The Lake 10 Minutes from Home

Who knew?  I certainly did not.  For six long, hot years we have been living in the desert.  If I wanted to see water I headed to the coasts.  When water comprises only 0.35% of the area within our state's boundaries, it never occurred to me to look closer at hand.  The pool in our backyard sufficed.

But Margo checked out Silverbell Lake at Christopher Columbus Park here in Tucson last week and invited me to join her on a circumnavigation.  She promised a smooth track and lots of water.  She was right on both counts.

Do you see the fish on the welcome sign?  

This lake is stocked every other week with  channel catfish ....delivered all the way from fish farms in Arkansas, rainbow trout ...grown and delivered from sources in Colorado, and sunfish ....from farms in Arkansas, according to the Urban Fishing Fact Sheet. 

Who knew? Apparently these folks did.

I know.  I know.  This photograph does not look like Arizona to me, either.

I spent an hour circling the lake and saying "Where are we???"

Our trek began with these Mexican Fan Palms.... somewhat like the ones in my yard, but 10 times taller.  There's no need for irrigation; the roots steal nourishment from their watery neighbor.

The fisherman under the palms glanced over his shoulder at us and then returned to contemplating the water's surface.  I'm not sure what he hoped to find.

This fellow was more enthusiastic.  He actually stood up to cast his line. 

The trees all clustered around the shoreline.

They know where their bread is buttered, so to speak.

The water was blue and green and clear enough for us to see the fish carcasses which had been returned from whence they came.  I'm not sure what the thinking was behind tossing dead fish into the lake, but it was certainly a better solution than this one

I spent some time wondering why the javelinas and the coyotes and the bobcats were uninterested in this already harvested source of nutrition, before I was distracted by the ducks.

Ducks in the desert? 

Yes, indeed.

This picture could have been taken on Long Island.

There were honking swans in the middle of the lake, but they refused to cooperate.

Every time I focused, they turned and swam the other way.

Plus, the noise was annoying.

So much for Arizona swans.

Along with the empty soda cans and snack food bags, there were more permanent markers of human habitation.

But mostly there was peacefulness....

and shade

and all that water.

How nice to know (now) that this exists just down the road.

Just a Typical Sunday

It rained yesterday morning and the flora are enjoying the drink.  The cacti are bulging, having soaked up as much as their expansive innards will allow.  Walking out to get the paper was pure joy.  There was enough breeze to warrant a light jacket; I wrapped myself in a friend's gift while I was lying on Douglas last year - a stretchy hoodie that reminded me of how far I'd come.  Walking down the driveway last year was cause for celebration and alerting the media.  Seriously.... there are several national news outlets that ran B-roll of me hobbling to my mailbox.  Apparently, American needed to know.

The paper was filled with Rio Nuevo related financial shenanigans.  As I recall, when we moved here in 2006 the headlines were much the same.  Closed door meetings, secret plans and no clear line of accountability were true then and were true this week, if the Arizona Star is to be believed.  And what an embarrassing mess it was; "We don't know who invited him," is not designed to engender trust in the voter. 

My body has changed more than they have.

I ate my oatmeal with brown sugar and glass of 1% milk with LuAnn and Baby Blues and Doonesbury.  I flashed back to G'ma's kitchen table, Newsday's tabloid pages fitting perfectly on the small table in the corner.  I've been having breakfast like this for a long long time. 

On my way to the gym I noticed a crane and a slab of concrete at Christina-Taylor's park.  It's the beginning of an art project; all 15' tall of it.  Right now there are birds and curlicues on what looks to be the first of many pieces. 

I'm not sure what it's going to be, but I like it so far. 

The landscaping is coming in beautifully, that both willfully and voluntarily planted.  There is an acre of brittle bush cascading between the road and the path, the yellow flowers dancing on their long wiry stems made me laugh out loud. 

Penstemon and salvia and desert marigolds have supplanted the poppies.  For a month or two we will be covered with color as the palo verdes and mesquites and acacia's take their turn changing from teeny green leves to big bright yellow blossoms.  There's a narrow window of opportunity to attract those pollinators and our trees don't miss a moment of it.

I sat on the bench in the garden and let the day wash over me.  It was just a typical Sunday.

Did my weights and my floor exercises at the gym, just like everyone else.  I wasn't carrying any extraneous pieces of equipment; it was just me and my ipod and my water bottle.  I managed to feel impressed that I could get my body contorted into the seated leg press machine.  I resisted the impulse to fume at the fact that there was no weight on the contraption and that my right leg alone was incapable of holding the plate.  I was there.  I was doing it.  That had always been enough for me in the past and it was enough for me this morning.

Talked to Danielle about recovery and resilience and living in the moment and ended up convincing her to begin blogging.  We've each had our challenges over the last year or so; it was refreshing to listen to her positive energy.  Laugh if you want to, denizens, but at the end of our conversation, wherein we had been finishing one another's sentences and laughing before the jokes were finished and found ourselves acknowledging the past but striding confidently into the future, at the end of it all there was an unavailable to the naked eye but there nonetheless palpably real connection.  I could feel the energetic waves moving between us.

As I said, scoff if you must.  I was there.

Rode that wave all the way to the pod-castle where G'ma was finishing up chocolate pudding and Glenna, her newest tablemate, was still working on her berry cobbler..... possibly my favorite dessert.  Returning from the kitchen with my own portion, 6 of us talked of pharmacists and farmers and volunteering and graduations and for a while there was not a whiff of dementia in the air. 

