A Very Weird Tuesday

It kept getting stranger and stranger as the hours went by.

There was snow on Mount Lemmon (aka the southernmost ski resort in the USofA) and what might have been melted frost on the front yard's stone mulch when I went out to get the papers this morning. It's the desert in Arizona, for crying out loud. Why am I wrapped up in a polar fleece full length bathrobe (a great gift from the Big Cuter but usually waaaay too warm for Tucson). I should have been paying more attention; the day was only going to get weirder.

VISA decided to protect me from myself by placing a fraud watch on my account without telling me. Unfortunately, it took rejecting my card twice while making purchases over the phone and a couple of calls to VISA before Kesha listened as I ranted and raved and foamed at the mouth over missing yoga to deal with their misguided efforts to keep me safe when all they'd accomplished was to humiliate me and force me to waste my time in an effort to do what the robo-voice on the first call had suggested : feel free to use the card. When I paused for breath, she agreed with everything I'd said, elaborated on the transactions which had been attempted, and gave me a cogent explanation for the fraud alert - I think it had something to do with my purchase of Nellie the Netbook on Saturday, but I was so stunned by her pleasant, respectful, smiling manner that I missed the gory details. ,Then, she credited my account for the points I'd missed by using my debit card rather than call the vendor a third time. Then, she wrote notes in my file. Then she offered to take my cell phone number so that VISA can call me and let me know if there are fraud concerns about my card if I'm out and about. Yes, that's what she said : out and about. She was so cute I was unable to stay mad at her... and that kind of pissed me off. Weird -- I was starting to get mad about not being mad.

Couldn't get through to G'ma on the phone, and have no idea why. Showed up to find her in pj's and ready for a shower. Five minutes later she was out of the bathroom and dressed. Totally weird -- she's usually at least 40 minutes from start to finish. "They haven't fixed the plumbing yet. I had no water in the shower." No way the pod-castle would let something that important go un-repaired, but I couldn't turn it on either. Turns out there's a button on the hand-wand-shower-head which was in the wrong position.... the fact that I couldn't figure that out myself just fit in with the tenor of the day.

Bowled under the name of Cookie, since Peaches had been failing me lately, and threw my second highest game ever. I am NOT a good bowler. I am not even a mediocre bowler. Yet I won. Weirder and weirder.

G'ma remembered and finished a story I'd told her only once before and volunteered to take the long way back to the car. All the items on my grocery list were on sale. The President almost convinced me that a war in Afghanistan might not be the quagmire I fear it may be. It's been a very weird day.

A Jewish Girl Does Christmas -- a continuing story

December 1st is the start of my favorite time of year. For some reason, I channel the stress into more vigorous elf-ing and suddenly I'm smiling instead of grumbling. It's all about the love.

Nannie is my inspiration, my role model, my raison d'etre in the Christmas department. And yes, I know that raison d'etre means reason for being..... it's totally true that I would never have come up with the concept on my own.

Growing up on the Jewish end of the street, surrounded by Jewish friends and relatives, participating in Jewish festivities, I never missed Christmas at all. Never lusted for a Christmas Tree, never begged for a Chanukah Bush, never felt excluded or deprived. Santa didn't ask if I was Jewish; I sat on his lap and enjoyed the experience but I didn't mind that he went to Rita's house but not to mine. G'ma let me put snowflakes on the window with decals and some spray-on goo that left dandruff on the rug for months beyond its useful life and I was fine. The 8 days of Chanukah were enough for me.

I enjoyed joining TBG's family for the holiday, but I never really got it until the year TBG asked why we always had a menorah but never a tree. "Go get a tree," the ever agreeable I replied. His face said it all before his mouth could form the words. "But, MOM always got the tree...."

That was my first inkling that there was more to this holiday than was obvious to the casual observer. I'd never seen beyond the marketing and the caroling and the ballet and Scrooge. All of a sudden, though, TBG's entire childhood was present in our 11th floor high rise with the green shag carpet. He wasn't the equal partner in our marriage when it came to this particular issue. I was in charge ..... the little boy he was, the precursor to the man balefully pleading with his big blue eyes ...... there was no denying him.

