner.

It's not exactly what Sunday School or Hebrew School hoped for, but it's all I've got at the moment.

I'll celebrate by planting more pink and white  blossoms in my containers.  I'll watch the leaves appear from the bulbs planted years ago, and I'll concentrate on rebirth and miracles.  

And I'll try not to be angry at the bunnies eating the petunias.  It's their holiday, after all

Preparing For Grandkids

Every once in a while, Passover and Easter come around at the same time.  Given all that's going on in our lives, neither Little Cuter nor I noticed that was was one of those years.

So, to those who are celebrating, I hope your seders were/will be filled with love and memories and lots of soup and matzoh.  To those who are waiting for Good Friday and Easter Sunday, I hope your spirits soar and your days are filled with candy and sunshine and smiles.  

Here in my little corner of the world, the seder never happened (cf. paragraph one).  Instead, my focus has been on organizing my environment to accomodate two grown ups and two kiddos who will arrive with swim goggles and hugs on Saturday morning.

Clean sheets and blankets and pillows have been retrieved from their shrink wrap storage bags.  Flannel fitted sheet, no top sheet, his and hers favorite blankets on the correct sides of the bed for my darling daughter and her perfect husband.  

Those blankets have history.  His was an impulse purchaseI  made without knowing that it was exactly the blanket he'd loved as a child.  Hers was loved so much that G'ma had to add patches to save it from the rag bag.  

FlapJilly and Giblet will each have a single bed in the same room, bedecked with the bedclothes their mother and uncle cuddled with, many decades ago.  Do you remember Marimekko?  The linens are as bright as they were when I bought them. 

 (I'd show you a picture but the spin bike is occupying the space reserved for the second bed and we're too tired to do any heavy lifting right now.)

I have a grocery list that's heavy on the fruit and bagel side.  That's for Costco on Friday.  What remained was what their mother and I had forgotten - Easter baskets.

Were they little kids it would have been easy.  But they aren't little kids.  Little Cuter gave me suggestions for candy (the sour-er the better). I found the plastic eggs we'll be hiding, following the printed clues Little Cuter has printed out.  I found bath bombs and peeps in the shape of little ducks and small stuffies.  I am collecting coins to fill most of the eggs.  

But there is laundry and vacuuming and real grocery shopping yet to be done.  I'm going to get Barnes and Noble gift cards and consider myself finished.

Besides, I have a pool outside, heated to a perfectly lovely 90 degrees, and a hot tub if the clouds and cooler weather roll in.  Who needs candy?

LiLou, SF Pig

She was Queen T's first child.

When she arrived, as a piglet, she was the size of her grown up head.  Mama was Queen Pig, and LiLou was her subject.  Establishing dominance is an essential part of preventing Spoiled Pig Syndrome, which is a real thing.  Pigs live a hierarchical existence, showing weakness is not suggested.

So, grown up LiLou's brain has implanted Queen T as the TOP PIG,  the giant person who feeds her.  Even though she weighs as much as Mama, she is cowed into submission by a stern LiLou. No.  Not a shouted NO, because LiLou would think Mama was squealing right back at her. It's the way she speaks to her human children - equal parts love and do not do that.  

It's hard work being a piggie Mama, and that's part of the charm.  Taking her responsibilities seriously,  LiLou's hoof-icures were always a mainstay.

Queen T is all about new challenges and learning new skills, and this new skill came with affection going both ways, a routine that suited them both, and a career as a certified therapy animal.  Visiting nursing homes and charity events and meeting passengers at SFO filled their hearts.  

Sometimes, there were very special passengers.

A grape from Jane Goodall's fingers.

She learned to play the (mini)piano, dunk on a (mini)basketball hoop, and do a lovely pirouette.  She had a wide array of colorful ribbons to adorn her seasonally appropriate harnesses for her daily walks.  She wasn't an enthusiastic walker unless their route took her toward the fancy hotel 2 blocks away.  

While being admired at a charity event, LiLou smelled then snarfed their cookies.  Ever after, no matter  Queen T's intentions, LiLou was determined, trotting up to the front door of that hotel, a girl with a goal.

C'mon, she's a pig.  It's food.  

She's been getting old.  Pigs get arthritis, and tummy troubles, and they puke.  At a certain point, quality of life decisions had to be made.  

She's crossing the Rainbow Bridge today, at home, surrounded by love andd quality care.

Rest in peace, Lilou.  You were the best grandpig I ever had.

We Are Not In Control

We vote. We protests. We call and write and meet office staff. 

We are incidental to the results. 

There's an empty space in my brain where a conclusion ought to sit.  I'm used to being the master of my fate, directing my life, answering only to myself and those I love.  But the world has taken a darker turn, and I seem to be powerless to change its course. 

FFOTUS and his uber-Christian-nationalist minion are planning to send ground troops to the Middle East to open a waterway.  My poor brain cannot comprehend it.  

No one wanted this war.  We wanted to see the Epstein tapes and files.  Instead,  FFOTUS has set us on a path of destruction with nary an exit strategy in sight. 

My head hurts. My heart is sick.