Grammatically Infuriated

I seem to recall a time when Wolf Blitzer didn't annoy the hell out of me.  Whenever it was... and I just spent a minute or so trying to place it in context.... many years have past since then.  Now, his little face and little voice and little mouth make me want to scream.

We all have our annoyances; I'm just sharing mine out loud.

TBG likes listening to the talking heads of all descriptions.  We have this conversation periodically, when I open my ears and hear words strung together in vague approximation of sentences by bloviators on the left and the right.  I cannot argue with his response to my astonishment that he would spend time letting them into his ears let alone his brain. "Without being there myself, without seeing it in person, I can only gather as many facts and opinions as are out there and decide for myself what to believe."

He spends his days thinking and comparing and groaning aloud.  This afternoon we watched Wolf and his reporter deconstructing the Romney campaign's attack on President Obama's donors and the government contracts they received.

I thought CNN was the thoughtful arm of the media.

Duh.  What voter is naive enough to think that donors don't receive federal dollars?  That's what appropriations are all about.  Living in Tucson, where Raytheon is a major employer, I certainly hope that they are spreading their wealth around Washington, reminding our legislators that jobs are needed here, too.  I'd be disappointed if they and their spokesmen lobbyists were not extending their largesse on both sides of the aisle, covering all their bets.

This is the best that they can come up with seemed to be the reporter's thesis.  His disdain mounted, Wolf's eyebrows lifted, and then the graphic came on the screen, the one with the misplaced apostrophe, the one that makes me throw pillows across the room.

I know you think that you're being very clever, using a grammatical rule.  Unfortunately for you, oh person who is typing the words I saw on the screen... and for the editor/supervisor who monitors your work..... its is possessive without the apostrophe.  It goes against the rule you think you are following.

When you see it's it means it is.  Nothing belongs to it at all. 

And so, there I sat, fuming at the folly of it all.  The facts are the facts.  A company gave money to the President's campaign, now that companies are people and can do that sort of thing, and then that company was awarded a federal contract.... or a grant... or an opportunity of some sort.  I was too infuriated by that errant ' to pay much attention to the content. 

This was CNN, not the local middle school's audio-visual department..... which would probably have a teacher who could correct the mistake before it went live so maybe it should've been in a middle school.  This was on television.  I remember when that meant something.

My grandparents, immigrants to this country at the turn of the 20th century, read four or five newspapers each day.  They listened to the radio.  They needed to learn the language and that was the best way to do so.  Care was taken with the words that were printed or broadcast; good grammar was absorbed along with the content. 

They went to the movies, where they read titles like this one, from Buster Keaton's The General

So I thought it best to hold her...... all that grammar packed into eight little words.  My grandparents learned English, their third (or in G'ma's mom's case, her fourth) language by imitation and through conversation.  I remember being chastised for using slang.... It's not right!

There were expectations of excellence, and no thought of dumbing down to the lowest common denominator.  Valentino, The Sheik, expected his audiences to contend with screens like this

And, somehow, they did.  G'ma remembers reading the titles aloud and having them read to her.  There was hooting and hollering and laughing accompanying the pianist down in front, and then there was a low murmur when the words appeared as seatmates shared their English expertise with the newly arrived or the infantile.

Reading aloud as a group exercise... I'm loving the image right now.

And my brain is back at being furious with CNN and Wolf Blitzer and the reporter whose name I've blessedly forgotten.  If you are that flippant with the rules of grammar, why should I not assume that you are simiarly oblivious to the rules of good reportage?  Why should I believe a word you say?  You obviously don't care about doing things well.. or right.... nor do you check your work.

Humph.  I am infuriated.

Random Thoughts

Monsoon is crashing over our heads. 

Were I motivated to sit under the portico with a tripod and a remote switch I might have captured the lightning strike that bisected this scene moments before I took this picture.

It's noisy and blustery and altogether wonderful.

Though we might be a little crowded, scrunched inside if it happens during the wedding, the enormity and the beauty of it all will provide a wonderful distraction to any discomforts.

