Snippets from Sunday

Brownies cannot be created without unsweetened chocolate squares so it was off to Wally-World for me today.  The drizzle hadn't started, I was finished in the gym, and it was too early for lunch.  The parking lot was empty; I parked right in front of the door.

I found milk for $1.57 a gallon and I smiled in the baking aisle as a mom showed her son how to comparison shop.  Someone recognized me and complimented me on my gait. We commiserated about cold and rainy weather's effect on old and achy bodies as I handed out cards for the Stroll and Roll and promised them pictures if they came over and said "Hi!"  The tree fit nicely in my trunk and Big Cuter attached the stand, carried it in, and straightened it up before snuggling back down into the corner of the couch, sharing football and brownies with his father.

It's a lovely lovely day.

When I'm asked for a status update I'm going to put this memory out there like this

I am back to having a normal life.

Of course, my normal life now includes chatty phone calls with NBC national news producers.
*****
JannyLou and Fast Eddie  packed up my decorations last year, as I was otherwise indisposed.  It's been a delightful adventure to open the boxes, carefully labeled and brimming with pink popcorn, to find what they thought should sleep with what over the intervening months.
*****
I'm toying with the idea of a themed tree.  My ornament collection is trending towards Santas, which is appropriately heathen for my tastes.  Little Cuter assures me that she still believes, and, because we've always defined Santa as love and joy and wonder and surprise, I do not doubt her word.

Big Cuter, on the other hand, figured out the scientific impossibility of delivering toys to all the little girls and all the little boys when he was in the first grade.  After carefully and quietly confiding the facts to me, he leaned in and whispered this admonition: "But don't tell The Little Cuter... she still believes and we shouldn't spoil it for her."


The look of love on his face was coupled with the emptiness reality had left in the wake of his belief.
*****
I tried to open a jar of nail polish this morning.  I used my hands.  I used a wrench.  I used the jar opening tool.  I failed.  My son's strong hands made short work of the task.

I knew there was a reason.I had children.
*****
I wouldn't say that I was scampering up and down the step-stool as I adorned the tree with strings of colored lights but the fact that I was going up and down unaided was cause for celebration.  After all, it wasn't that many months ago that lifting my knee off the couch pillows was a stunning occurrence.  The next time I'm recuperating I'm going to take more detailed notes on my physical progress over time.
*****

Snowbirds... Snowbirds.. Fly Away Home

I know, I know, I know.  I'm supposed to think of the good they do for the economy.  I'm supposed to focus on the fabulous restaurants which have developed to entertain them.  I'm supposed to smile at the tax revenues and civic good will and I'm trying, denizens, I'm really trying, but it's getting harder with each and every year.

We moved to Tucson in July.  No one is in Tucson in July.  There's a family member requiring a visit or a business trip which must be taken or a road trip that conveniently falls in the middle of the summer.  The roads are empty.  I wrote a post card that summer to a friend commenting on the fact that the infrastructure is there though the people are not. 

I was often the only car on a four-lanes-in-one-direction through street.  There was no need to speed; the road was my own personal property and I could tool along, enjoying the scenery, trying to figure out where I was.  No one cut me off.  No one drove 35 in the left lane in a 45 zone.  No one sat at a stop light admiring the green arrow but not turning as it requested.  No one was there to annoy me.

Come Thanksgiving, though, it's another story entirely.  My cousin Amanda warned me about "the tarantulas, the scorpions, the javelina and the elderly" when she heard we were moving to Tucson.  She was so right.  Just because you have existed on the planet for 9 decades, just because you can barely see through the steering wheel (forget about seeing over the steering wheel), just because you decide that it's your turn to go...... just because doesn't mean you'll be safe, or that I won't be screaming as I travel behind you.

I ask you, denizens - is it necessary to come to a full and complete stop before making a right turn on a green arrow at an intersection where the only other cars are behind you?  Apparently, those who sport Minnesota license plates think that it is a requirement.  It happened to me twice this afternoon.