The next afternoon after work, I walked to the corner lot and bought a tree small enough to carry home. Brought it inside and looked at it. Called Nannie and asked "How does the tree stand up?" Wonderful, loving, kind and perfect woman that she was, there was no laughter. Instead, she was outraged : hadn't they sold me a stand? didn't they realize this was my first tree? She sent me right back to the vendor, and reminded me to put water in the reservoir as soon as I got it home. I kind of wished she had told me to wait til the tree was straight before putting the water in the receptacle, but that green shag carpet hid a multitude of sins, and Christmas tree water was the least of them.

I had stopped at Walgreens before boarding the 151 home that day, and the couch and coffee table were covered with decorations. I had tinsel, I had red and green round ornaments, I had lights... and I put them on the tree in just that order. To be accurate, I put most of it on in that order. While I was able to push the balls past the tinsel, the lights had me stymied. I was cogitating the problem, wondering whether there was a genetic component to my frustration, when TBG walked in the door. His reaction was a mixture of love-surprise-astonishment-and genuine dismay that he had married someone foolish enough to think that the lights, for pete's sake what were you thinking went on last.

It was my first tree. What did he expect?

A Weekend's Worth of Musings

I sleep better when the Cuters are in the house. TBG and I are usually up and dressed by 7 and in the gym or on the road by 8. This weekend, though, I needed the alarm to get me up to put the turkey in the oven and to take the Little Cuter to the airport for her morning flight and I seriously considered rolling over and letting Amster work out by herself Sunday morning. Some part of it might have been that we were staying up late with the kids, but I really think it's that I can see, with my own eyes, that right now right here everybody is fine.
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Last year, G'ma had bilateral broken ankles and was stoned on Oxycontin. She fell asleep in her plate (thankfully, before the food was on it). This year, she was giggling with the Little Cuter over photos and whatever else beloved grand-daughters and G'ma's share. I have to remember that things sometimes do get better.
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Hines Ward should be ashamed of himself. Not only for the outfit he was wearing while talking to Bob Costas on Sunday night, but for saying that he played with concussions and that it was a personal thing whether or not Ben Roethlisberger should be on the field against the Ravens. NOT..... the NFL is finally recognizing that brain damage and football and concussions are related and here's the Steelers' best receiver dissing the quarterback for protecting his noggin. It's hard enough to parent without having sports stars encouraging young athletes to ignore medical advice in order to prove their manhood.
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During the Colts game today, CBS Sports was advertising a 20% discount on all NFL gear. At least TBG and the Big Cuter and I thought it was all NFL gear, but the lovely Shamika at the help desk insisted that jerseys were excluded. If there were exclusions on the screen at the sports bar we certainly didn't see them. I wasn't taking no for an answer, but she and her supervisor convinced me to accept free expedited upgraded shipping in exchange for disappointing me in the price point department. I'm not convinced that our memories are wrong, but I really wasn't getting anywhere by digging my heels in and the Big Cuter wanted the jersey and Shamika was truly lovely so I bought it. My New York shopper's cred just took a big hit.
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There's an upside to having a local airport with no direct flights to anyplace anyone would want to go - there's never any traffic in the departures drop-off area.
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Rambo is on tv as I type. The boys are having a better time remembering lines from Hot Shots:Part Deux than they are watching an extremely hot young Sly Stallone kill a helicopter with a bow and arrow.
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Finally, thank you Schmutzie for including A Love Story and a Rant in 5 Star Friday last week. It's nice to know that somebody thinks the Burrow is worth sharing.

And this is what it looked like after 8 hours of cooking and eating and cleaning up and eating some more.

We were thankful and joyful and now are tryptophan-coma-ing on the couch.

Have a wonderful weekend - I'll be back on Monday with more musings. For now, I'm going to bask in the wonderfulness that is my whole family under one roof.

Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.................

Thanksgiving Day

For my happy, healthy family

for my friends, near and far, old and new and old-and-found-again

for the abundance of goodness I see every day

for the richness of the world I inhabit

for the joy I find in simple things,

I am truly grateful.

Happy Thanksgiving to you all !!

There's a bonus post below.... it's a Wednesday 2-fer!

Thanksgiving (Wednesday)

This is the weirdest day of the holiday weekend. If it's not a day of arrivals, and it's not a day of grocery shopping, it's merely a day of waiting. And it's not like a Jewish holiday, which starts the night before thus giving the day a special designation (erev Thanksgiving just doesn't sound hebraic, does it?). Instead it just sits here, waiting for something to happen.

The Cuters slept in, TBG spent the morning in the gym, and I took a totally unexpected nap on the couch from 8 til 10am. Satisfied the Big Cuter's craving for a chicken fajita burrito at Chipotle while drinking a Coke and smiling at the adult version of my little boy. Went for a fancier lunch with the Little Cuter and TBG, and watched the two of them hold their head at the same angle as they perused their exact same sandwiches. Met with the roofer and the exterior lighting guys and read Anne Perry in the sunshine. All four of us drove back to the gym this afternoon, and now we're trying to decide what to have for dinner.

If the kids lived nearby, there would be nothing unusual about this day. But because they've traveled and packed and are now visitors instead of inhabitants I feel like there should be more made of the fact that they are here. But they're happy to just be and my predilection to assume the role of social director is stymied. I've got Mommy-guilt to the max; I feel like we ought to be doing something.

And we're not. And everyone is content.

I suppose that I should just let it go and relax....... but I'm a MOM........ I've not mastered that particular skill just yet.

Thanksgiving (Tuesday Evening)

I've been thinking about family and friends, as The Cuters make their way to the desert southwest for a family-only Thanksgiving. They're at their respective airports hours early, as befits a TBG-spawned human, and if the weather holds out they'll arrive in Tucson within an hour of each other. The Little Cuter will be arriving first and promises to be hungry; I'm bringing pot roast and fresh baked bread so she can feast while we await her brother. TBG thinks I'm silly; I flash to Daddooooo meeting me at LaGuardia with a bag of bagels and oranges and Coca-Cola and some chocolate candies for himself. I'm smiling as I pack the snack sack.

C&B were planning to join us, as they have every year since we've been sharing a state. Alas and alack, medical issues have altered their plans; when did we get old enough to have our bodies get in the way of life? Of course, there was the Thanksgiving when TBG and my brother and I drove 350 miles over the river and through the woods from Chicago to Nannie and Grandpaw's house, stopping at every rest area so TBG could throw up. Stomach flu seems to haunt him in late November, which is a shame because Thanksgiving is his favorite holiday. But we still went on the trip; he was young enough and healthy enough to manage the inconvenience. C&B are dealing with more serious issues and we'll have to be thankful for having them in our lives from afar this year. Don't the sickness gods recognize that we have certain traditions that ought to be respected? Perhaps they didn't get the memo.

Last year our Minneapolis snow birds invited themselves to our celebration; it was nice to know that they felt comfortable enough to announce that they were invite-less and wanted to join us. He even volunteered to cook the turkey, since he'd done it at his own home forever and ever. We accepted her offer of brownies and let him make the gravy in exchange for putting two more chairs at the table.

Amster's kids are still too young to do a grown-up Thanksgiving. Though she laughingly asks them if they were raised by wolves, being the only children at a grown-up table would put stress on even the most well-behaved 4 and 6 year olds. She's taking them to a house with other kids and a heated pool and spa. That seems to be an exceptionally wise parenting maneuver.

The Bride's mom called this afternoon to wish us a happy holiday, and the answering machine bears R-Squared's hope that we enjoy our turkey. The mailbox delivered cards from Maryland and New Jersey and my email inbox is full of Thanksgiving cheer. We may be just the 5 of us, but we're certainly surrounded by a cloud of holiday love.

