Ashleigh in New York City

It's August in the Big Apple.  The only people on the streets have to be here - tourists and workers.  Everyone with a brain and some free cash has headed for the beach.  The humidity is just about visible, hovering over the sidewalks, a fine mist through which I walk.... and sweat.... and drip.  This is the exact opposite of Tucson's dry heat.  The temperatures are in the 80's, roll down the windows and hike in the middle of the day weather at home. Here, in Manhattan, I changed my clothes three times. There's only so much perspiration I can handle before I need a shower and fresh underwear.
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The Hilton is hosting us, and doing a fine job of managing 5000 bloggers as well as an indeterminate number of Italian shoe representatives.  The bloggers are all wearing comfortable shoes; the Italian shoe representatives are not.
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Travelling east means that waking up at 8 feels like waking up at 5.  Combined with my usual inability to sleep on my first night away from home, I've been dragging a bit today.  There's less walking than there was last year in San Diego, since the hotel houses the conference venue and we don't have to walk next door to a convention center.  I've got my hiking pole and my Converse and, except for the extraordinary amount of perspiration I am emitting from my head to my toes and covering every body part in between, it's a totally manageable experience.

I just wish I had brought a dozen more outfits.  Do you think I might be able to shop here?  Perhaps.....
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The Hilton is across the street from Radio City Music Hall.  I see it and I am back to my childhood, waiting in line around the corner on 53rd Street with my parents and siblings.  We saw Lawrence of Arabia there, and Mary Poppins there, and The Sunshine Boys there, back in the day when you saw a cartoon, the movie, and a floor show with the Rockettes for the price of admission.

Cirque de Soleil has a show going on until mid-September.  If there were a movie playing, I don't think you could keep me away.
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Today's session was on turning my bloggy writings into a published book. Crafty Chica`and Stefanie Wilder-Taylor led us through questions and answers and exercises while they kindly, calmly, thoughtfully and depressingly talked about the difficulties, the requirements, the antics involved in attracting an agent.... a publisher... an audience.

Self-publishing is an option, and one that has been gaining acceptance.  Still, as Stefanie said, there's more cachet to having a publishing house behind your work. Either way, the author is responsible for most of the publicity, most of the promotion, most of the work.

Up until this morning, I thought that the hard part was the actual writing.  How wrong I was.  How very, very wrong.
*****
I took myself out for dinner at Pazza Notte, an Italian restaurant recommended by the concierge.  The young women at the next table were louder than they needed to be, but the food was fabulous and the wine was delicious and after I complimented the Executive Chef on the tomato and basil soup he invited me to come back over the weekend when he'd make me some very special french fries.

French fries, you say?  Fries with Italian food?  I was as surprised as you are, denizens.  There were truffle fries and cajun fries and sweet potato fries and good old American fries and two or three other varieties I can't remember now.  The ones that accompanied my blackened chicken breast were beyond delicious.  I may try to find some company and go back on Saturday night.
*****
There are sponsors... and there are booths... and there are goodies and giveaways galore.  This year's BlogHer swag bag is over sized and flat on the bottom and filled to the brim with Arnica and toothpaste and ChapStick and Martha Stewart notebooks and more bags... lots and lots of bags.

Last year, Little Cuter and I had to mail our swag home; it didn't fit in our suitcases or in the overhead bins.  That's not going to be a problem this year.  Except for the 22oz bottle of Lysol, everything fits nicely into my new tote bag.  I've even got stuffed toys and silver charm bracelets for Amster's kids - it's important for grown ups to bring treats to those left behind.
*****
Yes, Megan, President Obama spoke to the audience at 4:30 this afternoon.  He was in Washington.  He looked tired.  He gave us snippets of his campaign stump speech, which you've heard yourselves if you've been following the election coverage at all.

But, he started out by telling us that Michelle and the girls sent their love to all of the women in the audience.  He talked about health care for women and took ownership of Obamacare, a name he professed to enjoy.  He talked about opportunities and education and equal pay and, for the most part, the audience was resoundingly appreciative.