I drove 56 miles picking up CTG butterflies for the caregivers at G'ma's pod-castle, dropping off checks and order forms for onion sets to plant in my raised bed next spring, being interviewed by the Associated Press and spending quality time with other January 8th'ers, spending an hour at pilates, pushing the world's heaviest cart through Costco, picking up prescriptions and garlic bread and taking the scenic route home.  I had the opportunity to see a lot of Tucson- the Foothills, midtown, the far east side.  I noted that our streets are in need of repaving and that our traffic cameras are quite annoying (I wonder if I was the one who was "flashed" at Grant and Kolb today) and that no one understands that slower traffic should move to the right. 

I know I am a dstractable driver.  I try to use the phone when I am not behind the wheel.  I spent today traveling behind others who would benefit from adopting a similar perspective.  If you are holding the phone with one hand and gesticulating with the other how are you steering your vehicle?

And then there was the woman with the phone in one hand and some kind of take-out food in the other.  No one is that busy. 

The construction in my neighborhood continues unabated.  Ashton Construction has left and a new company has taken their place.  Pavement seems to be optional as they rip up and re-direct generally make it impossible for me to do what I want to do when I want to do it without driving 5 blocks out of the way. The fact that the snowbirds have landed and are stupefied by the barricades and the flashing lights and the Keep Right Keep Left signs just make it more impossible to leave home.

Big Cuter arrives tomorrow.  My last Humanities Seminar is tomorrow.  I have one more round of packages that have to go to the post office but that is it.  I think that after that, I am staying in my house until after the new year arrives.  It's just too scary out there.

His Gal Friday

My phone does not stop ringing.  My inbox is filled with requests and thank you's and more requests.  Everyone, it seems, is interested in me all over again.... that is, if the media is to be believed. 
Jewish tradition delays the unveiling of a headstone for a year... or 11 months... or after 30 days of mourning.... the point is that there is some precedent for commemorating anniversaries within my heritage.  Our family tradition was 11 months later, it seems to me.  The ceremonies were more private than the funerals; most of the mourners had moved on.
I, however, am in the center of a maelstrom of media madness because these people have not moved on.  That is to say, they are convinced that the rest of you are as fascinated with this story as they are, because at this point the beginning of January is shaping up to be a pretty boring news period and the Tragedy in Tucson headline draws viewers like moths to a flame.

I will say that the only ones who still call me are the ones who were polite.  I think I scared the rest of them off.
But "your friend, Amanda, from the AP" and I spent an hour on the phone today; the first 30 minutes just weren't enough for us.  Amanda embodies what I mean when I tell people that rather than being intrusive, good reporters are good therapists.  They ask the right questions and force you to think. 

Each caller has a different style, an unexpected perspective, an interesting take on an old question that stops me in my tracks.  I enjoy watching them work, trying to keep the connection on a professional-nearly-personal-but-not-friendly basis.  I like the experience of the interview itself.  I think of you, denizens, when I'm there.  I wonder how I can translate my astonishment that the managing editor of our NBC affiliate is delighted to make my acquaintance.  I mean, I know I'm special, but this is ridiculous.

Except that it's not.  It is real.  I spent the better part of an hour with our local NBC anchor today. The mother of two, she totally gets the Christina-Taylor piece of the story and I love listening to her ask the usual questions with real interest, as if she's never asked them before.  I want to give her a good answer and she wants me to succeed.  But my favorite part of the interview happened while the cameraman was shooting the B-roll, the shots that run behind the voice-over.  Before we turned the corner and entered the shot, she reached over and straightened my necklace. It was like hanging out with my girlfriends.

The good reporters make the connection without invading your space.

NPR fulfilled a dream by airing my voice on a segment of All Things Considered.  Though we spent a great deal of time asking and answering questions, most of what you heard was what I thought of as  throw-away comments.  He used the patter of my life instead of the formal pieces.  I think that's why I love the interview so much.  I sound like myself.  I recognize myself.

The Arizona Republic has been extraordinarily gracious in its coverage; did you know that I am an inspirational woman?  Imelda and I are dangerously close to bridging the gap between professionalism and friendship; she even has a blogonym.  But talking to her is like talking to Yoda - she really really listens.