I'm basking in the glow of it all.

Finding Friends at Wally-World

Walking in Walmart is my new way to make friends, it seems.

About a month or so ago, one of the Acquasizers accosted me outside the cereal aisle, up against the Lays Originals on sale at only $2/bag. For 15 minutes, she tried to convince me that I really truly absolutely had to abandon my current work-out plan and follow hers, including Aquatica, of course. I nodded politely at first, since I had no idea who she was when she hugged (with some force, I might add) her hello. Random love in Wally-World...... I'd have been nervous except she greeted me by name so she obviously knew who I was. Had TBG been there, he'd have realized immediately that I didn't remember her name, and he'd have rescued me by sticking out his hand and introducing himself, in the hope that she'd tell him her name in return. But, there I was, all alone by the generic corn flakes, listening to her re-arrange my life. When she'd finished her harangue she moved on while expressing her fervent desire that we share another work-out real soon.

I don't think so..... but it was nice of her to offer.

Had a long talk with the middle school track stars selling candy outside Wally's main doors last spring. They were raising money to send themselves to a meet somewhere far.... they knew the name of the school which was hosting the event, but there was some confusion as to its exact location.... New Mexico.... Texas..... someplace 9 hours on a please buy our candy bars so we can rent it bus. The parents were guarding the cash box and smiling proudly and letting the girls do the talking, and then one of the mom's walked into the store with me to help me find my hiking poles. I'm not sure how the conversation veered from 12 year old sprinters to 50-something hikers, but it did and she knew just where my poles were lurking and was delighted to escape the heat and take me right to them.

I wish I'd gotten her name and number.

So today, when I came upon the same 3 people near the dry goods (does anyone but me know that this means items which are not hardware or groceries?) as we examined the towels and then again as they were blocking the light bulbs and then again in front of the cold cases filled with milk I wasn't really surprised that we began a conversation. We'd started with "Excuse Me"'s and moved through "You, again??"'s and ended up sharing where did you live and why are you here and which did you like the most and where do you shop for.... and after sharing Chicago and New York and Pennsylvania and Florida stories I handed the bridge-playing 80-going-on-60 mother the Burrow's business card and we went our separate ways.

Riding into town to shop used to be an adventure. Think of the Bennett women shopping for ribbons and seeing Mr. Darcy and the Bingley's arrival through the haberdasher's window. Think of Michael Landon and his girls tying up the buckboard in front of the general store on that windswept street in town. Remember the Wells Fargo wagon a-coming to River City, with the whole town lining the way? There are greetings and information is exchanged and the socializing is as important as the buying.

Shopping at this time of year is not always easy and the stores are filled with amateurs but, for me, the socializing is part of the fun. We're all in it together, and, perhaps because of the season, there's a little more willingness to let the lady with the cane and only one item cut ahead of you in line. And then there are the random encounters with strangers who, I hope, will become readers.

Because I went out into the world today and I made some new friends.

REAL Books

My readers do love their books.

Friday's post garnered more comments than anything the Burrow has seen in its lifetime. And what lovely comments they are. It seems that I am not the only library scofflaw here in the blogosphere, and that paying up is not a problem for either of us. I knew I liked you!

Loving real books has kept me from being an early Kindle adopter. The thought of having any book I want immediately available is nearly orgasmic..... but I won't really have the book then, will I? The real, palpable sensation of the paper between my fingers makes a difference to me. Dick Francis writes on bright white paper with a sharp edged easy to read font. Faye Kellerman has put Blindman's Bluff on a thick ecru with feathery edges that make me feel like I'm holding personalized stationary.

My Ulysses is printed on an almost slick off white surface that is absolutely perfect for writing notes -

and Ulysses, if it is nothing else, is a text which requires notes.

The Aubrey/Maturin series looks like the early 1800's it represents -the font is old fashioned and the pages are small and have an organic/not over-processed thickness.

