Time Flies ....

.....whether you're having fun or not.  

This was the Google doodle today, the last day of June, Pandemic 01.  

This Pride Month we honor Black trans women and LGBTQ+ people of color

There is so much about this that was unheard of, let alone unthinkable, when I was FlapJilly's age.  There is so much more (though, obviously, still not enough) freedom to be than there was in 1958;  Marlo Thomas's iconic Free to Be You and Me was published in 1972, 

 the year TBG graduated Cornell.

Amster's boys, who you met in pre-school, are now Messers 15 and 17, high school kids who text to see if I need any help.  I asked Amster how this could have happened; Idk  I seriously do not.  

FlapJilly's going to ask the astronauts a question on tomorrow's Zoom AstroHour fund raiser for Mark Kelly.  When I met Mark Kelly my granddaughter wasn't even a glimmer in her parents' eyes.  Now, instead of a in hospital room surrounded by armed security guards, the kid is going to say hello from her dining room table.  

I can conjure Mark sitting in the recliner in my room, chatting with MTF about space, as if it were happening right now.  I can also go back, oh how easily can I go back, to the days before knowing an astronaut was on my radar, before I was perforated.  Those first few days home from the hospital, how it felt, what I thought, they are all deeply imprinted.  

It was yesterday and it was forever ago.

It's hard to remember that life is going on when I'm watching it unfold on the television and on my phone and on my iPad and on Lenore the Lenovo without being able to add any of my own items to What Happened Today.  

As JannyLou texted yesterday,  we will be doing nothing here and then starting again.

Cheese and Cheerios

The toddler is getting into her personal space, and FlapJilly is not amused.  She doesn't want to be aggravated with her funchie cheeks little brother, she just wants to eat her lunch without his hands on her plate.  It's her one meal in front of the television; she wants to savor the experience.

Mommy to the rescue.  Out come the blueberry Cheerios Chelle bought them for their birthdays.  Although Little Cuter thinks that the honey nut flavor is far superior, the blueberry box was close to hand.  And so she spread some out on the coffee table and let Giblet loose.

That worked for a while, but his sister was still there on the couch, eating salami and grapes (her current go-to meal).  He had only cheerios, and they were insufficiently entertaining.  So, back he went to her plate.

She being the charming and thoughtful and kind individual her parents have raised her to be, took pity on the poor boy and placed a small piece of salami on top of the cheerio she extricated from his grasp.  

And suddenly, a new treat was born - blueberry cheerios with salami on top.  Little Cuter stopped laughing long enough to text her brother and me - Cheese and Cheerios are back!!!

Cheese and cheerios?  Yes, cheese and cheerios.  It's a snack I concocted for The Cuters  Kraft American cheese ripped into tiny pieces and pressed between two regular cheerios.  They gobbled them down as fast as I could create them. They ate them all throughout their childhood.

My daughter and I laughed about the 21st century version her kids had created.  We agreed that this weekend was best remembered with cheerios than with gunshots.  We reveled in the moment and I went to Pilates with a smile on my face.

I left the studio and headed for the grocery store, where, since the gods were listening to our laughter, I found this display as the electric doors whooshed open: 

Obviously, the stars were aligned.

It's August

Time for my annual rant about school starting before Labor Day.

It's just wrong.  Resorts suffer, from a lack of patrons and a lack of staff.  All those summertime jobs - life guard, camp counselor, ice cream man, boardwalk shill - peak in the dog days of August.  the song does say See you in September, not August.

That feels especially true to me this year.  For the first time in a long time, I was once again tethered to a school calendar.  Garden Club met every Wednesday; when I wasn't there, the kids noticed.  I reveled in those totally without entanglement mid-week respites all through the summer.... the summer that I think should still be going on.

Not that I'm sad to open up the garden once again.  Not at all.  It has nothing to do with future fun.  It has everything to do with prolonging my current state.

Since I was a little girl, I've loved hot August afternoons, the ones with no plans, where a walk down the street settles my soul.  The day has to be really hot, with no breeze, filled with the stillness that makes every breath taste deliciously of laziness and languor and lollygagging.  There's got to be no place to go and nothing to do, no one waiting for me at either end of the journey.

It's pure bliss.  It's a self-contained moment, usually alone, though there were some memorable ones when the Cuters were very young.  No chattering, no headphones, no sounds except the city sounds, or the tide along Richardson Bay, or the Mourning Doves cooing from the top of the saguaros. 

I can just be.

I'm not ready for it to end.

Playing Outside

Walking to Mr. 14's basketball tournament Friday afternoon, I saw a sign in a display case exhorting the reader to Play Outside An Hour A Day. With all the young athletes around me, I thought the message was a bit misplaced, but it did get me thinking about playing outdoors.

Big Cuter was just 9 when we moved from the city of Chicago to the rolling hills of Marin.

"Mom, I want to go outside," he said as I was unpacking boxes. I nodded and went back to the task at hand.

A few minutes passed.

"MOM! I want to go outside!"

"So, go. There's the door."

"But there's no grown up outside."

I stopped in my tracks. A City Kid, my son had never been outside without adult supervision. This wasn't helicopter parenting; a stranger was on the roof of our Buena garage, peering into the backyard one summer afternoon. Our kids were streetwise, but they were also very young.

So, when Little Cuter walked down our street later that week to visit a friend, I was only mildly panicked when no one called to tell me she'd arrived. The other mom laughed at me. "This is Marin, not Chicago. Relax."

Relaxing was hard. Without cell phones, it was a leap of faith to see my children stroll out the front door, or glide down the street on their bikes, knowing that I wasn't going to be there to protect them. 

Of course, in Tiburon, the whole community protected them. Everyone's soccer coach owned the ice cream parlor where tweens congregated. Neighbors phoned when Big Cuter drove the M3 too fast up our hill. People recognized Murphy the Wonder Dog on the bike path. 

Beaver Cleaver would have felt right at home.

There were video games available, but there were parks and paths and playgrounds, too. I don't remember hours spent in front of a computer or a gaming system until Big Cuter was well into high school, leading an on-line guild.