I think that's what I get out of sharing my story with all and sundry.  People are listening.  I hear myself explaining the inexplicable, noticing that they are as interested in the silences as in the words.  Some things cannot be answered... not now, maybe never. The good reporters know that.

A Genuine Hero

Apparently, one of the side-effects of being shot is the ability to judge children's photographs.  At least that's what Linda Solomon tried to sell me when we spoke last February. 
It's as odd to me now as it was then.  Yet, somehow, without my quite knowing exactly what was happening as it was happening, I found myself agreeing to meet her at an elementary school the following Tuesday afternoon.  This is a woman to whom it is impossible to say "No."

Getting there was no mean feat.  It required a driver on each end, prophyllactic pain control, dressing comfortably yet tv-apropriately, and finding footwear that would support but not burden me.  It required rearranging my nap schedule (do not laugh - naps are very healing) and insuring that someone would be home to accept our daily dinner donation.  I had to gather strength to hop with my walker all the way from the parking lot through through the front lobby and into the first conference room on the right.  At the time, that was an excursion requiring a nap in and of itself.

(Note to self re: healing plan - congratulate yourself on the fact that you can now circumnavigate the perimiter of the school, in the dark, without an assistive device, as proven while trying to leave after the Winter Fiesta last week.)

That story has already been told.  The photographs were made into greeting cards, the kids went on to other adventures, and Linda and I have kept in touch.  She flies in for a week or a weekend and sometimes there's a chance for lunch or dinner and one day I know we'll get to meet her husband, too. 

She loves Tucson as much as we do, and she's doing something about it.  Last month she was back in town doing a similar project for New Beginnings for Women and Children and last night she was smiling out of the tv at me, surrounded by grinning children.

Diane Sawyer was a natural for the lead-in to the piece on Linda, her camera, her smile and her love.  She got right to the heart of the matter - these kids, these homeles youngsters with fractured lives, want furniture and to go to college and to have a healthy mom.  But they also hope to make a difference and hope to give someone hope.  Diamond hopes to make my mm proud and Taeisha wants to get all good grades. 

And then there was the girl who took a picture of the University of California at San Diego, captioning it with her hope to go to college.  Linda got it in front of the campus's president and he was so touched, and she is so special, that the photographer has been guaranteed a 4-year scholarship to UCSD when she's old enough to attend. 

That only happened because of Linda Solomon.

The next time someone tells you that one person cannot make a big difference, send them here to read this.
She gave an otherwise unattainable treasure to a young person.  The ripple effects make me shiver to consider.  The college president can feel good about himself and his school.  The mother's delight as she hugged her daughter while murmuring "You can go to college. You are going to college," is an image I'll hold onto for a long long time.  That student will carry with her the knowledge that someone thought she was worthy.  And I can bask in the glow of knowing someone special.
That would be Linda Solomon.  She is my hero.

Late Afternoon Blues

When Big Cuter was 4 months old we signed up for a Mommy and Me class.  It was self-preservation on my part; the class was held from 3:30-5pm.  Appropriately, it was named The Witching Hour Class.
 
Unless I'm on a beach surrounded by those I love, late afternoons are my sorriest time of day.  I can rev up again around dinner time, but you really don't want to be around me as the day is winding down. 

It's winter-time here in the desert southwest, which means I have 6 weeks to wear all my woolens and all my jackets and all my sweaters before teh temperatures wend their way back up to the 70's by February.  It was in the 50's this afternoon; I wore pants, fleece lined boots, a flannel long sleeved shirt and a polar fleece jacket.  I seriously considered bringing my gloves and my hat.

The rain filled the garbage can as it stood, lid flapping helplessly, banging against the container, as the storm went on and on.  The recycling can had been blown over by the wind; I really do need two good legs to right a heavy, unweildly item. I did it, but it wasn't easy.

In junior high and high school, the 4-6pm time slot would find me next door, on the floor, in front of the tv with my 2-years-older-cousin, watching Million Dollar Movie and observing her careful perusal of the latest shades of nailpolish displayed on the inside cover of Seventeen Magazine.  Nobody argued in her house.  Nobody had any expectations of me.  It was as close to peaceful in the late afternoon as I ever remember feeling. 