G'ma and Daddooooo's oversized Merriam-Webster dictionary was my first exposure to onionskin pages. Without being told, I knew that I should be gentle and my hands should be dry and I should turn each page separately and carefully. I remember the shiny white background of the flags page, too, and I'm still flummoxed - how many books have different paper stocks within their bindings?

I suppose the World Book's human body overlays fit into that category.

I thought they were strange when I first saw them. Still do, actually.

My copy of Edith Hamilton's Plato looks like a prayer book both inside and out.

Which fits, if you think of Plato as the quintessential rabbi .... given that rabbi translates to teacher.

Our cousin (I claim her even though she's actually TBG's side of the family because she's one of the good cousins and I want my share!) The Diva understood my pain and reassured me that her Kindle is totally wonderful and encouraged me to buy one right away but even though I love her and she's a perfect parent (we agree on everything) and a great cousin for the Cuters I am just not convinced.

On general principles, I'm opposed to buying something that I cannot touch before purchasing. I want to go to a store and pick one up and sit in a variety of chairs and walk outside and see how it works in all the ways that I read a book and that just can't be done. I'm sorry. I am not cool enough to have a friend who is an early adopter. I have no one to show me hers and let me play for a while. I need a retail outlet. And though I love Amazon in so many ways and have for so many years I am peeved beyond belief that this technology is not more accessible to me.

I read reviews that talk about glare and font size and ease of use and I can't go any further. One of my favorite things about books is that they work without being plugged in. They don't make noise, they don't run out of power, they don't require another entity to connect with .... they're waiting there at any time of the day or night and as long as there is some illumniation you're good to go.

I know that books feel right in my hands and glare can be eliminated by turning my body around so the sun isn't in my eyes when I'm reading rather than by building a shelter for my electronic reader. Ease of use??? C'mon, people, you open the binding and there you are - reading. There's no waiting for the book to boot up onto the screen. The pleasure is there whenever you can take it.

Linda Fairstein's Lethal Legacy is set in the New York Public Library, and the collection is a major character. It was a wonderful counterpoint to be reading about Alex and Mercer and Mike in one of my favorite buildings, interrogating witnesses with lines like "Your library is your portrait..." while I was composing this love note to real books.

This is a topic to which much more attention will be given.

A Love Story and A Rant

I am living an embarassment of riches.

After several months of waiting not all that patiently, I reached the top of the reserve list for Sara Paretsky's latest oeuvre . It now shares a shelf with Linda Fairstein and James Patterson and Anne Perry and Faye Kellerman, occupying the space just vacated by Patricia Cornwell. I am surrounded by library treasures and they didn't cost me a dime. I just had to show up with some identification and a utility bill proving that I actually live where I said I live and that was that. They gave me a pretty library card




(actually, it was mailed to the address I gave them..... just in case I had forged my gas bill, I guess...) and welcomed me to the community.

I've thanked Ben Franklin for the idea before, so I won't go there right now. Instead, I'm just going to gush. I've loved libraries in ....

Chicago under the Fullerton El tracks, from whose stacks I read all of Agatha Christie, armed with a xerox-ed list of titles which I crossed off as I found them on the shelves.

Ithaca under McGraw Tower, where the Andrew Dickson White Library

Courtesy of the

Division of Rare and Manuscript Collections, Cornell University Library

was the scene of some epic naps curled in the sofa looking down Libe Slope, but also where I rediscovered reading for pleasure after graduating in December but hanging around campus til May.

New York City's iconic Main Reading Room, waiting patiently for a minion to find my title within the vast expanses of the shelves to which they, and only they, had access, then sitting on my wooden chair at my section of the wooden table with the wooden barrier between my work and my neighbors' and feeling smart.

Tiburon, basking in the glow of a peninsula coming together to raise a proper library and, in the process, creating a community center touching 5th graders working on a project in the glass enclosed group room and AARP members learning to send emails to their grandkids at the media center in the middle of the room and gardeners sharing their bounty -- you have to love a place that has a waiting list for those who want to donate one of the weekly arrangements.