When I was a girl (an ever weakening memory, I'm afraid), there were 4 tv channels broadcasting soap operas and old movies in black and white during the day. Summers were spent on the block and at the high school, where we amused ourselves for hours, without grown ups organizing our play. On the field and the tennis courts and in and around the abandoned fort rotting away along the fence, we were basically unsupervised.

We came home for lunch and went right back outside for Cowboys and Indians (with cap guns and faux rifles and Dan'l Boone coon skin caps) or Red Light Green Light or Red Rover or Hide and Seek. 

We'd take bike rides (two left turns, two right turns, three left turns, three right turns.....) to random destinations. We flew kites and played stick ball against the garage door. We were outside until the street lights came on.

Then, we went inside.

We didn't need signs to remind us.  

Dave Brubeck, Stan Getz, and Old Boyfriends

I like an eclectic mix of music, but jazz has never been a big part of it.  My kids know musicals and light opera and rock and roll, but if they've ever heard of the gentlemen in the title of this post it's not through any fault of my own.

And yet, in high school, I dated boys who knew all about the inner workings of jazz. One after another they came through my living room, introduced to my parents with the added bit of information that "He loves Stan Getz," or "His parents saw Dave Brubeck," or some other bit of trivia that would get my father engaged on a subject about which he could speak.  Left to his own devices, I never knew what he'd throw at my date; it was always safer to have a conversation in mind before the doorbell rang.

smittycars.BlogSpot.com

In college, the first male friend I made took me to all the live venues in Ithaca.  He was a senior to my freshman, he drove a blue Kharmann Ghia (though his didn't have those very cool wheels), and he introduced me to James Taylor and Traffic and It's A Beautiful Day, whose White Bird in a Golden Cage still conjures up memories of his red hair and his goofy smile. 

I never loved him, but I liked him a whole lot, just not as much as he liked me, which was a complicated situation when I was 17.  Thankfully, he appreciated the fact that I'd go with him to hear any music any day of the week, no matter how late it was or how far we had to drive.  I never go to an outdoor concert without flashing back to the summer day we spent at Shea Stadium, 1970's protesting The War or something equally important as an excuse to hear Creedence Clearwater Revival , Janis Joplin, Peter Yarrow, Paul Simon, John Sebastian, and Poco

He set high standards, Gumps did.

Poco was my first exposure to bands which played the kind of music G'ma would enjoy.  In graduate school, my friends were part of the crew which fed the musicians at the University of Chicago's annual Folk Festival.  One day every winter we'd prepare tables-full-of-food, and watch the performers dine.  The New Lost City Ramblers, Flatt and Scruggs, the Staples Singers... I first heard them then and I listen to them now.  By that time, TBG and I were an item, and he was in D.C. while I was in the Windy City, and there's no romance attached to these memories. 

Instead, there's something even better, because it's not tinged with regret or broken hearts or "what if's."  When I hear this music, I'm in long braids and overalls and a flannel shirt, rockin' out with the other 877 people in Mandel Hall.  Craig's to my right and Big Steve's to my left and life is good. My aches and pains and sorrows retreat into the background.... it's 1977... leave me alone.... I'm dancing.

Returning to Real Life

My summer was planned right through the last weekend in July.  I had appointments with Pilates or Yoga or the gym or walking with Brenda Starr filling the bulk of my calendar.  I was in waiting mode, not signed up for classes or planning short jaunts to cooler climes.  A grand-daughter was coming, and I was in hurry-up-and-wait mode.

Three weeks later, I came home for five days, then left again for a long weekend.  We came home on Monday afternoon; TBG had cataract surgery on Wednesday morning.

I must have unpacked and repacked and unpacked again, because there are no suitcases in the halls.  I have no memory of any of it. There's not a lot of laundry, because we haven't been around and in the gym and swimming and going out to eat.  Instead, I have several white plastic bags emblazoned with hotel logos sitting mournfully on the floor of the laundry room.  I don't need them right now; I can live out of my closet instead of my suitcase.

I'm home. 

The mail and the newspaper are once again on regular delivery.  The bills, which were paid up through August before I left in July, are once again coming due for September.  Conferences and cocktail receptions and concerts are flooding my inbox as Tucson wakes up after its long, summer nap.  Mavis Staples, the YMCA, Youth On Their Own .. everything sounds wonderful to me. 

I spent three weeks waiting on others, watching a new life beginning.  I spent a weekend celebrating love.  I spent a day being amazed at the wonders of modern medicine. I was on the outside, enjoying the show without being the star. I was where I was needed, when I was needed, and the choices were not mine to make.  There was something delightfully relaxed about living at the beck and call of others.

But now, I'm home. There are bills to pay and appointments to schedule, mammograms to get and decisions to make.  Do I want to study Ancient Women or World War I?  How hard should I train for the 5K in November?  When should we have G'ma's unveiling? 

Can I go back to taking care of other people? Please?

The Dentist

TBG says it best - "He has the smallest, smartest hands which have ever been in my mouth."

Nibbling on our babies' fingers aside, I think he's right.  Dr. Jess (he practiced for a while with his brother, so last names were useless) is thoughtful and gloved before he beginss to manually admire my dentition.  I always know what he's going to do and why.  There are no surprises; he announces noise and spray and discomfort so that I can be prepared.

I've written about dentists before  (click here and here) .   I have nothing but affection for the profession.  My teeth are inherited from my paternal grandfather, he who chewed chicken bones right up to his death, where he greeted the Grim Reaper with all of his own, original, un-filled teeth.  The dentists in my life were never going to get right with me as a patient.  I was good for two cleanings a year and x-rays every two years.  I never thought about dental insurance.

Marrying TBG made me rethink that decision.  The man has a mess in his mouth, and a long history of incompetent men with their hands in his mouth.  He's phobic about dentists; Dr. Jess is the first one I've known him to visit with a smile.  And he visits him a lot.

Given my history, I was rightfully surprised to hear that the sharp edge on the side of my tooth was, in fact, a cracked tooth with an unstable filling.  Last month it received a temporary covering.  Today, it was permanently repaired.

I didn't sleep well last night.  Took an Ativan in the evening, when I realized that I was curled up in a tiny ball in the corner of the couch, arms around my knees, chin resting on my biceps, a frown on my lips.  I had to go to the dentist at 9am. I wasn't a happy girl. 