I spent my time listening to his words but looking at Lisa Stone and Elisa Camahort Page, two of BlogHer's founders, as their faces beamed with pride.  They created an organization, a network, an outlet, a community where there had been none and today, thanks to Elisa's perseverance, 5000 of their colleagues and readers and wannabes and doers and movers and shakers were addressed by the leader of the free world.

Where, oh where, do they go from here?

On My Way

I set the alarm. I never set the alarm. I'm retired. I don't schedule early morning appointments on a regular basis. I sleep until I'm not tired and then I rise and shine.

This morning, the alarm roused me from a wonderful dream, a green dream, a forested walking dream. I was bitter about the interruption but excited for my trip. I'm on my way to BlogHer'12; at least, that's the plan.

Shower, dress, grab a Kashi Bar and toss the rest of the box into the carry-on because there's room and mini-bar snacks are expensive, and I'm out the door with TBG allowing me to heft my own bag into the trunk. I'm travelling alone; I have to be able to handle its weight.

He's taken to driving me to the airport. We've made those trips optional since he was working and travelling and I refused to drag the kids to and fro for those extra 45 minutes of bonding time. Off-site parking at the Tucson Airport cost $2.88 per day in the summer time; there's no reason not to drive and leave The Schnozz. But TBG likes those extra minutes of bonding time and I am not one to look askance at assistance. I've learned to accept help with grace, as you all know.

American Airlines let me scan the barcode on my confirmation email and the stand alone machine printed out my two boarding passes and my two receipts in no time. Four pieces of paper – two stashed in the carry-on for tax purposes, two in the outer pocket of my purse for easy access in the airport. 

Not much of a line at security, as usual, and a lovely gentleman behind me to catch my hiking pole and my luggage cart as they nearly toppled while I grabbed a gray plastic bin for my shoes. That pesky purse was scanned twice; why do they ask if that would be okay? What would happen if I were to say “NO!” I wonder?

(Grammar Freaks – does a comma follow that exclamation mark? The end of that sentence looks ugly.)

Sneakers retied, hiking pole re-sized, carry-on secured to the wheels, I strolled to the end of the terminal, all the way to the end. Gate 8. No moving walkway. No directional signs. Just a small collection of airport food vendors, two free wi-fi counters with stools and plugs, and a really nice gift shop. I love Tucson International Airport, even if I can't fly anywhere but Chicago without changing planes.

I debated buying a granola topped yogurt container, or a chicken salad sandwich, but nothing looked yummy. The barrista at the coffee cart didn't have a blueberry muffin for me. I ate one of my Kashi bars as I enjoyed the warm glow of the 40-something businessman buying breakfast for the 20-something soldier in line before me. Explaining that he could only retire from the Army if new recruits showed up, he fed them so that he could really enjoy his separation from the service.

You don't have to look very far to find joy and wonder in this world.

We landed early at Dallas-Fort Worth, with plenty of time to make my connection to my flight.... which was cancelled.... “there is weather in New York and LaGuardia is experiencing delays”. American called my house, American called my cell, TBG called my cell..... I was well informed, if stuck.

Standby on the 1:15-delayed-til-2:00 flight was a nightmare. Aggravated travellers couldn't get upgrades, couldn't get on, couldn't find information. At times like these, I try to channel Little Cuter and overwhelm the worker bees with smiles and kindness.

“It's hard to be you in times like these,” was my opening salvo. A rueful grin, a shake of the head, and suddenly I was 16^th on the list instead of 38^th. My girl is right; you catch more flies with honey than with vinegar. The snarky New Yorker in me battles, but the proof is in the pudding.

It made no difference; there were only 2 available seats.

So, it was off through the terminal again, back to the gate from which I'd exited an hour before. I passed more restaurant feeding stations, but neither Aunt Annie's hot-dog-in-a-pretzel nor another yogurt cup with granola was tempting. TGIFridays had immediate seating, but I had to get on another stand-by list and stay close to the gate in case there was room for me on the 3pm flight.