And anyhow, I'm not allowing it to rain that evening.

I've already sent the memo.

*****

Remember that closet I had professionally organized?  Thirteen months ago I wrote this:

Boxes of photographs and scrapbooking materials sit on the floor, taunting me but out of the way.

Yesterday, I tackled those boxes.

MOTG needed some photos of our bride-to-be, and they were all there, in labeled envelopes, for the most part, nestled amongst the negatives and the rolls of Kodachrome and the instant camera and its square film packs.

I have a box of memories ready to be mailed, two full recycling bins, and one less box in the corner. 

It's nice that this wedding is also having a positive effect on my closets.

*****

I've been swimming laps every day, examining in minute detail every twitch of every muscle fiber.  G'ma asked me, last week, why I was leaning over; this morning I realized that I list to the right even when swimming.

It seems I am doing it everywhere.  Now, the answer I gave her feels less snarky than I thought at the time.  It seems to be the truth:

"It's just the way I am these days."

*****

I needed a place to store the MaxSea, so I flipped up the roof of the CD House which lives by the front door and those acid loving plants

and traded floral nutrition for Roman Holiday, Justified (season 1), and Sports Night (the complete series).

There's something to be said for this cleaning up and putting things away in an appropriate place business, it seems. 

*****

I took out three books from the library. 

Finished Alexander McCall Smith's newest No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency novel in one blissful afternoon.

Stuck Jesse Kellerman's paperback of The Executor in my purse where it languised for days.

When I finally opened it up, the entire story came back to me in a flash - including the fact that I absolutely abhored the narrator the first time I read it.

It's a good thing that his father's Victims was my third choice.  I haven't read it and Alex Delaware and Milo Sturgis are two of my favorite detectives.  I'm half way through and loving it.

*****

I was going to use the bbq to create a tasty dinner this evening.

Right now, the lightning is still announcing its presence with authority.

Excuse me, please, while I attempt to convince TBG that dining out is in our best interests this evening.

I promise we'll be home in time for The News Room and Political Animals.... Sigourney Weaver as Hilary Clinton?  That, and more, in tomorrow's Burrow.

It's a Dry Heat...

....but it is heat nonetheless.

Shannon, she of the miracle massage hands, has been torturing me with her photos of the California coastline this week. I awake to something like this

every morning.  I'm glad she's having a good time... I just wish I could be there with her.

I love my own pool in my own backyard, but there's nothing like running into the ocean and having a wave crash over your head to cool you off.  I'd much rather rub salt than chlorine out of my eyes.  The grittiness of the sand and the sharpness of the shells is more pleasant to my tootsies than the pool's pebbly surface. 

And then, there's the smell. Driving from Tiburon to Stinson Beach, I'd roll down the windows as we turned the curve past the Mountain Home Inn, and the parking lot for the trails down to Muir Woods and the fire roads which led you higher up and the Alice Eastwood Campground, scene of several memorable Columbus Day overnights when the Cuters were young.  All those thoughts crowded into my head as I steered around the edge of the USofA, but they were pushed aside by the smell of the ocean.

My nose knew it was coming before the road revealed it

up ahead and down below.

I had the same sensations as a youngster, sitting in the back seat on the way to the beach. 

It might have been my grandparents' beach, which announced itself in the snippets we could see through the train trestle uprights as we drove through Arverne to The Butcher's Co-op where they lived out their final years with a view of the waves. 

It might have been Long Beach, early in the Fall, with our kites at the ready and all the free parking we could imagine, coming over the bridge and inhaling the outboard motor fumes and the salty sea air. 

It might have been Point Lookout, or one of the beach clubs on the way to the public space at the far end, just a little further than Long Beach and with just a little bit richer smell.  Driving past gated and guarded mansions - were the owners really Mafioso? - and a Nike Missle site I was overwhelmed with anticipation.  Couldn't my parents smell it too?

They never drove fast enough on those trips.  Never.  Not once.

And now, I live too too far from the waves and the salt water and the sand.  I love my desert, but somehow, to me, summer requires the ocean.