The Ativan took the edge off, and I managed a smile or two before seeking comfort in sleep.  Woke up, reluctantly, and ate, because I knew I had to be properly fueled, not because I wanted to put the blood orange Chobani, half a banana and a sprinkling of Kashi Go Lean Crunch into my mouth.  I didn't want to put anything into my mouth.... especially the dentist's hand.

But I had no choice.  The temporary implant, which gave me no problems, is unreliable for the long-term.  Even though I was perfectly happy with its vaguely rough surface, Dr. Jess assured me that it was an accident waiting to happen.  I needed a permanent solution.

I was prepared for the morning's activities.  I brought crocheting and my Kindle and my smart phone and my ear buds.  I put Sarah Vaughan on Pandora, put the purple buds in my ears, closed my eyes behind the sunglasses the tech provided, and tried to breathe.  Meditation is a skill I'll need to develop further before it can be of use in such situations.  I tried inhaling and visualizing a 1 and exhaling as a 2 appeared, but it was hopeless.  I relaxed my fingers from the death grip they'd found on my shorts, took my shoulders out of my ears, and let my brain wander with Ella Fitzgerald's scatting.

It was wet and numb and noisy.  It was slightly pungent and noisy.  It was turn your head this way and noisy.  I'm hearing that damn drill still... and I've been home for 90 minutes.

Dinah Washington and Duke Ellington rounded out the ear bud section of the morning.  I had to participate in the placement of the overlay - my teeth rewarded me by being strong enough to support this less drastic measure - and then there was the smoothing and lowering and bite-on-this-ing and my face was so tired of holding my mouth open I nearly wept. 

And then I was done.

Just like that, Dr. Jess was patting my shoulder, telling me to be careful of the Novocain in my lip and cheek, and the technician was guiding me to the payment counter.  I was befuddled.  I was exhausted. I wasn't thinking very clearly at all.  I drove home slowly, down my newly paved through street, but I was too distracted to notice the improvements.  I've typed the story to you, here, hoping that it will help the anxiety to dissipate.

So far, it's not working.

Random Thoughts

It's all been said and I agree with everything - NBA Commissioner Silver did an admirable job in sanctioning Clippers' owner Sterling whose racism was finally public enough to demand attention.  The larger question, why his predecessor did nothing about behaviors which were well-known if not as well-publicized, remains unaddressed.

Isn't that the way of things, though?  We look for a quick fix to solve our immediate discomfort, and then we move on.
*****
NPR told me that there are rudimentary oil-cans-filled-with-industrial chlorine-bombs being dumped on Syrians.  They don't need much technical skill to put together, so it's possible that the insurgents could be making them except they must be dropped by helicopters and the al Assad regime are the only players with those.

Imagine it, as I am right now.  You look up to see what the noise is and discover it is destruction, fire, the wrath of your government.

Every time I begin to lose hope in America, every time I bemoan the Koch brothers pouring hundreds of thousands of dollars into my Congressional race, I need to pause .... and remember those flaming oil cans.
*****
There's an interminable road project along my usual travels.  Once it is completed, I'll be able to circumvent many lights and much congestion.  Now, it is creating progress-impeding 15mph zones and enough wet dirt between the paved and the unpaved sections that I didn't take a chance on stopping up by the sign, in the mud, this morning.  I didn't want to get stuck.

I did see some workers today, which is unusual.  The County paid the general contractor, but he neglected to pay his sub-contractors so the subs stopped working.  They've resumed, in fits and starts, but some issues go unresolved.

Take, for example, the fact that there has not been a street sign at the intersection of La Canada and Chula Vista for two months.  I didn't need the sign when the church and its billboard were on the opposite corner.  But the road construction has pushed them out of sight and thus out of mind and even though I know that I should turn after the bridge, I'm more of a words person than a landmark person and I'd really appreciate it if someone from the Department of Transportation would take care of it.
*****
My gladiolus bulbs are doing quite well in the irrigated pots, and not as well in the hotter, dryer soil.  Unfortunately, I see the soil planted ones more than the containered ones.  I've been watching the leaves poke through the ground cover stones and grow a foot or so and there they have remained, neigher sending up flower parts nor growing any taller.

Some are turning brown, giving up before they ever began.

If I weren't so peeved about the critters munching on my zinnias in the bed on the other side of the pony wall from the glads, I'd do something about it.
*****
Thanks for listening, denizens.  Sometimes I just need to get these things off my chest.

Computer Scamming

She was insistent.  She was persistent.  She was annoying.  I couldn't hang up.

She was calling from Windows Technical Support.  She'd noticed that I had been accessing sites which were dangerous and she was calling to fix the problem.  She didn't ask me for a password.  She gave me an American name through a thick but understandable accent.  And always, she insisted.

Go to Control Panel and after several more prompts she knew exactly what the code looked like on my screen.  CMI....that is very bad  and that's where it got dicey.  She gave me a string of letters and numbers to type into a box on my monitor.  That would allow her colleague to gain access to my machine remotely.  He would then fix the problem

Alarm bells began to go off in my frazzled head.

We screen our calls with Caller ID.  If it's an unknown number or a blocked number or a series of unrecognizable digits or the name of an institution to which we have donated in the past we exit the screen and let the machine deal with it.  I rarely check that machine these days; if you want me you know how to find me if I want you to have that level of access.

Access..... she kept demanding access.

I began to wonder why I had picked up the phone in the first place.  It rang.  I grabbed.  I didn't check the number.

You called me.... I'm not letting you into my machine.  

How can this be a problem, Ma'am?  Did I not read you the code just now?

That one had me stumped.  When I am stumped, and the issue has anything at all to do with the inner workings of my computers, I call Brother.  He worked in IT, he understands IT, he rebuilds IT, he explains IT, and he even knows what IT means.  He's also very willing to help his less-than-competent-in-these-matters sister when she runs into trouble.

I think I'm going to call my brother who knows about these things.  If he says it's okay, I'll call you back and we can proceed.  Do you have a number at which you can be reached?

I didn't have much hope for that; none of these call center techs have ever been able to give out a number.  She didn't even try.  She went back on the offensive.