For a while I filled the time with exercise classes.  I remember Jacquie telling me to smile, that my grin would make the time fly by.  I still noticed every one of the 60 minutes of aerobic flailing, but I looked like I was having a good time.  It was a charade.

Working full-time, often til 6pm, the late afternoon was generally a time to clean up my desk and prepare for the evening's entertainment.  Lately, I have been trying to avoid my 5 o'clock blues by opting for a similar regimen.  The lady who organized my desk reluctantly agreed to a square inbox to collect bills and other items which must be dealt with but which will take more than 2 minutes to file/pay/fill out/mail/read.

I am trying to spend this part of the day working through its contents.

Of course, the cocktail to the right is a big help.

The next time my kids give me grief for being so cheery early in the morning, I'll remind them of my grumpy late afternoon self.  It's all a matter of perspective, I think.

My Plan- Too Bad

I do better when I have a plan.  I like to know where I'm going and how I'm going to get there.  Change my plan and watch the steam come out of my ears..... unless I'm crying and my tears distract you.  I love the anticipation, living the plan,  almost more than I love the actual event - no matter what the event might be.

I've spent the past 11 months expecting to be limp-less on January 8.  Really, it was more of a firm belief than an actual plan.  I just knew that after a year I'd be recovered..... fine..... moving on...... unstuck.

Alas, the best laid plans of mice and men ......

I'm definitely the mouse in that equation.

After 11 months of physical therapy, weight training, stationary cycling, acupuncture, massage and pilates, the only thing I know for certain is that my right leg is shorter than my left leg.  It took me 10 months to accept that fact, 10 months to decide to have the cobbler put lifts in my cowboy boots because velcro-and-the-movable- lift didn't work and my leg wasn't getting any longer.

As the cobbler reminded me, I can always have him take it out.  Until then, leg length won't be the reason I'm listing and lurching.  Reluctant as I was to admit that some of the damage might be permanent, acting on the facts was bizarrely relaxing.  Of course, a piece of that might be the fact that wearing my boots always makes me happy.

But the undeniable, unequivocal, absolutely without a doubt fact of the matter is that when there's a wedge under my right heel my hips rest more evenly, approximating a parallel line to the ground beneath me.  This was not the plan.  Nope, definitely not the plan. It's been hard to absorb.

I was assured that my legs would be of equal length after the hip surgery.  I don't remember much from those early days in the hospital, but I have a clear memory of discussing this issue with the surgeon.  I told him that I did not want to lurch like my father did, that I did not want to have lifts put in all my shoes, that I wanted my legs to be the same length.  He heard me and said I needn't worry. He held to that ideal until my 6 month check up when he measured them, sighed, and agreed that there is a half inch differential.

I know that medicine is more of an art than a science.  I'm not angry with the doctor.  I know that this was not his plan, either.  He's an extraordinarily precise man.  I know he did his best.

All that knowledge did not keep me from slipping down the slippery slope of my recovery, landing me harshly and painfully at the intersection of despair and disgust. I was shorter.  I hurt.  I had no stamina.  I was still limping.  This was not my plan.

I had told everyone I met that I would get better, that I would heal, that their sympathy was better directed to those who lost loved ones.  That would never get better.  I expected that by now, 3 weeks away from the one year anniversary of my encounter with weaponry, 300plus days of recuperation later, by now I would be fine.  I'm not fine.

My plan has been blown up.

Too bad, kiddo. 

That's what I've come to....resigned myself to....reluctantly accepted.... NO!  It is too bad that this is still going on.  It is too bad that I limp.  It is too bad that my recovery requires constant vigilance and will never truly end.  But too bad is the reality and it's not really that bad at all.

My children have their mother.  My husband has his wife.  Yesterday, Elizabeth sounded just like the Cuters as she shhh'ed me and hustled me out the door of a store where I was, apparently, behaving in an embarrassing manner.  I smiled to myself, and was consciously grateful that I could walk and talk and humiliate a teenager with my personality and my words, all of which flowed freely.