I'm going to have to remember that for next year.

Pre-Wedding Tune Up - Garden Edition

We are within 70 some days of marrying off our baby.  The plans have been made, deposits have been placed, attire has been purchased.  I am involved in on-going negotiations with the weather gods and goddesses.  TBG and I had the most fun ever tasting desserts, the post for which must wait until after the party so as not to reveal too much too soon.  Everything is in place and all I have to do is wait..... or so I thought until I looked at my containers.

This used to be a geranium.

I don't like their odor but this one had pretty flowers.... for a while. 

This held vinca and the remnant of a Get Well gift's foliage. 

The vinca surrounding the adenium (in its own pot, having its own watering needs) met a tragic end. 

These zinnias which look like daisies have certainly seen better days. 

 Beth Hargrove, of Rillito Nursery, laughed as she saw me coming through the doorway.

She'd posted on Facebook that locally grown hibiscus had been delivered this morning.

To me, it was a siren's call.

Seriously, denizens, who could resist this beauty?

She's called Windy Sun and that's just what we've got here in the desert southwest in the summer.

The monsoon rains blow in every once in a while, accompanied by dry gusty blasts of dust.

I know it's hot everywhere in the USofA these days, and I know that some of you don't have power (though how you are reading this in that event remains a mystery)

but day after day month after month of triple digits does tend to wear at the soul.

So, I bought that one and this one

which has all these wonderful babies just ready to explode

(see arrows below)

and I watered them with Maxsea

 which is specially designed to feed hibiscus and vinca

like these I planted together in the pot that once held my ill-fated magnolia tree, it of the 72-hours-then-keeling-over-in-a-mushy-heap life span once I got it home.

I made sure that the water seeped all the way through to the bottom

and then I was done.

Tomorrow morning I will tackle the pots in the back.

Right now, I can't see through the sweat dripping into my eyes.

Those pots will be in the shade in the morning.

Waiting sounds like a grand idea.

Girls' Night Out(s)

I had trouble punctuating the title. Is the plural in the middle, like attorneys general?  Or is it, like lemon meringue pie, three words acting as one?  I fudged and used parentheses in an attempt to get around the rules by being cute.

As TBG tells me quite often, it's a good thing that I am short.  Were I 5'11" with the same attitude I would rarely go a day without encountering someone who wanted to punch me in the face.  But, that persona in a small but sturdy body results in rueful head shakes or surprised laughter, much to his dismay.  I'm not obnoxious, I'm small.

But, I digress.

It doesn't matter, though, because that's what a good Girls' Night Out is all about - digressing.  Weekdays have a tendency to smoosh into one long blur of alarm clocks and bus schedules and elevators and errands.  Necessary but routine.  Glad to have the places to go and the life which needs tending but, for most of us, it's about the other more than about ourselves.

According to the Bureau of Labor Statistics, women .... volunteer at a higher rate than .. men across all age groups, educational levels, and other major demographic characteristics. I love it when the facts bear out my preconceived notion.

Whether we make the lists and let others fill them or take on all the tasks ourselves or ignore them while worrying about them, being a homemaker means that you sleep in your in-box.  And don't think that working inside or outside the home for financial compensation, or living alone, or sharing an apartment doesn't mean that you aren't a homemaker, too.  Creating a home is what we do. 

Ronni Bennett, elder blogger extraordinaire, has lived alone in Greenwich Village and Portland, Maine and Portland, Oregon.  She's aware of the irony, which is one of the many reasons I love her.  Through the personal pieces she occasionally posts, I've watched her create her own personal private spaces on both coasts.  When she opens it up to friends, it's as homey a place as one can imagine.

Yet there are posts which reveal a longing for New York, an emptiness I imagine for her because of something I've noticed - she has never mentioned the name of any of the women who live in either of the Portlands.  The named characters are, like Annie, New Yorkers. 

My guess is that if you offered Ronni a chance to spend two or three hours with her Village girlfriends she'd be all over the travel arrangements in no time.  Sometimes, only your girlfriends will do.