This is very important, you understand? Yes, there was a question in her voice.  As if I were too stupid to pay attention.  That was when I began to suspect a scam.

Perhaps you could call me back tomorrow at this same time?  I will hve talked to my consultant and then we can proceed.

She was not amused.  She pressed on.  I enjoyed myself for a minute or two, pressing back, then I hung up and emailed Brother.  He was back to me in a flash : DO NOTHING!!!!

There followed a history of these scams, wonderment at the code she'd found on my computer (apparently of no particular purpose in virus detecting but some random combinations which are easy to bring up), praise for my ability to see through it, and a list of sites to visit and download and run to scan the computer for any malicious software my typing that line of code in the search box might have allowed inside.

Secunia.... Trend Micro.... AVG..... he said they would take as long as it does to clean your car.

I wonder if he's seen my car lately.

Days later, I've run them all, heard that Intrepid Cat, his daughter, had the same issue, and laughed at her response.  She is a contractor in a federal department in Washington, DC.  The same scam was run by her, but, being her father's child, she was quicker to catch on than I was.  After playing with her interlocutor for a while, she asaked if he knew that he'd called a federal employee and that he was engaging in a federal crime...tampering with our government's computerization or something because she never got too far into the spiel before they hung up.

That's what I should've done.  Hung up.

The Stupids Were Out Today

I had nothing scheduled this morning.  I was free to do all the errands which have piled up on the front seat of my car.  SIR has a birthday coming up, and shopping was required.  In the midst of our six week planting season, the garden store beckoned.  I woke up without an alarm or an ache or a pain.

It was shaping up to be a great day. Then, I left the house. 

There was a person in an SUV parked south-facing on the north-driving side of my little road.  There were no blinkers, no turn signals, no indication that she was doing anything but hanging out in exactly the wrong place.  I sighed, and drove by. 

Turning left across six lanes is easy; there's not a lot of traffic on what was once a sleepy two lane road.  This morning, though, every oncoming vehicle seemed determined to travel in the fast lane while proceeding at a lower-than-the-limit rate of speed.  This messes up the flow.  The spaces between blocks of cars are diminished when the stupid takes over.  I sighed, I waited some more, I drove on.

Turns out the Nike Outlet doesn't open until 10; my 9:15 arrival was overly-enthusiastic.  I drove on to the nursery and chose a tall white rose and a bushy cherry red rose and a dozen zinnias, topped it all off with a bag of the appropriate soil, and drove home behind a hundred year old man going 25 in the 45 ... in the lane I needed to make the absurd jug-handle turn into my neighborhood.  I sighed and took my foot off the gas.

Planting left me with only one scraped forearm, a fairly benign morning when dealing with roses.  The soil in the bed I chose for the zinnias has loosened up over the seven years that the yuccas and damianitas have been sending their roots around.  I'd heard of this happening but have never seen it before today. I rocked back on my heels in amazement; my trowel went in easily.  Since most of my yard is dirt, the appearance of what could honestly be called soil was startling and thrilling and gives me great hope for the zinnias.

I showered the plantings off my skin, and TBG and I went out to lunch.  Our usual breakfast place stays open til 2; we decided to try it for lunch.  We were seated in the first booth as soon as we walked in... and then the stupids began, again.  Five minutes before anyone came by.  More minutes before our water.  More minutes before the waitress stopped by to say she'd take our order in a little bit to give the kitchen a break. 

We looked at one another, at our untouched water, at the empty tables surrounding us, at one another, and then we stood up and said goodbye and walked out.  I'm not revealing the name of the place because I want to give them another chance to redeem themselves.  But turning away customers just doesn't make much sense.

Hungry, we drove to our staple, 5 Guys.  Unfortunately, so did the SUV with the Alaska plates which pulled out of the lot right in front of us.  As TBG signaled to change lanes, the SUV pulled in before us.  He tried to turn left at the NO LEFT TURN sign. He turned into the frontage road and then into the parking lot, making a full and complete stop before each maneuver.  There were no signs requiring that stop.  They must have been in his head.

Steam pouring from his ears, TBG let his road rage take over as he zoomed around the back way to the front door of the restaurant.  We had ordered and were enjoying our beverages by the time the Alaskans made their way to the door.

The trip home was uneventful.  The stupids must have been having lunch, too.

The Perils of Not Moving

I realized the futility of the situation over the weekend.  No matter how hard I try, there will always be piles of stuff in my house.

They may be contained on the newly-cleared-and-almost-all-put-away desktop.... the real life desk top, not the one on my computer.  Actually, I probably shouldn't have brought that up, since the icons on my desktop include wedding planning (the event was in 2012) and several shortcuts to the same empty New Folder.

They occupy the corners of my garage, and the theoretically-open-spaces where the garbage and recycling bins reside.  Some of them are items meant for those cans; they must have arrived when the cans were full or out on the street.  It's not trash, for that would smell.  This morning, though, I noticed a pile of papers which are of no further use to us.  I suppose I should have bent down and put them in the bin.

That's what happens.  I see a mess and I recognize the mess and I shrug my shoulders.  An organizing web site I visited suggested that I retrain myself to act if it will take two minutes or less, and I've had some small successes with that approach.  I am lacking consistency, and therein lies the problem.

JannyLou and Fast Eddie have a lovely view of our third garage door, the one for the golf cart which I've repurposed as my potting shed and GRIN's storage shelves.  I've had irrigation issues and planting sessions and run two GRIN events.  Those facts are obvious to the naked eye. 

It's not that there aren't places for these items to go.  I created them when I established this outpost.  It's just that by the time I'm done squatting and re-tubing and carrying and lifting I'm too exhausted to take the time to bend and lift and shake out and put away.  I should probably stop working ten minutes before I hit total fatigue, but that's not my nature. 

And so, the piles sit.

I picked up almost everything from my closet floor last week, although you'd never know it by what is there right now.  I'm giving away socks and piling up winter clothes to wait for me in Little Cuter's Illinois basement and I have all these Georgetown sweatshirts which I never wear because it's never cold enough here in Arizona and they are all piled, not-quite neatly, on the floor.... alongside the vacuum bags in which I plan to store or dispose of them.