Oceanside, where Miss Carroll remembered my name and always had a really really good suggestion for me and where no one laughed when I said that I was going to be like Francie in A Tree Grows in Brooklyn and read all the books in the library in alphabetical order.
(I got somewhere into the B's before I gave up....)

So today, when I realized that a Jeffery Deaver novel had taken up permanent residence in my trunk, I stopped in to return it and pick up Hardball. The self-check-out terminal gently directed me to the Information Desk where I was informed, regretfully and sorrowfully, that I owed $5.50 in fines. I handed over a crisp Lincoln and, before I could get into my change purse the librarian said, "Oh, y'know what, this will be just fine." And she closed the cash drawer.

I was stunned. This was a debt I had incurred knowingly - I had seen The Broken Window in my trunk for 2 weeks, and I'd received an email reminding me to return it, and I'd driven past the library or forgotten it when I'd gone in and I owed them the whole amount and I was going to pay it. I had 2 quarters and a nickel and I made her take the extra 5cents because I was making a point:

Libraries are to be cherished and supported and nurtured and skipping out on fines just is not right.

But I waxed even more eloquent, there at the Information Desk, in front of this poor librarian who was only trying to do me a favor and make me smile. I went on to taking responsibility for one's actions and from there segued nicely into there have to be consequences and was just about to launch into specific examples when I realized that there was a line of people behind me and that, perhaps, just maybe, it might be possible that my voice was a tad louder than the inside voices good parents insist be used in libraries.

I took my book and left.

(More) Adventures in BCBSAZ-Land

TBG got a thoughtful and lovely letter last week from our friendly health insurer. No, I am not delusional. This clearly written in a fairly large font one page missive was an easily understood reminder of the fact that his benefit package included help with managing disease.

Managing disease is not a phrase you want to see in a personal letter from your insurance carrier.

We were confused. Just this summer our doctor declared TBG a marvel of health and vitality. I wondered about it from a paperwork angle - who input erroneous information which would be used to jack up our rates once again? - and from a medical angle - what did they know that we didn't?

I was perplexed but not worried until this morning when the answering machine revealed Kathy's message. Kathy's a nurse with BCBSAZ and she, too, was offering to help manage TBG's mysterious disease. Don't get me wrong - I'm not complaining about this part at all. Her voice was calm and inviting and welcoming and totally relaxed and some part of me wished that we really did have a disease she could help us manage. Nope, we wouldn't mind having her in our lives on a regular basis, reminding us to get a flu shot and watch the trans-fats and complimenting us on going to the gym and getting a good night's sleep and eating a nutritious breakfast and all those things you have to watch out for by yourself once your Mom stops doing it for you. She could call me every morning with a reminder and......

OK, I digress. But really, when have you been drawn to a voice on an answering machine????

Nice as she sounded, at this point I knew I had to take action. TBG listened to Kathy and promised that he had not been hiding any ailments from my wifely instrusiveness and we agreed to try to call her and see what she thought was wrong with him. And so I began dialing.

As a recovering-social-worker I have paid my dues on the-line-is-busy-please-hold queue and my technique is flawless : speaker phone+redial+checking email+listening to 92.9 streaming live=less stress. Note that the equation does not result in speaking with someone; that is a matter of chance. My chance came at about 2pm - the phone was actually ringing.

Kathy is as good on the phone as she is on the answering machine. She was moved by the fact that her line had been busy all day, and she accepted my reassurance that I totally understand being busy with a gentle laugh. There was a real person at the other end of my line who was actually listening to what I was saying and who was believing me. Smart and kind.... how often does that show up in your life?

She let me tell my story and ask my question and she didn't need to hear any identifying information other than TBG's name. She remembered calling him. I was beginning to get weirded out big time - he wasn't an anonymous robo-call recipient, he was TBG and Kathy was worried about him..... or so her phone call led us to believe..... and the us included Kathy because (finally, a chink in her perfect armor!!!) though she had to look him up to see exactly what was wrong, she knew that there must have been a reason she was calling.