There are times, of course, when a group of women can be toxic, with friendships ending and feelings broken beyond repair.  But that's often something that you can see coming down the road.... and something that I try to avoid at all costs.  Life's too short to burden it with negativity.

I'm rambling here, because I keep checking the comments on Monday's Applebee's post.  Ten years...since August 2010....nine years.... I can't remember..... is nobody spending some quality time with the girls? 

In Chicago, I played poker on the first Monday of every month with a group of similarly situated women.  It ended in disaster... but we saw it coming and were able to laugh about it after the fact ... but for several years I had an anchor in my life.  Men were allowed as long as they were naked and serving.  None of our husbands/boyfriends/roommates took us up on the offer.  We drank vodka and cranberry juice and carried our quarters in cigar boxes or Crown Royal bags and starting at 6 and ending with the last hand dealt no later than 10pm once every 30 days or so we were responsible for no one, for nothing.  Only the hostess prepared; the rest of us were guests.  It was heavenly.

It wasn't the cards or the alcohol or the foodstuffs which filled me - it was the company of women.  There was an ease to the conversation that was noticeable the one time a husband walked through, commenting on our nails.  "Certainly the prettiest card table I've ever seen," wasn't much of a statement, but it ripped through us like a hot knife through butter.  Outside of the poker game we rarely socialized with one another; inside the poker game we were one unit.  We felt the rent of his presence, not because we disliked him (that came later) but because we knew that he had intruded into something very special - Girls' Night Out.

I'm ready anytime you are..... just give me a call.

Kids in the Wild

There's something about boys out in the wild.

They will find an adventure ten steps from the parking lot.

This the the top of the secret place.

Big Cuter wondered how I managed on Mt. Lemmon with Amster and her kids on Sunday.

I told him that I was able to creep through the secret place with no problems.

"The secret place?" he wondered.

"You know, there are always secret places," said I.

"Ahhhh, yes, I know," was his reply.

For a moment, I think, he was back on Mt. Tam with his little sister and his mother on an adventure - hunting buffalo and tracking them silently with our Nature Explorer backpacks and our sticks.

The buffalo were everywhere, just as Amsters' kids' imaginary terrors were stalking us this weekend.

Up and over and under we went - or they went and I observed and photographed.

"Will we be on the blog tomorrow? I like to know when I'm on the internet."

That was the permission statement from Mr. 7,  maturing more quickly than I'd like.

He's still the kindest boy on the planet, willing to hold and carry and help.  He's just more grown up about it all.

The sand across Canyon Rose Lake looked like snow.

The ripples from the fishing lines were mesmerizing.

There was room to dance on the path.

And there was time to contemplate the future on the rocks.

Amster loves those toe-shoes.

There were all manner of fishermen

 and women

and picnickers of every ethnicity .

The path was paved, the temperatures at 7,000' were in the 70's and my heart was happy.

I looked out at Elizibeth, far and yet close enough to stay connected, peering into the distance.

That's the thing about kids in nature - there is nothing but imagination between them and the world.

No homework.  No chores.  No plans to be made or kept.

It's just trees

and cattails

and love



Applebees? Yes, Applebees!

I was low on fuel and short on time. My neighborhood Applebee's fit the bill.

I spend much too much time emailing and not enough time looking at the women who fill my world. A quick text, an update on Facebook, an e-card for a birthday or a heartfelt but still one-step-removed-from-a-real-hug get well card...they are useful and convenient and keep the flames of a relationship on simmer. But for a real dose, to reinforce all the reasons I love them in the first place, I felt the need for Girls' Night Out.

Applebee's offered us a gift card if we'd have some fun and post about it here in The Burrow. The fact that they were also willing to pay me for writing this post was an extra added bonus. What a treat - right around the corner for Happy Hour at a place whose motto is "Life is Better Shared."

Yes, the menu was in the shape of an apple...Applebee's, remember?...and it was good for a giggle or two while Crayola Mom and I waited for Miss Margo and Chicago Gal to arrive.