Furthering the wonderfulness that was my typical Sunday afternoon, G'ma and I went to Rillito Nursery for some zinnias and basil and verbena and a new hanging basket to refresh the valiant but daunted petunias.  She chatted with Stephanie, who's getting married in 2 weeks, pet the calico cat on the counter and meandered to the car with a smile plastered on her face. 

The sun was shining in my heart, too.

I came home and made a turkey sandwich and planted my flowers and came in to type to you.  There's a Harlan Coben paperback on the coffee table and a pitcher of mango tea tempting me on the kitchen table.  It's just a typical Sunday.  The fact of bullets never entered into the equation.  I've gotten through the whole day dealing with my aches and pains and in-abilities without defaulting to the shooter or the event or why. 

I'm finding myself on days like today..... I just wanted to share.

Random Thoughts

I sat on the patio in the backyard yesterday, drinking Proseco and gossiping with the girls. We ate hulled strawberries and shifted around so that the sun didn't burn any of our parts more than the others.  There were shared memories and new stories and much advice was given.  We wore no makeup and our shorts were the ones lying atop the laundry pile; we were there for one another, not trying to impress.

Sparkling wine as dinner..... I could get used to this.
*****
There's a distinct change in the breeze and the air quality here in the desert Southwest.  April is nearly half-way gone, and most all of the snowbirds have fled to cooler climes.  Those of us who are planning to stick it out through the summer share a certain glee, a glint in our eyes, a reluctance to admit that we love baking in triple digit temperatures.

I can't speak for anyone else, but, for me, it's self-preservation.  I don't want Tucson to be winter-crowded all year long.
*****
Justified ended the season with a disarming end to a seriously evil bad guy (if you saw it you should be smiling now).  Big Cuter thinks that Ava has become more evil as the series has matured, but I disagree.  She started out by shooting her cheating, beating husband in the chest with a shotgun as he sat at the dining room table.  She's now married to his brother, Boyd, who's striving to become the biggest baddest criminal in Harlan County.  Ava's not more evil, she's just more grown up.
*****
I found myself in the interesting position of explaining the workings of my Kindle Fire to a friend.  I can turn it on and off, play solitaire and read a book on it.... but not much more.  I can't figure out how to turn off the web browser when I don't need it.  I am flummoxed every time I try to highlight and then retrieve a passage.  I should be able to leave notes on the text, but that's not intuitive, either.

I suppose I should read the instructions..... but they are digitized and available on-line instead of in a handy paperback I can leave open to the important pages.  I'm having a stand-off with the device.... become natural in my hand or be gone.
*****
And another thing about this Kindle thing - it's much more durable than it looks, but that doesn't stop me from being terrified every time I put it in my purse to go someplace.  In the house, we're fine.  Transporting it is a whole different matter.  Traveling requires a case.

I looked in Tucson and sighed, deeply and profoundly.  The slim pickings were confined to big box chain stores.  On-line, the choices were more varied.  I wanted to touch them for myself, and I could have done so..... if we still lived in Marin.  San Anselmo, Mill Valley, Mission and 3rd in The City..... I love my town but there are times when I throw my hands up in disgust.
*****

*****
Everyone here is complaining about allergies.  The palo verdes are in bloom, their bright yellow blossoms attracting birds and bees and sneezes.  The mesquites and acacias are right behind them, bringing more pollen and discomfort to sufferers county-wide.  `Between my achy hip and my scratchy throat I feel much worse than I really am.
*****
The summer before I was shot I bought 5 pairs of colorful flipflops at WallyWorld.  They cost $1.25 each at the end of the season sale. Last year, my ambulation required lace up shoes that freed my toes up for balance instead of keeping the shoe on my foot.  This year, they are seriously tempting me.

TBG has issues every time he sees me put them on. "Are those the best shoes you could be wearing?" he inquires.  My "Probably not, but they go with the outfit," response solicits an interesting response. He's my spouse, not my parent, but he's been operating as my guardian since January, 2011.  I know I ought to listen to him, but I can't give up the colors.
*****
After months of fits and starts and good intentions, GRIN is able to announce that Pilates at Amphitheater Middle School starts today, Friday the 13th. We are part of the Physical Education curriculum.

It is a public/private partnership in the very best way. Corporation and bureaucracy are not always terms of opprobrium. Thanks to Balanced Body for the equipment, Amphi Middle School and the Amphi School District and the University of Arizona for flexibility and perserverance, and, most especially, thanks to Kyria Sabin of Body Works Pilates for having both the original idea and the willingness to stick with it until we got it done.

Where Are The Heroes?

TBG says it all the time - to whom can a parent point a child seeking a hero?


I might have started with religious leaders, but there's all that mess in the Catholic Church.  As a girl, I used to like to listen to Rabbi Hillel Hyman.  Daddooooo thought he was the smartest Rabbi he'd ever met; I just thought he was cool.  Young, hip, and quick-witted, he listened as well as he spoke.  I never felt small or ignorant or foolish; I rose to his level.  In today's climate, I'm not sure that G'ma would be comfortable with me spending time alone in an office with him.

I'm watching the Bobby Petrino mess erupt all over the news.  Petrino, who left his Louisville football team mid-season for the NFL's Atlanta Falcons, who he left with 3 games left in the season for Arkansas, has just been fired by the University for lying about his inappropriate relationship with a 25 year old member of his staff.  He probably shouldn't have said that he was alone on the motorcycle he crashed early this month.  After all, a police report was filed. 