My plan was to eat after I didn't get on the 2^nd flight.... but some connecting passengers still had to pass through customs before joining this voyage and they weren't going to do that in time. All 20 of us waiting on stand-by seats could be accomodated.

So, I am sitting in a window seat, halfway back, over the wing, watching the flatlands of the UsofA pass beneath me. The pilot hopes that we won't be stuck in air traffic control hell in New York and that we will land just a few minutes after our scheduled arrival time.

With the time changes, the flight changes, the altitude and the weather changes, I am truly confused. It's a good thing that NY stays open all night long; I will find myself a piece of greasy pizza or a real New York hot dog or a pastrami sandwich on the kind of rye bread that exists only in The City no matter how late it is.

I'm on vacation!

*****

A $12.50 shuttle bus took me to Grand Central Station and a free shuttle took me right to the Hilton.  Kathleen at the front desk found me a lovely room with a king sized bed and a sofa bed in case I want to recline on something other than the 5 pillows atop the somewhat gooshy mattress.  Chatting up the reservation clerk is another way I'm channeling my girl, who, between her wedding and buying a house has no time to gallivant in NYC with her mother and 4000 other bloggers this weekend.  

The hotel lobby is filled with laughing women, some of whom must be going to the conference too, I guess,  Radio City is right across the street, and so is a small and wonderful grocery store which provided sushi and cut fruit and sparkling water for my late night dinner in my room.  

Olympics on the tube.... a full belly.... Facebook messages from bloggy friends who want to meet up.... life is good.

Watch the Olympics With Me, vol 2

There won't be another Olympics post until next week, because I'm off to BlogHer'12 in NYC and I can't imagine I'll have a moment to spare for television.  If TBG's not around, I rarely turn it on.  So, for those of you relying on me for water-cooler-sports-patter, stock up here for the rest of the week.
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TBG and I agree that those single, double, quad and eight person sleek craft on the water should compete in a sport called Scullduggery.  It's very pretty to watch, especially the overhead shot of the oars piercing the surface at the same moment and angle. 

I'm enjoying the videography as much as the competition.
*****
Beach volleyball didn't hold TBG's attention, so he left me on Douglas while he showered and put away some laundry.  I muted the volume, played WordDrop on my Kindle, and screamed aloud as the Americans came back from a 3 point deficit to trounce the Czech Republic.

I will admit to a more than usual amount of fist pumping, as well. 
*****
I thought I had a strong upper body... and then I watched the men's gymnastics competition.  The women's events seem to emphasize lower body strength; the men's concentrate on arms and shoulders and upper back and chest.

Decry the falls and stumbles than the un-stuck landings if you must.  I am enjoying the display of muscles and the strength they create....... at least that's what I'll tell you if I think you'll judge me for an equal, maybe bigger, reason.

These guys are hot.
*****

bleacherreport.com

While we're on the subject, the water polo players are beefier than the swimmers and the divers, a cross between a baseball player and a synchronized swimmer. 

Watching them free style across the pool in their swim caps with the ear protectors and the bows beneath their chins is both beautiful and ridiculous at the same time. 


*****
The first time the Chinese replacement athlete touched the high bar was in the first round of the competition.  The man he replaced had the most awful purple arm I've seen since I looked at my own arm in February, 2011. 

The new guy never got to practise, or feel the size of the arena, before a billion people watched him be lifted up to begin his routine.  Scary?  I think so.

This leads us to one of our favorite Olympic pastimes - which sport would be the worst scariest most awful panic-inducing nightmare scenario for you if you were forced to take the field? 

The 30' diving?  Heavy weight boxing?  Any one of the ski jumps?
*****
Ryan Seacrest has turned out to be a better than I expected interviewer. Rowdy Gaines and Tim Dagget annoy me every time they open their mouths. 