Our table was bright and sunny, right by the window, and my feet actually reached the floor with my spine pressed against the back of the booth. I was in heaven and we hadn't even ordered yet.

Elke took our drink order with a smile.

Yes, we wanted margaritas.

No, we didn't want them with olives, a little on the dry side.

Yes, we wanted them fruity and cool and on the rocks with salt.

We were thrilled to know that they were half price. It really was Happy Hour!

The UofA Wildcats were in the process of winning the College World Series as we four hugged and drank and ate. Our booth, up by the windows and above the bar, was quiet enough for us to talk without screaming but close enough to the energy from the bar that we were able to follow the game on the distant televisions without feeling that it was intruding into our face-to-face time.

Of course, that face to face time was leavened by alcohol...

Classic Margarita with Miss Margo's fingers to the left...

Watermelon Margarita with Chicago Gal's fingers on the right...

No one wanted a face shot, which was probably a good thing...as were the straws. Those glasses were huge and filled to the brim; sipping delicately from the edge of the glass was impossible, though it was good for some more giggles.

Starting with the Happy Hour Menu seemed like a wise move; the regular menu was page after page of mouthwatering scrumptiousness, but it required more reading than we were up to after one round of drinks. But, right there on that apple-shaped menu were more tasty treats than we needed...though we ordered most of them, I must admit.

There was spinach and artichoke dip

and there were potato skins (with cheese and bacon bits).

Crayola Mom chose boneless not-so-spicy wings

which still managed to sizzle my tongue.

My favorites were the Crispy Chicken Won Ton Tacos.

Who says America isn't a melting pot?

We have here Asian/Mexican/American fusion.

Chicken stuffed into wonton shells fried into the shape of crispy tacos and topped off with cole slaw.

They could not be cut and retain any semblance of structural integrity.

There was no sharing; each one had to eat one.

Yumminess abounded as we ordered some more spinach dip and another round of drinks and some white queso dip which didn't photograph well but kept Crayola Mom happy as the rest of us pondered whether we should skip the protein and head straight for dessert. Chicago Gal suggested that, following with "I'm kidding...no, I'm not!"

It was that kind of an evening, denizens.

Feeling the need for something that resembled dinner, I opted for the Sizzling Double Whiskey Steaks with mashed potatoes on the side. Two 4oz sirloins on a steamy plate with so many veggies they were falling off onto the charger.... we split them into four equal pieces and transferred our portions onto the clean small plates which kept appearing, out of nowhere, at the edge of our table.

None of us needed a whole main course; this divvied up nicely and felt like food that Mom would approve. No matter how old you get, Mom's still a touchstone. She'd have been proud of us, eating our veggies and cleaning our plates...all of us except Crayola Mom, who took her portion home to her growing son.

She was still working on that White Queso dip.

And then it was time for dessert. Back to that apple shaped menu we went, my guests ordering with me smiling and encouraging. I knew there would be bites for me of whatever they chose. And so I had some whipped cream from the chocolate mousse

and the chocolate sundae shooters.

The chocolate sundae shooter had crushed Oreos in the bottom, which I would have photographed but Miss Margo finished them before I could reach the camera.

Chicago Gal and I enjoyed the blondie and the ice cream.

When it was time for the bill, the girls reached for their wallets.

We had $150 to spend, and they were certain we were over our limit.

Not to worry ladies.

Not only is Applebee's a comfortable place to catch up with the girls, it's a bargain, too.

Visiting on-line has its purposes, but I could get used to this Girls' Night Out thing pretty easily. Applebee's can be found hanging out on-line, too, so find them on YouTube, Twitter, and Tumblr!

And Applebee's is a welcoming venue, a comfortable spot for hanging out with the gang.

I have a feeling we'll be back in our booth before very long.

This could become a habit.

*****

As with all good promotions, this one comes with a sweepstakes. "When's the last time you had a girl's night out?" is what we want to know. Type your answer in the comments below and you'll be entered for a chance to win a $150 Applebee's gift card. There are other ways to enter, too. They are listed in RULES below. Good Luck!!