No one ever learns.  The cover-up is always worse than the facts, no matter how damning the facts might be.  Of course, given that Petrino is the at-this-point-in-time-still-married father of 4 adult children.  "I'm sorry" just doesn't cut it.

Ozzie Guillen, leading the revamped Florida Marlins' Latin baseball image, managed to alienate anyone and everyone who spares a moment thinking about Fidel Castro.  I can admire the man's staying power, too.... but only in one language.  I'm willing to believe that the nuance was lost in his translation-in-my-head from Spanish to English.... I gotta admire the guy... people have been trying to get to him for 60 years and he's still there .... I gotta admire his perseverance...... doesn't sound like a paean to Communism in Cuba to me.

Now, maybe Ozzie is secretly plotting to overthrow the USofA and turning us into a socialized paradise, but I don't think so.  He's Ozzie, and his mouth is often ahead of his brain.  But, for a young person looking for a leader to admire, his gaffes are troubling.  On the other hand, he owned up to it, accepted the 5 game suspension, and promised to learn from his mistakes. 

Not a bad response, I think. 

Sadly for Ozzie, it was a slow news day so his error made it to the evening news instead of being restricted to the shouting heads on ESPN.  Another one bites the dust, it seems.

I was behind a mom-mobile yesterday.  The bumper sticker read I reached my goal at Anonymous Elementary.  Stunned, I could barely shift into first gear when the light changed.  Parents are now advertising that their kids do what is expected of them.  Just as with our search for a hero, simply avoiding pitfalls is cause for celebration.  Am I stretching too far to suggest that Rick Santorum's sweater vests were, like Sarah Palin's wilful ignorance, a nod to the I'm no better than you are school of politics?

Frankly, I'm looking for someone better than I am to run things.  I'm looking for someone to share my highest expectations and to push me to challenge myself to achieve them.  I'm looking for someone to admire.... and I'd like to find one before I am blessed with grandchildren old enough to ask me about my heroes.

Did I Invite You Into My Uterus?

I can only imagine that, as the economy slowly but steadily rebounds, as the blandest human on the planet is on his way to the nomination, as the weather warms up and the world calms down (okay, we'll ignore Syria for just a moment), the Republican party is scrambling for an issue.  I wish they would look someplace other than my uterus.

The Arizona legislature has succumbed to this problem big time.  Yesterday, a legal eagle friend sent an urgent message about HB 2036.  In addition to adding restrictions that would effectively put all but two of the practitioners at abortion clinics in our state out of business (because they don't have admitting privileges at a hospital within 30 miles of their clinic... and don't get me started on healthcare in a rural state with vast tracts of open land separating civilization from the wilderness), our Senate has amended HB2036 to include verbiage that makes even thinking about becoming pregnant equivalent to doing the actual deed.

Confused?  You should be.  On page eight of the proposed amendment to H.B. 2036, lawmakers lay out the “gestational age” of the child to be “calculated from the first day of the last menstrual period of the pregnant woman,”  That phrase - the first day of your last period - is one that every woman who has ever visited a gynecologist has answered.  For most of us (okay, for me) it was a challenge to keep the dates straight.  Every gynecologist I ever visited had a calendar at hand.... and a list of helpful suggestions about what might have been going on in my life when I began my last period.  I tried to remember to note it in my datebook prior to the appointment; I may have remembered once or twice.

So, accuracy is my first issue.  But, there's more.

In its wisdom, our legislature is attempting to tell the female residents of Arizona that we are carrying a baby before we have had intercourse.  I don't even know where to begin with this one.  Can it be extrapolated to mean that a crime has been committed if a man considers sex with a woman two weeks before she is legally able to consent?  Attempting to circumvent the 20 week cut-off for legal termination of a pregnancy, our legislators have, once again, abandoned science for bias.

Jimmy Carter admitted to lusting in his heart and was pilloried for it by the left (how silly) and the right (how sinful).  This legislation seems just as foolish to me.  You can't be held accountable for thinking of something; that's why we have hate speech laws but (at least not yet) no hate thought laws. 

But it goes further than that, I think.  Gestational age is a crap shoot; at least it was for me.  The same woman did 3 ultra-sounds over the first few months when Little Cuter was growing happily inside me.   She came up with three different due dates.... based on her assessment of the fetus's gestational age.  It wasn't very helpful in terms of planning.... we knew it would be in May... or maybe June... but, as the obstetrician reminded us, medicine is an art not a science.  There are few certainties.

So, as our streets crumble due to legislative sweeps of road funds into general funds, as our tax base dwindles and companies locate elsewhere, as our schools see their funding cut, our legislators talk a good game about jobs and tourism while they work to establish dominion over my body. 

I've got to think that there are better uses of their time.

Planting Veggies

Remember the photo that shocked Little Cuter?

This was the condition of the little garage I use as my potting shed.

It was a sorry state of affairs, to be sure.

Bending and lifting and pivoting are each possible for me now.

Combing the three in one safe (let alone fluid) motion is still beyond my capabilities.

At least, that was the excuse I gave.

But our planting season is short here in Tucson, and I've let enough go by without access to my tools.

Besides, we are hosting a wedding in a little over five months; I have to be ready.

So, on Saturday I shopped and on Sunday I planted.

Before I could plant, I had to organize. 

It took me two hours to get to the point where the floor was clear enough to step back and take this.

This is a before shot of the tool shelf. 

The irrigantion tubing poking out of my red plastic containers ended up there because it was the only place I could reach.

The garden shelf was inaccessible.

There was no place to move the bicycle

and no place to stand in front of the gardening stuff.

I started small.

That red plastic bucket had irrigation connectors galore.