Even when it should be easy for me, I don't seem to do it.

My parents weren't like this. I don't remember my mother picking up after me so I must not have been like this when I was young.  I wish there were someone around to tell me if this is an skill I acquired late in life, but, alas, all those grown-ups are laughing at me from Heaven right now.

I know they are laughing, because it's absolutely ridiculous.  Five minutes twice a day would probably solve the problem, once I reach a state of equilibrium between the mess and the available storage.  That doesn't seem unmanageable to me. 

Now, all I need to do is get there.

January

 Two faced, coming in and going out ,

I've always been a little skeptical of January.

One minute we were thankful and grateful and full of love and warmth.

Today, I am filled with resolutions and reality and the need to be productive.

It's not that I wasn't productive last month.

Hardly.

I cleaned out an apartment and distributed worldly possessions.

I baked and wrapped and decorated.

I flew to the East and I welcomed guests from north and west.

Still, there is something about those two faces,

one reminding me of what is past, still hearing the closing of the door to 2013,

the other gazing blankly forward, unknowing, unable to see.

There is something of the taskmaster about January.

I feel it looking over my shoulder, wondering why I am not doing....

even as I am.

It's not the clean slate of September, the start of school.

There is a burdensome quality to the days of January.

I don't know.

Maybe it's just me.

I'm looking forward to February.

I'm Frighteningly Like Him

I get Dad because I am frighteningly like him.

Thus spake Little Cuter.  

It was via email, part of an ongoing conversation about a lifestyle change that makes me antsy but fills my loving husband with joy. I've been trying to lay out my concerns, my objections, my considerations, my rules, and my expectations.  I just seem to drive him further into a corner.  I look like the bad guy, when all I want is to set the parameters before we take the next step.

I don't want to be in charge.  I will help, but I don't want to be the First Responder.  I'll do errands if they fit, but I don't want to be the one who thinks of them. I don't want to be the responsible party. I don't want to add one more thing to my To Do List.

There will be daily chores and long term planning and clean ups and appointments and I start to sweat just typing them to you right now.  I've done it before and I'm not interested in doing it again. Why my sweet husband can't understand that is a mystery to me.  It's perfectly clear in my brain. Why isn't it clear to him?

This disconnect has happened before.  We spent two weeks arguing - silently, loudly, tearfully - over whether I should testify before the Senate on sensible gun control legislation.  I saw only the upside. He saw only the crazies on the other end of the spectrum, the ones with weapons and a proven willingness to use them, as my limping self demonstrated to him every time he looked my way. I thought he was standing in the way of an exciting opportunity, a chance to really make my voice heard, a place for me to promote an agenda. He thought I was being foolish, ignoring the realities, putting myself at risk for no real reason. I thought he was over-bearing and paternalistic.

It was a stalemate, until Little Cuter entered the fray. Her tearful "Mom, I don't know what I'd do if you got shot again!" was enough to seal my decision. Somehow, keeping my little girl free from worry trumped all my other issues. It was a no brainer from then on. I deferred to Pat Maisch, who did a wonderful job, who got lots of publicity, and who has not been the victim of recriminations or gunfire since she spoke to a less-than attentive Senate panel.  

The Big Guy shared her concerns.  He didn't phrase it in a way that I could hear it. He didn't put himself at the front and center of the issue the way that she did, although, in his heart, he was right out there leading the charge to keep me far from death's door, even if I didn't see the danger staring me in the face.  He was flummoxed that I heard and acted on Little Cuter's plea when I'd ignored his. He had been saying the same things for a week.  Or so he thought.

Somehow, our little girl took his words and put them into my language. I understood. I complied. I felt fine, or as fine as you can feel when you do the right thing, even if you wanted very very much to do the other thing. It didn't feel like giving in; it was agreeing to be kind to my child.  I'd have been as kind to my spouse, had I been able to hear his request.  The disconnect remains a mystery to all sides.

We're lucky to have the kid to translate.

Big Cuter tells me the same thing.  "Mom, your message is perfect. Your delivery, though....." I am Daddooooo when I get going on a topic, refusing to let go, a terrier with a chew toy in her mouth, endlessly swinging it side to side, repeating over and over the point I'm trying to get across. I know that if I say it with enough variation, enough nuance, enough passion, my point will be taken.

Not so much, it seems.

Sometimes it takes someone who's attached by love and time and genetics to break through the barriers and present the case in a way that can be heard by both sides.  Sometimes it takes a little girl with a connection to her daddy that is deep and personal and resonates in a way that I cannot imagine to tell him that 

Mom is so busy she doesn't need anything else to do.  

But you, Dad, you NEED a dog. 

It Shouldn't Be This Hard

The Schnozz needed a check-up.  The little plastic square in the top corner of the front windshield reminded me.  The digital exclamation point on the dashboard reminded me. The new dealership, ten miles closer to my house, had sent me a slew of coupons. So, I called to make an appointment.

Close to home might not be the only criterion for choosing a dealership.

The girl who answered the phone was lovely.  Incompetent, poorly trained, unable to help me, but lovely all the same.  I couldn't be angry with her inability to schedule an appointment for me, or to find out what service had been done the last time I was in, or to tell me what service was recommended. She had only begun working last for the dealership last week.  Poor baby, she'd been put on the phones without training or education.  It was hardly her fault that she couldn't help me.

I give her credit for recognizing the dilemma and seeking assistance.  Andrew, one of the Assistant Service Managers, came on the line and explained all the coupons and the options and told me what needed to be done.  According to him, the coupons weren't useful "unless you have an old truck, or something that needs just regular oil." The Schnozz, being a GTI, requires synthetic (read: expensive) oil.  The coupon wasn't going to help me there, he said.

Did I know what had been done last time I brought the car in for service, he wondered. I wondered right back why he didn't check the company's computers for that information. Surely, they kept records of the work done on my car.  While he was explaining their computer system, I was looking for the paper copy of the receipt from my last visit.   I found it before Andrew was finished explaining himself.

An oil change was all that was needed. I could bring it in anytime.  When did I want to come in.

The real answer was NEVER. Since ignoring the inner workings of a vehicle is never a good idea, I made an appointment for this afternoon.  I finished class, had lunch with TBG, and drove into the service bay right on time.