I'm a lucky girl, even if it's too bad that I'm not perfectly healed by now.

So, denizens, I have formed a new plan.  At TBG's suggestion, I am no longer announcing that I will be limp-free on January 8th.  It may take me a few more weeks, or months, but I will get there.  And if I don't get there, if arthritis interferes, if I need a bigger lift or a cane to keep me even, well then, I'll adjust to that, too.

My plan?

My lot in life is not bad; it is too bad.

I will accept the "too" and embrace it.     

Too bad equates to a fixable state.

I am here to make a plan.  That, in and of itself, is something that has begun to dawn on me as a truly remarkable thing.  Ever since that drive down Ina Road when I said aloud "I've been shot" and felt the reality course through my body like a living thing, ever since then I have marveled at the fact of my existence.

And it occurs to me that the rest of the world might be feeling the same way, too.  As I've noted before, this story has legs.  It does not go away.  People care, no matter if I think they should or not.  They do and that's a fact.

In the beginning, I welcomed the warmth and the attention.  Lately, it's been feeling intrusive.  That's counter-productive.  My plan also includes the following reminder to myself:

Allow myself to accept the love.... to be healed by the love.

That's my plan and I'm stickin' to it.

 

 

GRINNING at Prince's Winter Fiesta

In the aftermath of January 8th, I created a non-profit.  Of course, since it takes up to 9 months to process the paperwork to become a 501c-3, right now all I really have is a group of wonderful volunteers, a name, and a website

Kathleen,  Wonderful Volunteer
We were helping out at a Winter Festival, and we were properly attired.... blinking necklaces included.

Martha & Sherry, Wonderful Volunteers
We were staffing the craft table, making peppermint candy bows with painted hand prints.

Roseanne & Larry & Sherry (again), more W.V.'s

A/B agreeing to be photographed.
Some of us were more enthusiastic than others. 
Notice the little dance step.

We were having a really good time.

The third graders were exactly the right age for this
project
.

Younger ones needed more assistance.

Let us help

Do I really have to do this?

Sometimes they needed Larry and Mom and Dad and Dad.

Some didn't want any help at all.
It seemed to run in the family.

Some just wanted to watch mom coloring.

And so, she colored, back and forth, left to right, staying within the lines.
And while she colored she told how she colored like this when she was in the third grade.
There was a lot more than crafting going on.

There was pure joy.

There were doting big brothers who were willing to color right next to you.

There was time for chit chat.

Someone asked the face painters to immortalize her love for her music teacher.

And someone was bored by the whole thing.

Grandparents in Residence was designed to foster inter-generational mentoring.
I'm thinking this might be my poster.

What we do is serious work.... just look.

It's also filled with quietly wonderful moments like these.

Look at that smile.
I find it impossible to be sad when I am in the presence of such precision.

Healing 101: Hanging with the Boys

With 5 different family caregivers unavailable, my presence was required after school today.  There's nothing that could have pleased me more.

I've been grumpy and limping and not sleeping well at all.  Friends and professionals and professionals who are friends have all been reminding me that anniversaries are hard. They reassure me that the feelings are natural and that I shouldn't be surprised by their intensity.  I suppose that should help.  It doesn't.

As the months passed, getting shot felt further and further away.  Suddenly, it feels like yesterday.  I don't know why.

Is it that the last time I put out the holiday decorations I was lifting heavy boxes from the top shelf of the cabinet in the garage? Is it that there's snow on the mountain and last year at this time my 6am alarm would have sent me to the Pima Canyon trailhead to see how close to the flakes I could get?  Is it driving past the Reid Park Zoo this morning, thinking back to the Cornell Club outing last Fall with the Crayola kids, CTG hiding inside the dinosaur egg, feeling invisible and giggling at the foolishness of it all?

Or is it that this year I am struggling to move the poinsettia from one side of the living room?  Is it that my alarm got me up for a planning meeting and an acupuncture appointment and that hiking is impossible right now?  Is it that Christina won't be joining her brother and me when the Cornell Club takes us to see the new elephant exhibit this year?