Rules:

No duplicate comments.

You may receive (2) total entries by selecting from the following entry methods:

a) Leave a comment in response to the sweepstakes prompt on this post

b) Tweet about this promotion and leave the URL to that tweet in a comment on this post

c) Blog about this promotion and leave the URL to that post in a comment on this post

d) For those with no Twitter or blog, read the official rules to learn about an alternate form of entry.

This giveaway is open to US Residents age 18 or older. Winners will be selected via random draw, and will be notified by e-mail. You have 72 hours to get back to me, otherwise a new winner will be selected.

The Official Rules are available here.

This sweepstakes runs from 7/9/12 – 8/3/12.

Be sure to visit the Applebee's Life Is Better Shared page on BlogHer.com where you can read other bloggers’ reviews and find more chances to win!

Small Steps

Every journey begins with a single step.

Robert Maurer, physician and faculty member at UCLA, told me that I would never look at that saying the same way again.  I listened to him for an hour.  He was right.

I had to love a man who acknowledged, right at the beginning, that change is scary.   Apparently, small steps can disarm the brain's fear response.  Once free from fright, the brain is able to create.

It was a new concept for me, the notion of moving beyond the fear.  I rarely get past the change is scary part.  Just ask anyone who's told me that I should write a book.  The look of horror on my face has caused more than one loving friend to step back a pace or two.

One of the blessings of lying on Douglas as my hip healed was the opportunity to think without having to act.  There were no expectations of me beyond growing bone.  There was little enough I could do to speed that process along, and there was nothing on which I could concentrate beyond a three sentence hand written thank you note. 

My mind wandered.  I found myself coming back to familiar themes as the weeks morphed into months but the coherent whole escaped me.  My brain couldn't conjure up a big picture of anything; it couldn't make it through a 60 minute television program.  Dear Abby was a challenge - I rarely remembered the question by the time I got to the end of her answer. 

Small steps were called for, demanded, required, all I could handle at the time.... so small steps are what I took.

Eighteen months later, enjoying our gift-from-the-Zuckerman-family week long stay at Canyon Ranch, I found the philosophical and physiological reasons for my behavior.  Validation and motivation was what that vacation was all about; Dr. Maurer provided it in a 60 minute lecture.

Kaizen teaches that manageable tasks - one paperclip off a chronically messy desk - moves you one step further along the journey.  The end is not your goal; putting one foot in front of the other is.

Think about it for a moment, denizens.  It's an extraordinarily freeing concept.

By writing my blog instead of a book, I've taken small steps toward creating an opus.  The book-writing-nagging has been going on since high school.  I've made no progress toward that goal... and I've had more than 40 years to make the move.  But no one nags me to write The Burrow... there's no need.... I love it.... I can do it... I accomplish it and smile.  It's a small but significant step, just like that one paperclip.

By starting in one school before moving across the campus to its sister school before meeting with a colleague's mother to consider expanding to California, I've grown GRIN without any major hiccups.  Lying on Douglas, I knew I wanted to make a difference.  One principal, one little boy, one kindergarten classroom later I've created something that can grow, one small step at a time.  I don't spend time worrying about where I will be; I am in the moment worrying about the now.  It's a worry that I can live with... and think with.... and take the next step from.

And that step is the single step at the start of my journey.  At least that is what I told myself as I signed up for Pathfinder Day at BlogHer'12..... the all day session on Blog to Book.  It seems like the next small step for me. 

My heart is aflutter, but my brain is calm.  Thanks, Dr.Maurer.

On His Third Day of Medical School...

....the student entered the examining room, trailing Dr. Roth, physiatrist and human being extraordinaire.  We were on the third floor of The Rehabilitation Institute of Chicago ready to assess my progress. I was here six months ago.  I thought I was doing better. Dr. Roth would know for sure.