No one was there to greet me. The lovely young lady was on the phone, and she smiled at me and mouthed an apology when I entered the office.  We walked around the car, marking dots and blots on the paperwork to note the dings accumulated driving around town.  I wondered why she wasn't using a digital camera, which would be more accurate and faster.  She didn't know.

Checking the odometer and the VIN, entering them on her paperwork, she smiled and handed me the sheet to sign.  There was no treatment plan. She wanted me to sign a blank page.  Being Daddooooo's daughter, that wasn't going to happen.

"What are you planning to do?" I asked.

"The 50,000 mile check up," was her reply.

Steam began to bubble up and out of my ears.  I shook my head.  I said no. I felt my stomach knot up.

"I was told that I needed only the oil change."

She was flummoxed.  We went inside, and she found a service advisor, who wondered where my coupons were.  Was I using the oil change deal? I was there for the 50K tune up, right?

I reiterated Andrew's advice, with a frown on my face.  Did I need to do the major service today? If I didn't, would they change the oil (and charge me) when I brought The Schnozz back? Why would the coupons be helpful, when his colleague had assured me that they were not? Did anyone have a definitive answer for me?

The coupons would give me a discount.  He had no idea why I'd been given conflicting information. It might be more convenient for me to leave the car for the major service since I was here already. I could bring it back in 3,000 miles and they would neither change the oil again, nor charge me for doing so.  If I wanted them to wash the car this afternoon, I should add twenty minutes to the one hour for the oil change.  The delightful young lady sat there, absorbing it all.

I bought the oil change package. I gave them the keys and they drove the car to the service bay. I sit here, using the free wi-fi, watching Marky Mark and his dysfunctional family in The Fighter on the flat screen in the lobby with one eye, typing to you with the other, wondering why I didn't just drive away when things got confusing.

Sometimes, convenience is not the only issue.

Her kids don't get on the computer without a good reason and an adult present. She works and volunteers and dances and chairs benefits and serves on boards and does pro-bono work and, like most moms who do even half of what she does, she feels guilty all the time.  

I try to reassure her that it's a natural state of affairs, reprising MTF's advice to me upon learning of my pregnancy:

No matter what you do, you'll feel guilty.  So, you might as well do what you want to do.

Or, as Dr. Spock put it,

Trust yourself. You know more than you think you do.

Beautiful Annie sent me the story below to make me smile; I'm not sure she realized how well it fits into my head right now.  I've been looking for a reason to smile while life throws curves at my friends, and I'm not doing a very good job of it.  I try to find an angle from which to approach it... and I fail.  I like the way Thing 1 turns a new diagnosis into a positive ... and then goes on to turn his mother's words right back at her.

He's the son of two lawyers. I'm reminded of Clueless and Dan Hedaya's praise for his daughter's ability to argue her way to a better grade, rather than focusing on the C the teacher initially proffered. Thing 1 can argue his way out of a paper bag.... or inappropriate internet gazing... and leave you with a grin on your face.

Read, smile, and have a great day!
*****
Thing 2 came to me and confessed that he and Thing 1 had looked something up on the internet that they shouldn't have. He then proceeded to tell me, through gulping sobs, that he didn't know it was wrong because he's young and that he will never do it again .... etcetera.... etcetera..... etcetera.  

It took forever and a lot of reassurance to get him to tell me what they looked up. Finally, it came out: "Naked Girls."

So then I went to Thing 1, the big brother, who started giggling and said, "Yes, we 'tried' to look up naked girls."

"What do you mean, you 'tried'?"

"Well, Mom, you know how you just discovered that Thing 2 has a learning disorder? Well, I have known for a long time. I let him type the query in the computer and he typed it "nekd gurlz" So we didn't really see anything. Then Dad came in the room and we shut it off."

Then he said, "See Mom, look at the bright side. Thing 2's learning disorder is a good thing!"  

Thing 1 then asked, “Are you upset? Because you shouldn’t be upset. You ALWAYS tell us that women’s bodies are beautiful and that we should respect them. So we were just being admiring, like you said!"

*****

Hoist by her own petard, poor thing.

The World Needs More People Like You, Mom

How long do you search before you replace your lost phone?

I had it with me before I met TBG for lunch, because I called him to make a plan. We dashed out of Five Guys once again because a patron was packing heat, so it might have been left there, but I remembered putting it into the insulated reusable shopping bag, along with my wallet, when I went into the grocery store.  

But, I'd been to G'ma's in the interim, and who knows what would happen if I called her on her phone and asked her to listen for mine.... You're on this phone.... my phone might be there.... listen for the phone... yes, you're on the phone.... I might have left my phone.... no, not your phone.... I had to smile. I didn't make the call.

I'd spent the morning with Boethius, considering happiness. Possessions bring responsibilities and opportunities for mischance; true happiness is self-sufficiency.  Did I really need my phone? Was I allowing the trappings of my life to distract me from what is truly important? Intellectually, I know that I need my phone. Intellectually, I was dissecting that need. Emotionally, I was strangely calm.  

Usually, losing my phone sends me over the edge.  My stomach roils, my brain can't focus, I lash out angrily at life and anyone in it. Today, I was quick, purposeful, but relatively disinterested as I retraced my steps: to the grocery store; through the parking lot; to G'ma's pod castle; through that parking lot, too; back to the grocery store lot to look just one more time. At home, I emptied my schoolbag and the insulated grocery bags and flattened them out with my hands, just to be sure.  

TBG called the errant device as I chased around the house and the garage and the courtyard

where I'd deposited the beginnings of fall, listening and hearing nothing.

And so, the question: How long do you search before you replace your lost phone?

We decided that I would take one more pass through G'ma's apartment before I went to the Verizon store and cashed in on the insurance I was suddenly very glad to have purchased.  I put my wallet in my purse (no more carrying things loose for me) and got into The Schnozz, fondling the grocery bags one more time when I wondered, aloud, "Did I take it out with the chicken?"

When I got home from the market, perishables in tow, I was in urgent need of the bathroom. I grabbed the cold stuff and shoved it in the refrigerator and raced down the hall. Afterwards, I chatted with TBG, watched some PTI, and then went to look for my calendar on the phone... which was no where to be found. I'd forgotten about my rushed return; it was the only part of my afternoon I did not try to recreate. 