Could it be that the calls from Channel 9 and the Arizona Star and the Arizona Republic and NBC must be returned?  Could it be sitting on a director's chair, talking to a blank camera, unresponsive and cold looking back at me, as the producer's instruction to "just say what happened that morning" was stuck in my throat?

Why do the opportunities, the invitations, the requests feel ghoulish now?  Eleven months ago the answers were news. News...  something new. Today, there are no new facts to reveal.  Today, there are still 6 dead and 13 wounded.  Today, our recovery is of interest only to ourselves...... or so I'd hoped.

Those reporters and producers?  They all start with the same general statement: they cannot believe that this story still has legs.  One went so far as to ask me if I thought that she should use the story. All I could tell her was that she was not the only person who was asking.

As Mark Kelly describes Gabby's recovery moving to weekly rather than daily changes, I feel reassured.  The pace has slowed down here, too.  It's comforting to know that I'm not alone.  On that level, injured human to injured human, I'm glad the question was asked and the answer televised.  It helped me.  What unnerves me is the lack of acknowledgement that the question is intrusive.

Healing in public is often supportive.  Strangers take delight in my progress.  Smiles greet me as I open the door for myself.  I am my own harshest critic, and my limp betrays me.  Rehab is hard and it hurts and the progress is slow and painful and success is not guaranteed.  How am I?  I really don't know.  I am wondering where I've gone. Where are you? is probably the better question.

So this afternoon, when Mr. 8 rode his plastic pedi-car into my leg and laughed as he oops-ed and rode away without any thought to the fact that bullets had gone through the appendage he was using to play bumper cars, this afternoon when I was nothing more than myself, when I was the grown-up and thus all powerful, when being damaged wasn't in anyone's consciousness but my own, this afternoon I felt just fine.

No one wondered how I was feeling.  No one wondered where I was.  They knew the answer without being asked - I was their Suzi and I was helping them make dinner.

How am I?  I think I'm getting back to normal.  Just ask the boys.

Why I Stayed at Home

Mark Kelly is in town tonight.  He'll be talking about his book, and selling the book, and signing the book. He's being interviewed by Ted Robbins, my friend from NPR, the one who put me on All Things Considered.  It's being held at Centennial Hall, on the UofA campus, and the tickets are free. 

I'm staying home.

Several friends invited me to join them, and were gracious when I declined.  Tickets were held for me and I turned them back.  Home delivery was offered and still I said "No."  I'm taking care of myself tonight.

As TBG reminded me, I'd asked him to record Diane Sawyer's interview with the Kelly's last month. They were inspiring at a time when I needed a bit of a push.  Now, weeks later, I still haven't seen it.  .

Yet I'm carrying the image of Gabby's smile in my heart each and every day. When I resist getting up from the  couch, preferring to moan and ask for help, I think of Mark encouraging Gabby and I get up and get my own damn drink.  I don't like it, but I do it.  It's the right thing to do.  Both of our husbands tell us so.  We're lucky to have them, although it doesn't always feel like the blessing that it is.

Every once in a while it's nice to be able to whine.  I have the words to do that.  Gabby doesn't.  I cannot imagine what that must be like.  Typing to you, talking to my friends, reassuring my family,.. I am an active participant in all of it.  Hearing myself say it aloud, whatever it may be, takes the edge off... just a little... enough to make it bearable when it feels like my head is going to explode.

Sometimes the tears just don't stop coming.

I was worried that  knew that listening to Mark would be hard.  Hearing him talk about flying to Gabby's side, describing  his pride in her accomplishments, his rueful smile when he tells the audience that Gabby used to do most of the talking in their house and that now..... well, denizens, tears would be the least of it for me.  When I heard him say it on tv last month I was gasping for air.

I'm just not ready to do that in public.  I don't know if I ever will be ready to do that in public.  There are certain pieces of this event which can be typed to you, who choose to be here, who've watched this unfold, who know me.  I can't put it out for the world to see.

There is no way on God's green earth that I could be within 100' of  Mark Kelly tonight and not begin to cry.  He sat with me in my hospital room.  He hugged my husband and I watched them draw strength from one another.  He and My True Friend discussed space travel at more than a casual level.  When I think of that I return to my damaged self, in bed and en-pillowed and drugged, surrounded by love in the first few days after my brush with violence, aching in my body and my soul, feeling such loss and such devotion .....