True, they were all in one place.

Unfortunately, some are T shaped and some are straight and some are pointy at one end and this is not an efficient way to store them.

Daddoooo would have spent time at a hardware or tackle store, searching out a plastic case with just the right sized compartments.

I, being thrifty, decided to reuse the empty plastic seedling containers.

Perched atop the stool which sat in G'ma's kitchen, the stool on which countless salads were made and sandwiches created, I channelled my inner parent and separated the pieces by shape.

I could feel Daddoooo smiling at me. 

Gradually, things began to take shape.

I hope you noticed the clean floor beneath that stool, for example.

The gardening tools were suddenly usuable.

I need some more hooks and a magnetic strip might be nice, but I'm thinking this is a good start.

I even have shelf space on which I can work.

Tired but undaunted, I loaded up my supplies and headed to the raised bed.

The plants had been placed on Saturday afternoon. 

The euphorbia rigida (Gopher Plant) in the back corner was a tiny shoot when I stuck it in there in December of 2010.  On Sunday I removed it and stored it carefully.  It will become part of my living fence out front.  For now, it's merely in the way.

I planted and I irrigated and I secured the tomato cage.

There are marigolds and Supersweet 100s and a jalapeno, a yellow bell peper and two watermelons there in the back, ready to vine themselves over the wall and out onto the ground.

It was finished but looked incomplete. 

It needed a more personal touch.

And then I remembered the sign I bought Daddooooo in Los Angeles, at the art fair next to the hotel we were using as a base to attend one of Reggie's boys' bar mitzvah's. 

 Doesn't that look better?

I'm looking for lettuces to intersperse in the spaces.

It will keep down the weeds, and provide me hours of joy.

I am rarely as happy as when I am picking something I've grown .... and then eating it.

It you're ever in Tucson, come on over. 

There will be plenty to share.

Festival en el Barrio, Tucson Style

I knew it was going to be fun when I saw this bucket just beyond the ticket tent.

They were free and it was hot so I took one and squirted C & B when I caught up with them at the beer tent.

We watched big and small people play big and small chess 

 as we hugged and smiled and admired our recovering and reducing selves.

There's nothing like old friends.

We were at the Festival en el Barrio, a benefit for KXCI, our community radio station.

 It was a beautiful sunny Saturday afternoon, and Tucsonans were out and about.

Typically, it was full but not crowded.

 Roadies are roadies no matter the venue,

but Sergio Mendoza Y La Orkesta are one of a kind.

 In between sets there was time to go to the Animal Farm truck for the best hamburger I've ever eaten and then to return to watch hula hoops in action.

 There were many excellent shoes,

 and even more excellent hats.

But mostly there was Tucson.

The big blue sky, the soft breeze, the heat and the tattoos and the music.

I was recognized and appreciated and hugged and admired.

The admiration still feels odd, but I smile and return the compliments as best I can.

If I have to be associated with anyplace, I'm certainly glad that it is here.



Nikon Seduced Me

What would you say to a woman who made the same mistake not once, not twice, but three times?

I love Nikon lenses.  I splurged on an SLR film camera when the kids were young, and the quality and clarity of my photographs improved immeasurably.  Though never a threat to Diane Arbus or Ansel Adams, I was good enough to amuse myself. 

Little Cuter put that camera to good use in high school creating such masterpieces as this, which I titled Portrait of the Mother, Brooding

I remember the day, the light, the request to look sad and the pride I felt.  My little girl was orchestrating the afternoon.... and she wanted me to be a part of it.  The Nikon was a third partner in that quarter's coursework.  The cemetery at the Presidio, the wildflowers on the open space across the street from Our Big House.... we took that camera and captured the moments.

Truly captured them, denizens.  I am right there right now, though my body is typing to you, and I've gotta tell you that it's a fabulous feeling.  Without the photo as a visual cue, I'm not sure I'd have thought to reimagine that afternoon. The photograph captures a moment in time, and lets me relive it at my leisure.  I keep that picture in my space in this house - the golf-cart-garage-turned-potting-shed.  Her body may be 2000 miles away, but I can conjure her spirit anytime I please just by looking at that photograph.

But film has gone the way of the winds (what does that really mean, anyway?) and I'm not interested in expending the energy required to take good pictues with anything more than a PHS camera.

PHS? That's short hand for Push Here, Stupid.....which brings me to the point of this post.  I was seduced by perfection and, ultimately, defeated by ineptitude. 

Little Cuter in Oz Park

Back in the 1980's and '90's, I loved my Nikon SLR for afternoons when the kids were playing in the yard or at the park, oblivious to me and my machinations.  I could sit back on the lounge chair or the park bench or the edge of the sandbox, and capture them in their own moments. 

I could pretend to be artistic and my camera perpetuated the illusion.

But, kids being kids, they were reluctant to hold that pose until I managed to adjust the aperture and the speed and the focal length.  I wasn't good enough to adjust the camera quickly; I missed a lot.

Obviously, a PHS camera was called for.  Having decided that Nikon and only Nikon lenses would suit my purposes, I bought that black Coolpix 7900 and I was in heaven.

Anyone could use it and take a great picture.  It was small enough to fit in the front or back pocket of my jeans.   The AA batteries lasted forever; the camera drew very little power to create fantastic images.  It fit my hand perfectly. 

And then, one day, without warning, with no fanfare, it expired.  It was gone, absent, irretrievably lost.  The repair guy told me that replacing it at Target would be less costly than leaving it with him so I joined the throw-away culture and bought the red one in the middle, the next iteration of the 7900, the Coolpix L20.. 