And so, I got out of the car and came back inside and opened the refrigerator and there it was, 

on top of the chicken. 

You can see how rushed I was by the fact that the carrot never made it to the veggie bin. 

I learned many lessons from this episode.  I learned that my refrigerator is soundproof. I learned that I must pay attention to transitions. I learned that breathing deeply and focusing on the fact that this was an annoyance but not a tragedy is possible, especially since I learned that I need to pay attention to the good things in life... like the fact that I walked to all those places two or three times within an hour today... and I really walked... without much of a limp at all, my arms swinging, my steps wide and firm and evenly weighted. I was motivated to cover as much ground in as little time as possible and, for the first time in nearly three years, I was able to do just that. 

I wasn't running, but I was moving. I didn't have a cart, I didn't stumble as I turned, I went up and down curbs as if nothing was amiss... and nothing was amiss because the damn phone was in the refrigerator and I was walking.

I'm on the path to self-sufficiency. I wish I didn't have to feel so foolish to recognize it. It's at moments like these that I stop, take a deep breath, and remember Little Cuter's maxim, the title of this post.

I laugh at myself and move on.

Eavesdropping

The telephone occupied the most central location in the house.  The image of a teenage girl hurtling down the stairs, grabbing the receiver and turning her shoulder to the rest of the family was a staple of 1950's television. By the 1960's there were extensions in the bedrooms, but they were each accessible from the other.  A crafty brother with a gentle touch could lift the receiver in another room and listen in on your personal, private conversations.

Such behavior was frowned upon in polite society.

Our phone was in the kitchen; I'd sit at the top of the basement steps, the door closed securely  behind me, when I needed privacy.  If anyone lurked and listened, I never found out.  My hunch is that it never happened, because I never did it to anyone else.  Of course, they were younger and, therefore, boring, but still......

I don't know if G'ma listened in to my conversations once I had my own extension in my own room, but I doubt that she did.  Ours was a family that didn't open mail that was not our own; even when I was very little, my birthday cards were opened by me, and me alone.  Communications between individuals was sacrosanct; it was shared at the discretion of those involved.

It's not The Snowden Affair which has me focused on this topic. It's more personal and closer to home.  Sparing the details, texts were read by someone she trusted, who betrayed her by sharing them with the grown-up-in-charge-at-the-moment... who happened to be the topic of the invaded conversation.

The feces hit the fan.

The relief she felt when she figured out why that grown-up has been acting weird to me all day was mitigated by the betrayal she had to face.  She never suspected that he would breach her trust. She thought that he was her friend, that he cared about her, and that they shared the same opinion of the grown-up at the center of the drama. She was heartbroken to know that he was none of those things..

And, she was far from home.  That distance is the reason she was texting and not talking to the grown-up-for-real in her life. The Faux Adult had placed the teenager in the middle of a self-created drama and, like a terrier, she would not let go. Though it centered on our beleaguered heroine, the issues of power, control, and the flow of information revolved around the Faux Adult.... which is just where she wanted things to be.  She is limited.  She has no depth of character.  She has shown herself to be unreliable and hurtful over and over again.  Her behavior was surprising only to the teen at the heart of it all.

And that's where it lives - in the heart.  A young girl saw a chance to resurrect a broken relationship and, against her better instincts, the grown-up-in-real-life said Yes.  Once again, my cardinal rule of parenting proved itself to be the guidepost for all decisions - trust your gut.  She didn't, and the kid paid the price.

Live and learn, on all fronts, it seems.

Does reading purloined text messages not carry a social stigma?  Do the conversations that we have, thumbs flying over teeny keyboards, living on forever in the ether, have less importance than the spoken word for this technologically savvy generation?  Was the instigator of this event just looking to make a scene, not caring about society's strictures?  Should we worry about committing our inner-most thoughts to pixels?  Or is this all about a grown-up who wasn't at the center of attention for a moment, who fought to retain the spotlight, and who didn't consider the consequences.

After all, those consequences sat on someone else's shoulders. As long as people were looking at her, were involved with her, were talking about her, life was good.

Someday we ought to have the conversation about licensing parents.

Random Thoughts

I suppose it would be considered churlish of me to complain about the weather, but I'm going to do it anyway.  G'ma was cold as we left the pod-castle this morning.  "Mommy, it's in the mid-60's and it's January," was met with "SO??? It's cold."

I could wax eloquent about how frail she is getting.  Instead, I'm just going to agree with her.  It's dreary and rainy and cooler than it ought to be.

There, I've said it. I will move on.
*****
This is a slow sports week for my boys.  They are on tenterhooks, following every scrap of information as their 49'ers head toward the Super Bowl. For those of you unable to add your own two cents to the water cooler patter (and you know who you are), here are the highlights: the coaches are brothers who always look ready to surprise the other with a noogie.  No, the Patriots are not playing, the Baltimore Ravens (actually the faux-Cleveland Browns, but that's another tale for another time) apparently will be carrying out God's plan as they swoop to victory on Sunday.

That's Ray Lewis's story, and he's sticking to it.  Personally, I'd like to think about that being as having more important matters to tend.... although maybe Ray's church of football is across the street from Annie Savoy's Church of Baseball.  I wonder....
*****
Slow progress can impede the best of intentions. Pedicure to pedicure, my neighbor and I commiserated. She'd been on Weight Watchers since October. She'd only lost 14 pounds and she was discouraged.  Having hauled my achy hip up onto the massage chair with movements that were the antithesis of grace, I shared her pain.  Two years on and I'm still creaking along.

But, as I reminded my new friend that one pound per week will be 52 pounds next October, that slow and steady wins the race, that you have to set achievable goals and be satisfied with the interim steps, that she was trying and that was the main thing, I realized that one year ago I needed two hands to get one leg up there with me.

She never knew she was a mirror
*****
The back-to-back freezing nights last week took a toll on my plants.  The lantana are shells of their former selves, droopy and brown and matted.  I knew better than to leave the adenium out in the chill, and its soggy trunk fills me with remorse.  The theoretically-evergreen Mexican Bird of Paradise is leafless and an interesting shade of ecru.  It bends, so it's not dead, but if this is livin'.....