Blood tests...... diabetes work up ..... lab results....... oh, I see......

Apparently, the act of ordering laboratory tests to check for the presence of diabetes sets off a chain of letters and phone calls offering support, regardless of the results of those tests. Since TBG's letter didn't refer to a specific disease, and since Kathy had to search to find the specifics of his case, I'm assuming that BCBSAZ sends these communications out to everyone who's been tested for a chronic disease.

It's a really nice service, and probably a very useful resource, and I'm glad to see my insurer reaching out to help before things go from bad to worse, but what if I hadn't had the time to spend re-dialing Kathy's line all day? What if I'd ignored the letters because I was afraid to find out what they were writing about? I have a history of not opening mail that I think will be bad news (NB: I do not recommend this as a course of action for anyone at any time in any place!). I'd just be worrying and wondering and not acting and BCBSAZ would be sending dead trees through the USPS wondering why I wasn't interested in caring for myself with their already paid for so why not use it help.

And then there are the wasted resources - snail mail and stamps and gas for the mail carrier and my time and Kathy's time. And I'm still going to worry that the simple fact of having ordered the tests will have some impact on our premiums come next November's of-course-they-are-going-up annual rate adjustment. And all that could be one reason that health care costs have run amok.

But Kathy rightly pointed out that broadcasting this program widely catches many who would otherwise never see it, and she promised to take TBG off her list right away.

I have the answer to my question. I spent an lovely 12 minutes talking to Kathy. We won't be getting any more confusing communiques. I should shut up and stop right now.

Tuesdays With G'ma

G'ma and I went bowling with the Happy Ladies Club yesterday.

When I stopped by the pod-castle just after 9am, she was curled up snug as a bug in a rug in her comforter. Without her glasses on, she could only see my outline until I bent down to kiss her hello. I guess the caregivers don't include that service in their daily rounds, because she knew it was I, even with her eyes closed. I do love having a mother around.

I'd come to remind her that I'd be back at 11:30 to collect her for lunch. As she sank deeper into her blankets to resume the sleep I'd so rudely interrupted, I left with little confidence that she'd remember to get up and get ready. I backtracked and left her a written reminder on the seat of her walker. I do wish my mother could remember her itinerary on her own.

But later, when I knocked and then opened her door, her fully clothed, ready and waiting self greeted me with a smile and a laughing remonstrance: "It's 11:31. I've been waiting." So much for worrying. As always, when something involving her children had to be done and done right, G'ma never missed a beat. I do love having a mother around.

We shared a caesar salad and a chicken-pesto-shaved romano thin but really tasty crust pizza and had leftovers for the newspaper seller in the intersection. The wait staff flirted with her and she did her cute little old lady thing and everyone told her how adorable she was. In the past, this would have set her teeth on edge; adorable was never something to which she aspired. Intelligent or competent perhaps, if she were to allow any complimenting at all. When asked about her reluctance to accept the nice words thrown her way, she reflected on her parents' Socialism and their constant reminders that, despite her A+ report cards and perfect Shirley Temple ringlets, she was no better than anyone else. Every once in a while whole relevant memories like these spring to the part of her brain that's remembering at the moment and she tells me stories I've never heard before, with emotions she's never shown before. I miss the old G'ma, but I do love having this version of my mother around.

We had some extra time ("To go with the extra food," according to G'ma) so we went shopping for the essentials : chocolate and Fixodent. Such is the 9th decade of life. On the theory that you can never over-pay your caregivers but knowing that they cannot accept gratuities other than food stuffs, this just had to be purchased for them as a Thanksgiving Thank You:

Of course, G'ma kept forgetting that the sampler wasn't for her. "This is an awfully big box, don't you think?" I smiled to myself everytime I reminded her that it was for the helpers at the pod-castle. I do so love having my mother around.