I loved it every bit as much as I loved the first one. 

And then, one day, without warning, with no fanfare, the battery cover refused to stick.  No amount of jiggling or encouraging or pressing or smacking made any difference at all.  I resorted to scotch tape and then, frustrated beyond measure, wanting a fancy camera but recognizing that PHS made more sense because it was easier but this was NOT EASIER and the angrier I got the closer I came to dragging G'ma with me to Target once more and replacing the damn thing.

Thanks.  I feel better for having gotten that off my chest.

So, G'ma and I had a great time at Target and I ended up with the next Coolpix, the L22. 

And the same thing happened.  I loved it and it left me.  The battery cover required assistance to accomplish its designated task..... a kind way of saying the thing wouldn't stay closed.

No, I didn't drop it.  No, I didn't leave it in a hot car.  No, I didn't jostle it around in the bottom of a backpack.  I took care of it.  I loved it.  I protected it.

And it failed me. 

I did learn my lesson.  I bought a Canon and it's just fine.  It's not as intuitive as the Nikon, and I've yet to read the instruction manual.  But the easy mode takes fine pictures and, for now, that's enough for me. 

I'll just sit here, staring at my Nikons, the PHS's I loved and lost.

Finding the Bodies

I've spent the morning trying to find the bodies. The ideas are in place.  The programs have been vetted and organized and created and advertised.  Where are the humans?

It's not just Pilates at the middle school that's giving me trouble.  My girlfriend has a fundraiser scheduled for Monday and she's having the same issues. Everyone is interested.  No one signs up.

It's hard to stay focused when your dream is evolving but the people are no where to be found.  It's hard to maintain enthusiasm when people don't participate.  One begins to doubt the wisdom of the entire endeavor.When that endeavor is part and parcel of who you have become, as it is for my friend, the wounds are much deeper. 

I used to laugh when I'd enter a room for a new project only to see the same 12 faces I saw around every other table for every other project I was doing at the same time.  We weren't all stay-at-home-moms, we weren't all looking for a way to fill our free time, we weren't all alike in very many ways at all, except for the most important way - we were willing to show up.

It's tempting to wait til the very last moment before sending that RSVP; how do I know that I'll want to go to that fundraising dinner when next Monday rolls around?  Do I really want to commit myself to an event that is not mandatory?  I'm sure that's what's filtering through the minds of those we invite, of those we ask, of those to whom we offer our programs.  I've tried bribery and time-shifting and reminder calls and funny emails .... all with the same result.  No one shows up.

I'm left to wonder: where are the bodies?

I don't do meetings and I don't waste my time.  I want to be busy from the moment I arrive until the moment it is time for me to leave.  Knowing that, I arrange my opportunities to provide the same level of support that I demand when I volunteer.  So far, I've been lucky. The grown-ups have responded with enthusiasm and delight.  Getting the kids to participate has been another story entirely.  Focus groups, snacks, free clothes..... nothing seems to motivate them to get involved.

I've solved my problem by taking the program into the structure of a PE class; there is no opting out of this requirement.  My public/private partnership is intact and I am a happy girl.  The students who could not be induced to attend a no-cost after-school pilates class are more than happy to escape their conditioning and weight training PE to participate in pilates. 

My project goes forward but my question remains - how do we find the bodies?

My girlfriend will have to cancel the fundraiser if she can't find 70 people to join her for dinner.  Social media and personal appeals are flying furiously through the ether but the result is disappointing.  It's not a pricey ticket.... she's a popular person.... her story is touching.... the cause is good... why isn't there more buzz?

I tried to create that excitement to lunch in the cafeteria at the middle school by bringing the Pilates toys - magic circles and rollers - and my laptop with videos of teens enjoying themselves while following the program. The kids had fun playing with them and hearing about the benefits that would accrue from participation in the activity.  The free t-shirts and trip to the UofA were mighty inducements as well.... or so I thought.  But, after 2 lunchtimes and many posters and several announcements and active solicitation by interested educators, our voluntary program had 2 girls show up... once... though 8 had enrolled for the 10 class program.

Disappointed?  For sure.  Giving up?  Not a chance.  We were lucky to find a PE teacher to take us under his wing, and we'll get to do our good deeds in spite of the notable lack of enthusiasm for our original notion.  The bodies didn't find us; we went to them.

That doesn't help Roxanna with her dinner on Monday night, though.  The whole town was captivated by her story and the good deeds she's done in the 15 months since Christina-Taylor's death.  People line up to have her sign her book and to give and receive her hugs.  This small event, offered by a friendly restauranteur and designed for joy and fun and a little bit of money-raising, this tiny piece of her life, this unremarkable dinner party is woefully undersubscribed.  Everyone thought it was a great idea; no one is putting their money where their mouths should be.

I have no solutions.  I've just got the problem.  If you're in Tucson next Monday and would like to join us, I've copied the flyer below.  I can't promise that the event will happen - the food must be ordered by Friday and right now there aren't enough attendees to make it worthwhile. 

Come if you can.  We'd love to see you.  And, if you have any ideas about where the people are, share them in the comments below.  We can't be the only two women with this issue on our plates right now.
*****

Do you live in Tucson?  Do you want to have dinner with me on Monday night?

It's pricey, but not overly so, and it certainly benefits a worthy cause.

Reservations must be made by Friday, April 6th at noon.

PLEASE JOIN US!
MONDAY, APRIL 9th, 2012
For A Very Special Evening!