I'm typing through a veil of tears. It's misty, not drippy, kind of blurry and definitely the cusp of something much bigger and deeper.  If I'm going to let it out, it's not going to happen in front of 3000 people and an astronaut.

I'm doing just fine, snuggled next to TBG on Douglas, typing to you.

That's why I stayed at home.

Decorating Has Begun

I went with the big white poinsettias from Costco this year.  

They were at the top of the rolling shelf and I got them down myself.

That alone makes them gorgeous in my eyes.

I took your advice and repurposed the ice bucket with the smashed lid into a plant holder.

This amaryllis is from last year. 

It has been living on the edge of the bathtub since the bloom faded last February.

Just a little bit of water perked it right up.  

The Santas are at the table, wondering where the food is.

This see-saw Santa's left most of his reindeer behind.... just ask any 4 year old.

I seem to be developing a small but significant collection of ugly reindeer

I'm noticing a Santa theme this year.

I'm feeling smug about buying a dozen red tapers at the grocery store when they were on sale for $1 each.

It was lovely to have brand-new-just-what-I-needed-when-I-needed-it.

As Santa's hangin' out above the big screen, I wish you

this year and always.

How I Feel About Sundays

The girl in the commercial was outraged - a boyfriend had the audacity to tell her that Sundays are for football.

My kids reacted predictably.  Big Cuter's "Damn right!" came just before his sister's dismissal of the woman's entire premise.  Ignoring the fact pattern, she went to the heart of the matter. "She knew that about him and she's still with him? Whose issue is that??"


There, in a nutshell, is how I feel about Sundays.

I totally get it - the NFL garb and the special snack/seat on the couch/lucky towel clutched feverishly as the game does or does not go your way.  The decibel level is the same, whether they're winning or losing.  Only the intonations vary. Everything is analyzed, reviewed, considered and filed away in the brain-box which holds the other crucial pieces of a game played by others decorated with laundry that appeals to you.  You care about it and I can respect passion.

Just don't ask me to share it.  I learned enough to be a pleasant companion on the couch.  I understand the basics and have some valid opinions every once in a while.  But I really don't care.  I loved the Bears in the early 1980's

 

but they were winning and delightfully naughty (remember when bad behavior meant wearing an unapproved head band?) and fun.  I can usually cheer for the home team, but we've moved so much and I care so little that my enthusiasm is somewhat less than full-throated.

I like being able to straddle the divide.  Sitting next to rabid fans is the perfect combination of being with the ones I love while not being disturbed by the ones I love.  In my chair, typing to you, feeling their energy but only as background to the conversation you and I are having - it's pure heaven for me.  Everyone is happy.  

Hiking on Sundays in Marin, leaving after yoga from the World Gym parking lot, tooling up Mt. Tam with Ms. Nancy, I knew that the 49'ers were in good hands with my guys watching their every move.  Right now, TBG is on the edge of his seat, clenching and unclenching his hands, willing the ball into the receiver's hands. I'm smiling at him, thinking loving thoughts, and he's totally oblivious of my delight.

And then the ball is tossed and caught and the runner escapes tackle after tackle, picks up his defenders, cuts left, nearly falls and then scampers the rest of the 52 yards to cross the goal line and fall flat on his face in the end zone.  I sensed the extra energy and looked up in time to see almost the whole thing and by the end both of us were yelling and waving our arms in the air.

And now I'm back with you.  

Compromise.  A willingness to learn enough to be amused.  Respect for the other's point of view.  It works in our house.  

(Should I be obvious and extend the analogy to Congress?)  

Newt-mentum

Newt Gingrich is the bachelor party; Mitt Romney is the wedding.   

Thus saith CNN.  

Perry lost on ability not personality,

the Republican strategist continued.  There was also some mention of back surgery gone awry and implanted stem cells which didn't alleviate the discomfort but I wasn't paying that much attention to the words because I was stuck on the image of a potential President of the United States of America being likened to a bachelor party.