I would take pictures for you, but it's too ugly out there (cf paragraph 1)
*****

Olio - The Travel Edition

I brought just the right amount of clothes.  Not too many.  Not too few.  I was Goldilocks with the suitcase and I'm feeling fairly smug.

It's a new suitcase, bought to fit American Airlines tiny overhead bins and avoid a charge for bringing a change of underwear along for the ride.  Personally, I'd go for each passenger and her baggage standing on a scale, weighed together.  If we're both over a certain limit, then charge us.  I fail to see the logic in paying $50 to check a bag when it and I together don't come close to the number of pounds the gentleman whose flesh was falling into my seat this afternoon was carrying.
*****
One day, I'm going to arrive at the first gate off the hallway to baggage claim.  It was half a mile to the first moving walkway this afternoon at Detroit Metro; I amused myself by reciting "I can't believe I am able to walk this far" over and over and over and over again.  I was lurching (a little) and hitching (a little) but there were no creaks in my hip and no pain down my leg.

The smoothness will come.  For now, I'm proud to say that I didn't even consider getting a wheelchair.
*****
There's a workout facility here at the airport hotel and I'm thinking about it.  I'm also thinking about taking a nap.  Getting up and on a train before 7am is not my usual modus operandi.  Sitting next to my little girl and napping made it palatable.... not pleasurable, but palatable nonetheless.  The fact that I could walk out of Union Station, cross the bridge over the Chicago River, and meet my girlfriend on Monroe Street was an added bonus.

I need to remind myself that a year ago, such an adventure would have been impossible.
*****
I hate to admit it, but I'm loving my Kindle.  The library book I mailed back to myself from the kids' home last October was sitting on their kitchen counter when I arrived last week.  Somehow, the postman had never collected it and they had never mentioned it and the library charged me for it and there it is, all wrapped up and no place to go.

With my Kindle, I have nothing to carry, nothing to mail, and every book I could want at my beck and call.  Of course, I have to remember to charge the battery..... it's a good thing I have Volume 14 of Merle Reagle's Crossword Puzzles to bail me out when the power goes out.  
*****
There was snow on the ground we flew over this afternoon, but none when I arrived in Detroit. There was no snow on the ground in Chicago's western suburbs, either.  That's just wrong.  If I'm going north in January, I should be rewarded with the fluffy white stuff, don't you think?
*****
My plan to watch pay-per-view movies all night is thwarted.  There are no pay-per-view movies in this hotel.  This has never happened to me.  Again, my Kindle will bail me out, but I'm sorry that I won't have the chance to revel in shows TBG would never share.
*****
MTF always checks for bedbugs before she opens her suitcase.  Big Cuter had an infestation that should have put me on the same path.  Yet, here I am, reclining on seven feather pillows on an uninspected bed, typing to you.

I'm afraid that I'll never lose the visual if I lift the mattress and see thousands of moving black spots.  Of course, if I wake up covered in little red dots, what will I have proven?
*****
I do not want to hear anyone say anything about young people today.

Twenty-somethings retrieved dropped items, lifted my suitcase, held doors, shared smiles, and let me precede them down the jetway, promising to hold back the hustling hordes so that no one would bump me.  Somewhere, parents are getting it right.  I told each of them to call their grown-ups and tell them a stranger said, "Good Job!"
*****
It's time for a pre-prandial nap, denizens.  I'll have a lot of exciting things to describe in the days ahead.  I'm not allowed to tell you why I'm here or what I'm doing but, trust me, it's gonna be great!

Happy Birthday, USofA

The USofA is a remarkable place.

We are a contentious collection of disparate individuals.  We live in the Deep South and the frozen tundra.  We sport a variety of skin tones and accents.  Some of our ancestors have been here before the European Conquest and some have never seen our shores.  We pray to one God and many gods and no god at all.  We drawl and we chatter.  We are Americans.

Conservative and radical, relaxed and intense, we sit beside one another on an airplane, crossing the Mississippi and the Rockies, and we wonder if we’ll see any fireworks from our perch several miles high.  It’s our country’s birthday and we are all, each and every one of us, in a celebratory mood.

There are children wearing red white and blue.  There are adults sporting flag t-shirts.  There is a collection of  patriotic headgear on this flight that would make the buyer for Target proud.  We are preparing for our nation’s birthday party and we’re wearing great big grins.

Politicians are shooting darts at one another over golf and jet skis and Jackson Hole vacations but that all seems unimportant up here.  Counting the states as the pilot aims our craft toward Tucson, my mind conjures up images of picnics and sparklers.  We are above it but a part of it nonetheless.

We have a Chief Justice of  the Supreme Court who was able to put partisan politics aside and craft a document which insured that I will have health insurance even though Blue Cross/Blue Shield spent much more money on my care than they would have preferred.

There is a group of wealthy families, friends of Nathax in her hometown of  Glencoe, who have committed to provide the funding for a charter school far on the south side of Chicago because they want those high schoolers to have the same opportunities as their own, more privileged children enjoy.

Wheelchairs of all shapes and sizes passed me in the hallways of the Rehabilitation Institute this afternoon, carrying humans of every description to and from outstanding medical care, offered at little or no cost if the patient cannot pay.

Two little ones are traveling alone to spend a month with Grandma while Mom stays home and works.  They will see the sites of the West - Las Vegas and the Grand Canyon among them.  The stewardess settled them in, and the Asian grandma in the third seat in their row is taking particular care to insure that they are happy and secure.  She didn’t know them before she boarded; she’s looking after them as if they were her own.

There is no sense of  the other.   We are all in this America business together, black and white and tan and old and young and in-between.  It’s not an easy row to hoe, but we’re convinced that it is worth the effort.

That may well be my own personal fantasy, but I don’t care.  It’s amusing me to imagine that, for these next few hours, I’m traveling with my fellow countrymen as we head toward celebrating the birthday of our nation.

I wish you all a joyous Fourth of July, filled with appreciation for the wonder that is our United States.  TBG and I will be hanging out the flag and barbequing and feeling extremely grateful to be able to call ourselves Americans.