Amarsi Ristorante

will host a fundraising dinner
With Silent Auction
in support of
The Christina-Taylor Green Memorial Foundation

The Christina-Taylor Green Memorial Foundation
was established to galvanize projects in our community
that reflect Christina’s interests, values and dreams including:
♥
Educational funding for children and their families that are deemed less fortunate
♥
Leadership programs that promote awareness and hope to those who strive to achieve
♥
Scholastic activities throughout our community that promote a positive influence to our youth.

The evening will feature a Silent Auction and an all-inclusive specially prepared dinner menu. 

Cocktail Hour from 5:00 PM - 6:00 PM: Bruscetta Traditional, Bruscetta Tapenade, Fried Calamari, and Stuffed Mushrooms

Dinner from 6:00 PM - 7:30 PM Mixed Green Salad, choice of entree: Chicken Marsala, Lasagna Bolognese or Whitefish Picatta

Dessert Buffet from 7:30 PM - 9:30 PM
: Selection of gourmet cupcakes, mini heart cakes and Vanilla Custard Cups, Coffee and Tea

Only $75.00 per person!!

*Price includes

4 course meal, soft drinks, tax, gratuity,

 and

a $25.00 per-person donation to the foundation.

Alcohol purchases will be the responsibility of each patron,

but 20% of all liquor sales will be donated to the foundation that evening!

Did the Mail Come Yet?

It used to be that April 15th was as relevant to high school seniors as it was to their parents.  While the grown-ups were busily putting the final touches on their tax forms before dropping them into the mailbox, the seniors were lined up on the curbstones, waiting for the first glimpse of the mail carrier. 

College acceptance letters were received on April 15th.  It was a big day.

Now, with the proliferation of rolling and early admissions, the process is more diffuse.  Some students know where they're going before Thanksgiving, adding a touch of Congratulations to their holiday celebrations.  Some find out that they're not going where they wanted to go, that they will be spending their holidays finishing applications to schools that are okay but not what I wanted.  All that parental encouragement to finish those other applications so they would be ready to slip into the mail if the worst occurred seem oddly prescient all of a sudden. It doesn't make completing them any easier, though.

This is the first time that kids really stand on their own. Unless Dad or Mom is a Trustee or a major donor there's really no one on the admissions side who wants to hear their kids' tale of woe.  Judged on their own accomplishments, taken or refused based on what they wrote and what they have done, their egos are very much on the line.

As Big Cuter sighed while waiting for his Georgetown letter, it's a very personal matter.  "I just want them to like me, Mom."

I wanted to go to University of Pennsylvania more than anything in the whole wide world.  I wanted an urban campus a train ride away from my east coast anchors - NYC and Washington, DC.  I wanted to walk where Ben Franklin walked.  Unfortunately, they didn't want me.

I remember G'ma's insistence that I go to school, just as I did on every Tuesday.  How have I remembered that it was a Tuesday?  1969 was a long time ago; right now it feels like yesterday. Altering her usual routine, G'ma promised that she would meet the mailman at 11 and drive the envelopes over to the high school so that I could open them right away.  It was a compromise, but one I could tolerate.  G'ma didn't believe in mental health days - if you were breathing, you went to class.

The clock couldn't have ticked more slowly.  The bell could not have rung more loudly.  It was the end of 4th period, and I ran to the door by the gym and there, in the car, sat my future.  I stopped in my tracks and took a moment. It may have been the first time in my life that I stood still and noticed where I was and what I was doing.  I knew that my life was about to change.  My future was in the front seat.

The Penn envelope was slim.  It doesn't take many words to crush a teenager's dream.  They didn't want me.  No explanation, beyond the facts that a lot of smart kids had the same idea that I had and, unfortunately, the school could not accommodate all of us.  There was a dark, rushing sound in my ears. 

The fat envelope from Cornell helped assuage the pain.... a little.  I'd spent the summer after my Junior year in Ithaca, taking economics and falling in love with the campus.  I knew I'd be happy there (and I was) but it wasn't what I wanted.  I'd let myself down.

G'ma was there, as always, with tissues and a comforting pat.  But that was all.  There was no wallowing, no time for self-pity, no reason to mourn.  The Ivy League still wanted me, even if it meant spending time in the verdant hills of upstate New York instead of the gritty streets of downtown Philly. I could get an education, and, with the help of the State of New York and its Regents' Scholarship Program, the cost would be minimal.  I should be happy that I had a good alternative and I should wipe my tears and get back to class.

That's G'ma...... accept it and move on because what else can you do.  It feels as harsh to type it as it did to go through it but it was also the right thing to do.  The halls were filled with seniors with smiles and seniors with distraught oh my God what will I do faces and I don't know how (or why) our teachers taught us anything that afternoon.  We were focused forward; the here and now had suddenly become the past.

And now, 40+ years later, I have received Cornell's list of accepted students from Southern Arizona.  I and my volunteer colleagues have contacted and reported on dozens of applicants.  Four of them have been offered the chance to become Cornellians... one of them with a prestigious University sponsored scholarship/leadership award.  For the others, the talented, athletic, brilliant others, their dreams are quashed. 

We aren't allowed to ask where else they've applied, so I have no idea if they were smart to stretch to Ithaca while having plenty of safer back-ups ready just in case.  I don't know if they'll be as resilient as Little Cuter was when, denied rolling admission to her first choice school, she tossed the envelope aside and said "C'mon, Mom.  If they don't want me I don't want them.  Let's go apply to colleges."