RIC is bright and cheery, with wide hallways and low countertops and elevators just a little bit bigger than those at Macy's.  I feel blessed and lucky every time I step through the sliding glass doors, one block from Lake Michigan.  There but for a milimeter's difference in the trajectory of a bullet... or two... or three... go I. 

Dr. Roth confirmed it when we examined the x-rays of my pelvis - a milimeter or so lower and the head of my femur would have been shattered, too.  My hip would now be ceramic instead of bone pieced together with pins and glue.

My hip.... it's a term that has bothered me since getting shot.  I can find my pelvis and my hip bone and my pubic bone but where's my hip?  I know that the acetabulum is the cup like part into which the head of the femur fits.  I know that my acetabulae were shattered and that there is hardware connecting my pelvis to my pubis.  But where is my hip?

I had asked Dr. Roth to show me on my body exactly where the construction took place.  We started at my hip bone - all three of us could find that pretty easily.  As he traced the path of the reconstruction on the x-ray display, pausing to be certain that I was following along on my self, I began to realize why certain movements felt restricted.  They were, in fact, restricted by the repairs.  While predicting my continued improvement, he cautioned reminded reflected that even were I to achieve the best result possible, that result will necessarily be limited by the pins and screws and clasps that are now a part of my hip.... which sits at the bottom of my pelvis and is comprised of the cup and the bone and the lower edge of that pelvis. 

It feels more like an attitude than an actual destination, but I get the point. 

Do I need a hip replacement?  Is the arthritis so advanced that I'd be foolish to do anything else?  Not according to my favorite doctor of physical and rehabilitation medicine.  Nerves regenerate at the rate of one milimeter per month; my numbness will continue to retreat over time... lots and lots of time.  As the numbness disappears and I am more able to access the musculature which contributes to a smooth stride, my coordination and my gait will reappear.  My awkwardness is the result of many things, but structural integrity of the damaged areas is not one of them.  Over time... lots and lots of time... I will strengthen those muscles one uses to stabilize one's torso and the scrunchiness... the roughness... the uneveness will abate. 

That's the plan and I'm sticking to it.

I cannot attribute my continuing recovery to any one modality, Dr. Roth says.  When asked, I must reply that swimming and pool walking and physical therapy and pilates and yoga and weight lifting and floor exercise all have  contributed. 

I walked out of that room floating on air.  The doctor was most impressed with my progress.  He was as happy for me as I was for myself.  We kept interrupting one another because we were going to the same place at the same time.  "Can you move..." "Let me show you what I can...." "Six months ago that didn't happen!" 

So much of what's going on with me has to do with attitude.  I left RIC feeling that I have exceeded expectations, that I have further to go, that I am capable and competent and on the right path.  I am in control of the situation.  I have the power to create my own change. 

As he told the medical student, a young man of charming manners and a delightful mein, Dr. Roth and his fellow physiatrists treat the muscle and not the x-ray.

I'd say that they treat the person and not the pelvis.

Happy Birthday, USofA

The USofA is a remarkable place.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My Kind of Town

Chicago is the best city in the country.

You may argue all you'd like, but my opinion is set in stone.  There is culture and the lake and shopping and, of course Little Cuter and SIR.  I'm sure I'd like any city in which my girl and her guy were living, but the best will still be reserved for the city of big shoulders.

There's public transportation with a pass back feature - the monthly bus pass can be used for the holder and 7 of her friends.  Hybrid and clean, the front seats are reserved for the elderly and the infirm and the signs above them remind passengers to Stand up if asked.

I took the express bus to Water Tower Place to search for white Converse for the wedding.  It was cloudy when I boarded and pouring when I got off.  Unfortunately, the umbrella I grabbed from the hat rack sported broken ribs.... and I had the bloody thumb to prove it.  Paul Stuart, the upscale clothier,  used to be in the basement of the John Hancock Tower.  Best Buy replaced it several years ago and I've never recovered from the shock.  On Friday, though, I was delighted with its presence; I dropped in and found a phone charger and a bandaid in record time.