What have we come to?

I don't care if he buys his wife nice jewelry or if he takes lavish vacations; living well is the best revenge, after all. What worries me is his moral character.  The Washington Post debunked the deathbed divorce papers story, saying the discussion was no surprise to either party and that

Gingrich’s marriage to Battley had been troubled for many years before it dissolved 31 years ago, both parties have said.

So, she was neither hurt nor dead.  That was good news.  The bad news is the rest of the paragraph:

Battley, who is seven years older than Gingrich, had been Gingrich’s high school math teacher in Columbus, Ga. They began dating after he graduated and were married in 1962, when Gingrich was 19 and a freshman at Emory University in Atlanta ...

I wonder what his parents thought about that.

Thrice married and financially profligate - these are only the pieces that are reported.  Say what you will about President Obama's failure to fulfill the dreams of the left within an hour and a half of being elected, no one questions his character.   He rolls his eyes at the Kardashians and his children don't have Facebook pages.  He's married to an extraordinarily impressive woman and he knows how lucky he is to have her.  He has dinner with his family every night that he's in town.  He respects his mother-in-law.

I have no doubt that Speaker Gingrich is an intelligent man.  He has a professorial air and great hair.  

That's not enough for me.  

********
I could go on and on about Newt, but I'm watching pictures of Hilary Clinton and Aung San Suu Kyi and I can't stop smiling.  Mrs. Clinton can't seem to let go of  her hand... I can feel the admiration.... it's a much nicer place to be than contemplating the Republican presidential field.

Dessert

My life is feeling quite layered of late.  Section upon section rest sometimes softly sometimes noisly always precariously one nestling into the other with varying degrees of success.

Today I got out of bed and moved effortlessly toward the shower.... and then I got stuck putting on my boots.

I had this pair at the cobbler last week for beautification and the addition of an-invisible-from-the-outside lift under my right heel. 

Now, for the first time in these boots,  my hips are even as I stand flat footed.  I really truly didn't mind the permanent nature of the lift until my foot got stuck going into the right one ... the added-on-to one... the one that goes at the end of the leg which was refusing to bend enough so that my arms could reach my toes.  Usually this is not a problem.  This morning, as I was smiling at the workmanship and the newly-polished gleam in my hands, my hip decided to add its layer to my morning.  Announcing its presence with authority.  Gee, thanks.

Imagine candied walnuts on your soft-serve ice cream sundae.  It's just a little bit too hard and crackly and crunchy.  Not awful enough to scream, but noticeable.

Friends are happy and then they are sad.  Events over which they have no control have the ripple effect of sending their lives into a tailspin.  Happy memories and joyous expectations are now sandwiching the current reality, and that reality resembles the lint in the pocket of a coat you haven't worn since college.  Not toxic, but not pleasant.  My frappe life imagines it something like sweet and sour sauce oozing across Szechuan Firey Beef.  It's just not right.

Someone's infirmities and over-booked schedule puts me in the limelight for a project I admire.  She's just as happy to have me do it as do it herself and I'm thrilled to be a part of something wonderful, but the edges are bumping up against one another.  These layers have a softer connection, though.  We're filling one another's gaps, supporting and releasing as needed, our lives turning in thousands of new directions, kind of the way the vanilla melts into the chocolate chip in my Baskin Robbins fantasy sundae.  Easy, a little smooshy, a little broken, but basically just fine. 

I do have whipped cream on the top of this concoction.  I've been reminded by several others of something I had noticed myself - the brownie list continues unbroken.  Despite the broken pieces of pie crust that appeared randomly through this metaphoric trip through my-life-as-a-dessert, 20 boxes were shipped out on Monday, and there are dozens more to come.  The perfectly fluffed pillowy cloud of loveliness that is made up of Seret laughing as she's telling me she's hidden them in the freezer is just the first layer of wonderfulness which will rain down upon me as the recipients call, write long lovely emails, send cards with pictures and hand-written notes... in short, top off my year with sweets and a cherry. 

That's me.  Perched atop layers of life, feeling pretty damn good about it all.