The walk down the hall to her computer seemed longer to me than it did to her.  She was energized, ready to take action, turning lemons into lemonade.  I had a broken heart - my baby wouldn't be riding a pink moped through the streets of Madison, Wisconsin and there was nothing to be done to fix it.  Nothing to be done by me, that is.  She fixed the problem handily, applying and being accepted to all those schools whose applications she completed that awful (to me) week. 

Rejection wasn't the end of the world for either of us, it seems.  It just felt like it, at the time, to me.

May I Opt Out?

Can I opt out, too?

As I understand it, the Conservative objection to ObamaCare centers around the mandate.  Extending benefits to millions more by requiring the states to expand their definition of need seems to be an easier proposition for the Justices to examine dispassionately.  Telling me what to do has a stickier presence.

I get it.  I really do.  the Pilgrims came to our shores because they were peeved - the government was telling them how to live their lives and they wouldn't take it any more.

Of course, they got to our shores and began expelling people from their colony when beliefs clashed.  Even in elementary school I was bothered by the hypocrisy of it.  Fleeing your homeland because you couldn't pray the way you chose was a stand-alone good reason.  Sailing across the pond and doing the same thing to others always struck me as the height of hypocrisy. 

Didn't they get it?  Were the Pilgrims just looking for a spot of land where they could be as demanding ... as inhospitable.... as reluctant to accept deviation... as controlling as the King and his minions?

I saw it as an eight year old; I see it again at sixty.

I get that Rick Santorum thinks that birth control is a bad idea.  I get it that he thinks sex is for procreation and nothing else and I don't have a problem with that.  He's got his wife home with the kids, a government pension and health care provided for him and his ad infinitum at little or no cost out of the Santorums' pocket, and this is a chance to tout his beliefs - leave me alone to do what I want.

Fine, Rick.  I have no problem with that.  Just let me do the same.

Ron Paul has gotten a bad rap  - he most emphatically did NOT say that we should leave an uninsured sick person on the street rather than provide him care.  That is not the American way.  It is not my way.   It only works for insurers, it seems.

The lobbying bill early on in Obama's term was the first step toward resolving the health care crisis.  It went nowhere, and big money speaks..... as a person, according to  the Supremes.... and it speaks loudly.  But that money may be the only place where truth resides.

I saw the hand surgeon last week.  As he examined the surgery that didn't fix the problem he commiserated with me.  No, he could not explain the dollar amounts on my bill.  There was a Blue Cross Blue Shield write-down, an adjustment to the cost of the procedures, but he could only explain it (as his billing coordinator and the clerk behind the counter did, too) as "what the insurance company allows us to charge you for this."
 

Fine.  I get that.  But if I only pay you the cost the insurance company says I should pay, then what happens to the 25% you are not receiving, I asked.  If you tell me on the bill that the surgery costs X, what happens when you only receive 25% of X?  How do you pay your employees, your rent, your suppliers, if you are losing money on every operation?  How do you keep the doors open?

His response was the first honest answer I've gotten since I began my quest to understand medical billing in late 2010. 

You have to assume that the numbers are all made up.

Well, that stopped me in my tracks.  He was completely, totally, without a doubt serious when he said it.  I repeated it back to him and he did the same to me. 


"How do you manage your practise?" I wondered.  He could only shrug.  It is what it is.

TBG spent six hours in a local emergency room in late 2010.  Never admitted, there to determine why he was shaking like a leaf, he was discharged with medication and reassurance and a $14,000+ bill.   At least, that's what the hospital posted on the paperwork as the fee for services rendered.

There were obviously services rendered.  Humans and machinery were in and out of his cubicle.  He was taken to other spaces for tests and evaluation.  Actual people were involved, real machinery was utilized, physical supplies were applied and discarded... I saw it all.  None of it was there out of the goodness of the purveyor's soul.  This was work, and compensation was expected.  The floors were clean and the trash was emptied and the lights were on.  All of that cost money, too.

Yet, the hospital was willing to write off a sizable portion of the bill as BC/BS Adjustment. 

Trust me, denizens, that does not mean that BC/BS was making up the difference.  Nope, the hospital was willing to take the money that our insurer allowed in order to reap the rewards of having patients insured by the company coming to their doors.  Something is better than nothing.

Medicare has a similar write-down policy.  Here in Tucson, home to the elderly and the retired and the governmentally insured, private insurance companies keep the hospital doors open.  Or so they say. 

I'm still working on that write-down.  How do they keep the lights on and the floors swept if their costs are not being met. Can it be that the hand surgeon is right?  Is it true that the numbers are just an illusion? 

No wonder no one can figure out health care.  There are no facts from which to start. 

I had skin in the game for this most recent surgery; with a high deductible I knew that I would be responsible for most of the costs out of pocket.  I should have done this last year, when getting shot took care of deductibles and co-pays on the first day and my care was covered completely by the insurer.  I just couldn't face the knife again, so I waited for my heart to catch up with my body's needs.  I'm paying for this procedure myself, and I want to understand the bill.

How could I have forgotten?  "You can't always get what you want....."

There is nothing to understand. It is smoke and mirrors.  No hospital or doctor's office or radiology factory could keep its doors open if its costs were not fully covered.  Suppliers would stop delivering, physicians would stop coming to work, the electric company would turn off the power if they received only a portion of what their costs were determined to be.  And yet this doesn't happen.  The whole thing is built on sand.  The more I asked, the shakier the castle became.

I end up wondering if I should just cancel my insurance entirely.  At nearly $800 per month, I'd have covered the cost of my unsuccessful hand surgery in 4 months.  If TBG and I stay healthy and away from weaponry that gives me 8 months of not paying premiums.  I can do a lot with $6400, denizens.  And I'll know where it's going every step of the way.