Then, it was across the street to America's first vertical mall. I needed a new umbrella (though I kept the broken one just in case the kids loved it and needed to save it) and there were hundreds of options.  Tucson is many things but a shopping mecca is not one of them.  I was overwhelmed with choices : Cubbies bumbershoots of all sizes and descriptions, Chicago collapsibles, and, of course, Totes.  Stripes and dots and primary colors.... I covered all seven floors of the mall before landing in Macy's accessories department and joining the long line of women who were also buying rain protection.


I haven't used an umbrella for the six years we've been in Tucson.  Everyone on line was complaining about the downpour while I was enjoying the wet.  I smiled inside.


The whole weekend has been like that - a study in contrasts.  The wedding shower was filled with women who've know my girl since she was born; in Tucson, my family are strangers.  There's something about the women with whom I raised my children that new friends just cannot replicate.  I have no interest in moving back to the cold and the humidity and the traffic, but I am delighted that the kids have decided to make their life here.  


When I look out my window at home, I see mountains and a big blue sky.  From the bay windows here on the ninth floor, I see hundreds of other apartments and their dwellers turning off lights or changing the channel on the television.  I enjoy watching the Gambrel quail and their babies frolic in my front yard.  Little Cuter and SIR look down upon the swimmers in their pool and create backstories from their antics.  

And then there's this

taken from Sixteen, Trump Tower's outdoor restaurant and cocktail bar.  

The drinks were expensive and potent, and the girls enjoyed their adult popsicles

 while I admired the architecture

 and Seret and I reminisced and shared parenting tips ..... okay, she shared and I learned, as usual.

I love my home in the desert southwest..... but I'm really glad to have an ongoing excuse to return to the midwest and scenes like these

Lake Michigan does strange things to clouds, and I was there to see it.

I'm leaving today, with a tear in my eye.  It's hard to have to split my heart.

Watching the Olympic Trials with Little Cuter is a trip down memory lane. She's as happy as a clam right now, snuggled on Benito-the-couch beneath a soft and gooshy blanket, fondling Thomas-the-wonder-dog's ear and smiling with delight. SIR is curled up next to her, the only one of us who has to go to work on Monday morning. He may go to bed earlier than we because my little girl and I are going to watch every flip and turn and stroke until NBC stops showing them.

In elementary school, Little Cuter was obsessed with Dominique Moceaneau. She read the autobiography, which opened on its own to the photos in the center. She studied the scoring and her commentary was every bit as cogent and informative as the televised talking heads. Look at that.. did you see how she.... oh, too bad... that will be a deduction... I was as impressed with her performance as I was with the gymnasts themselves.

And now, two decades later, with many of the same faces at the judges' table and wearing the coaching jackets, she's lost none of her enthusiasm. We've been counting down the hours til 8pm, when the gymnasts would take the screen. We paid some small amount of attention to the track

Do they have to perform on each piece, SIR wondered? Little Cuter had the answer before I could search out the answer on-line. What happens when they step outside the center square in the floor exercise? Again, Little Cuter to the rescue. She's got the scoring and the rules and the personalities down pat.

Nastia Liukin fell off the un-even parallel bars and my girl was as upset as she was. Alicia Sacramone nailed her routine and my girl was ecstatic. It's not that she wants to be on the floor with the athletes. She's admiring their strength and their agility and their focus.

Rebecca Bross's knee exploded last year; her patella bears a gigantic scar and is swollen beyond recognition. She fell off the uneven bars once.... twice... three times before she walked away from the routine. The camera went to the judges' table; there wasn't a dry eye. As Little Cuter remarked, these girls and the adults surrounding the sport are like a family. They have known one another through juniors and seniors and the Olympic competitions. One's pain is felt throughout the arena.

Joan Ryan's Little Girls in Pretty Boxes exposed the ugly underside of the sport. It seems to me that the girls are more womanly this year, with more curves and less girlishness. They are powerful and thoughtful and they know that this is more than wanting a puppy for Christmas; this is the Olympics.

For me, that's just an added bonus to my real joy – sharing the moment with my girl.