(The apple is there to demonstrate just how big this box really is.... we stopped traffic in the aisles of Walgreens as we carted it to the cashier.)



She kibbitzed while we bowled, and supervised the opening and en-bowling of the Hershey's Kisses and plain M&M's once we got back to her suite and I watched in astonishment as the stream of visitors began. The word had gone out that G'ma had new chocolate and before I could unwrap the mini-Hershey bars (milk chocolate and she doesn't care if dark is better for you because she likes milk chocolate and you don't want to get between G'ma and her chocolate if you know what's good for you) three different people had dropped by for a sample. G'ma was the gracious hostess, circa Jewish-mother-1955: "Please, take another. Don't be so stingy with yourself." If it takes chocolate to bring the party to her room, she'll never be without. I love that they love having my mother around.

A truth (after all, the Burrow's masthead promises them....) that surprises me is the equanimity with which I am now able to accept the-woman-who-is-inhabiting-my-mother's-body as Mommy. I have given up trying to re-make her into her old self. Age and a hospitalization gone awry have robbed her of the capacity to retrieve newly received information. To say that she can't remember, though, seems to imply that she has the capacity to create and store the information. I try to pry this mystery apart with her every once in a while, but she really can't give shape to the situation. And so I let it be, and go with the flow, and chill out and somehow I've gotten to a place of not worrying. She's happy and living with people who like her and she returns the favor and what more could I ask?

I do so love having my mother around.

Preparation

I'm beginning to feel that holiday spirit. It's cool when I go out to get the newspapers and last night I could-have-but-didn't-and-it-didn't-matter-anyway covered my newly planted specimens to protect them from the "temps near freezing" predicted on the news updates during the Colts/Patriots game. I am motivated to collect the old sheets and thin blankets, though, so that when it really does get down in the 30's I am prepared. Because being prepared is what it's all about right now.

The pantry has to be stocked with all the unsweetened chocolate, almond and vanilla extracts, sugar, King Arthur Unbleached Flour (it really does make a difference), light Italian dressing, Pepperidge Farm Herbed Stuffing (not the cubes, the shredded kind), noodles, chicken stock, jello, crackers, taco seasoning packets, and ketchup and mustards (yes, plural) and barbeque sauce --- so that when ever anyone asks for anything I only need the fresh stuff. This is not the time of year to be surprised by the absence of staples in the larder. I need to be prepared for random requests for favorite foods, because that's a big part of what coming home for the holidays entails.

For example: The Little Cuter could hardly wait to get home from the airport so she could leave the house to see her friends when she came in for Thanksgiving from the Big 10 her freshman year. Sure, she was glad to see us, but we were the white bread to her social life, and her friends were the multi-grain.... they were much more interesting, though we'd do in a pinch. She changed her tune when she walked through the door, though. Suddenly she was on the phone, "I'll be a little later than I'd planned. Mom made pot roast."

Planning ahead leads to seduction by smell. I never want to disappoint a Cuter who wants a special treat, and I'm obviously not above abusing the point to get what I want.

Preparation is important for wrapping, packing and shipping, too. I have located all the rolls of wide tape and their dispensers

and I've counted and assessed the pre-printed USPS shipping materials and have evaluated the amount and condition of the bubble-wrap and styrofoam peanuts and brown paper I've accumulated in the corner of the garage. I've ordered more little boxes, and I've found the list I made last January detailing what I needed for 2009 (Hanukah tags, white tissue paper, green and red and blue corded ribbon). My plan is to be fully stocked by December 1st, ready for the first round of gift sending.

The address book is updated, and I've begun to establish who will be where for which holiday. Keeping track of nieces and nephews and the children of friends is becoming more of a logistical nightmare than it was when they were all living under their parents' roofs. I'm not complaining .... well, OK, I am complaining but it's the kind of complaining elves get to do when they are gearing up for the main event and I do believe I have a special dispensation to moan and groan just a little before I get started.

Because once I get started, it's non-stop good smells, pretty paper, "remember this?" moments from now until 2010.