But that is irresponsible, TBG assures me.  We can afford to cover our care, and we should do so.  The insurance system is all that exists right now, so we participate.

But, in participating, we are also covering the costs of those who are uninsured - by choice or by exclusion.  Those people do get sick and require care.  That's where the padding comes in.  That's why the numbers don't make sense.  They include my share of the burden of paying for those who cannot or will not pay for themselves.

I'm finished with that.  Just as I don't want to pay for Medicaid coverage of the idiot who sustained a head injury while riding his motor-cycle without a helmet, I don't want to cover the costs of those who refuse to buy health insurance.  I'm done having my values (I won't leave you to die along the side of the road) translate into paying for you because you refuse to do it yourself.

I can understand a citizen's reluctance to acquiesce to more regulation.  The 55 mph speed limit, no alcohol til you're 21, abortion delays and trans-vaginal ultrasounds.... the list goes on and on.  But your flauting of those rules doesn't cost me money.  Your refulsal to buy health insurance does.

So, I'd like to opt out, please.  If you won't pay for it yourself, that's your right.  Just don't make me pay for it on your behalf.  Exercise your freedoms, as long as they don't bump into mine.  I'll make charitable contributions to institutions which serve the needy, institutions which have done good work on my bullet-ridden body, institutions on the cutting edge of technology.  I just don't want to make a contribution to someone who doesn't want to pay for his medical bills himself.

It's beating a dead horse, I know, to state that Congress has no clue because their health care costs are covered.  I was in that situation, too, with health benefits paid by an employer and little need for care myself.  Then retirement and moving to a new state and suddenly TBG's knee is a pre-existing condition.... just by moving across the state line.... and I'm paying exorbitant amounts based on fantasy and negotiation. 

He may have botched the surgery, but my surgeon's honesty redeemed him in my eyes.  The numbers are all made up.  No one can solve the problem, because there are no hard facts.  I'm going to take my cue from the right - you can't make me do something I don't want to do.  Right now, I don't want to pay for you. 

You have the right to be stubborn.   I have the right to protect my assets. 

Do you disagree?  Do you think that I'm making a mountain out of a molehill?  Ask your physician at your next check up how your $35 co-pay and the insurer's contribution stack up against her actual costs.  Then, ask her how she keeps the doors open.

It's a mystery to me.

And the Winners Are.....

Kentucky trounced The Bride and Groom's Kansas Jayhawks (who, despite a valiant run at the end were clearly out-manned) and Da Bibstah wins the pool.... but only by a small fraction.  TeNNiSMoMAZ and Carol 86303 were only 10 points behind ...
.
SO, the reward will be shared between the 3 of you.  Da Bibstah (also known as Big Cuter) is happy with the fame and notoriety attached to this major accomplishment.  Yes, you do picks better than your mother does.... and I am admitting it in public for all to see.

Carol and TeNNiSMoMAZ will each receive t-shirts and butterfly magnets to celebrate their achievement.  Send a private email to me at  with a mailing address and your swag will be on its way!

CONGRATS!  (and)  THANKS to all who participated

His First Soccer Game

It was  beautiful and sunny in The Old Pueblo on Saturday.

Mr. 6 was playing in his first soccer game and I was there to cheer.... and to reflect... and to remember.

I've watched a lot of soccer in March.

This is the first time I wished I'd had an umbrella.

Even at 11am, the smart parents took refuge under shade.

In Chicago, in March, we were wrapped in parkas, scarves and sweaters.

We washed mud out of uniforms and wondered if, perhaps, the chess club might be an alternative.

That was not the case last weekend.

It was the first game of the season, the first game of their lives for most of the players, so the coaches were actively involved.

Mr. 6 and his teammate were ushered to their defensive positions and told to stay there and guard them.

And that's what they did. No matter if the ball came their way or not, they stood still and protected their area of the turf.

Clearly, help was called for.

"Follow me," the coach instructed.

That part was easy.

"And now what do I do?" wondered Mr. 6. 

He was in the right place, but what, exactly, was defense anyway?

By the second quarter, he'd learned to watch the ball, but those feet were still planted firmly on the ground.

Defense.... marking up... staying with your man....he seemed to have that covered, too.
Unfortunately, both players were on the same team.

At least they were paying attention.

As time went on, they began to get into a rhythm, and Mr. 6 began to move his feet.

Half time included instruction...

and hydration

 and snacks.

The second half was filled with more enthusiasm...

and more skills... though the coach-cum-mom was still there, making sure .

There was the occasional fast break.

But mostly it was still "herd ball"... everyone converging on the poor soccer ball.... with nobody noticing that it's behind #9's shoes.

It was unseemly to laugh.... but we did nonetheless.

And then it was over... with an "all in handshake" and a sense of belonging to something larger than oneself.

 It may not have looked much like soccer, but there are other lessons to be learned.

For me, it was a rocket back in time to Pumpkin Tigers and Silver Bullets and Daring Devils... little ones and big ones but always mine. 

I'm sure that Mr. 6 and his teammates have no idea how much joy they brought to my heart.
But watching parents doing just what I did 20 years ago, with the same smiles and tissues and hugs and ice packs, with the cameras and the siblings to be amused and the relatives to entertained, wondering why in the world we were standing on the sidelines watching little kids run around.....
 and then realizing that we didn't want to be anyplace else in the world.

Thanks for including me, Mr. 6.