I need more than "That was a deduction."  Perhaps you could spare a syllable or two of the energy you invest in tearing the athletes down and try to explain what we're seeing.  The movements must have names; would it hurt you to share them with us?  Should the toes be pointed or flexed on the uneven parallel bars?  Inquiring viewers would like to know.
*****
NBC has spent a lot of time with moms and sisters.  There are hairdos with flags, and t-shirts with flags, and signs with flags, but mostly there are gigantic smiles.

nbcolympics.com

Aly Raisman's parents are in the top spot as fans, thus far.  The camera stayed on them as they leaned and bent and raised up and over and twisted and turned in their seats, mimicking their daughter's floor exercise performance. 

A Product That Really Works

Visibly more beautiful skin from a body wash by Dove - sure, and I have ocean front property in Nevada I'd like to show you, too.  Your snarky reviewer read the email with more than a grain of salt.

She's been burned before by products promising lustrous this and shining that and all within time frames that seemed impossible.  Visibly more beautiful skin after seven days?  Even I could follow through on a program like that. If it didn't work, I'd lost nothing; they were sending the product my way for free.

The visible care toning container arrived at my doorstep a few weeks later.  The instructions for the reviewing program were simple.  Try it, take a picture, and write about what you thought.

Free soap and a prompt.... I was on it in a flash. 

The label was intriguing; the highest concentration of NutriumMoisture technology across the Dove portfolio. I'm not sure what NutriumMoisture technology is, but there's a lot of it inside that easy to hold container. 

There must be, because this stuff really works. 

As always, I speak only the truth to you.  If I hadn't noticed a difference you'd have been the first to know.  If it had been a close call, I might have swayed toward the I don't think so edge of the seesaw.  But there is no doubt about it - I do have visibly more beautiful skin, and the only change in my beauty routine (such as it is) has been Dove Visible Care Toning body wash.

The product promised to promote skin’s elasticity and strength. Maybe that's the reason my skin looks so much smoother, less segmented by teeny tiny lines that arrived without warning one afternoon a decade or so ago. 

This is my calf before I used Dove Visible Care Toning body wash.

This is my calf after 10 days of using the product.

If this review taught me nothing else, it is that photographing one's own body is a difficult task.  I don't know if you can tell that there's a difference, but TBG sure can.  He reached over and patted that calf and noted a change.

After 42 years, that's reason enough to use the body wash.

*****

There's a sweepstakes entry for everyone who leaves a comment below.  The prize is 2 $500 spa gift cards, courtesy of Dove.  There's also a $1 off coupon to thank you for reading this unpaid (except for the body wash) review.

Don't know what to say?  You might like to answer this question:
Am I the only one who bought the same soap, year after year without thinking about it because it's what Mom/my partner/my roommate always had and it works just fine?

Please, tell me I'm not alone! You'll make me feel better and you'll be entered in the sweepstakes for 2 $500 spa gift cards if you copy your comment at the link below.

First, the goodies. Here's a coupon for $1 off the Dove Body Wash

Visit Dove^® VisibleCare^® to get a coupon for $1 off!

Next, the rules :

Enter to win one of two $500 Spafinder gift certificates!
NO PURCHASE NECESSARY
COMMENTS TO THIS POST ARE NOT SWEEPSTAKES ENTRIES. PLEASE SEE BELOW FOR ENTRY METHODS FOR THIS SWEEPSTAKES.
You may receive (2) total entries by selecting from the following entry methods:
a) Follow this link, and provide your email address and your response to the Promotion prompt
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c) Blog about this promotion, including a disclosure that you are receiving a sweepstakes entry in exchange for writing the blog post, and then visit this link to provide your email address and the URL to that post.
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Watch the Olympics With Me, vol. 1

I'm watching it all on tv.  Big Cuter thinks we are hopelessly 20th century, sticking to the big screen in our living room. He watches in real time, on his telephone.  Honestly, even if I had more than a stupid phone (which I don't) I don't think I'd watch that way.  I just don't care that much.

What I like are the stories and the spectacle and the momentary hush before the bell rings and the event begins.  I like the preparation coming down to that one instant for everyone, all at the same time.  The athletes, the time keepers, the bell ringers, the basket-ladies, the groundskeepers, the maintenance crews - it's all been about this moment in time. 

They are all in it together, and I, sitting at home on Douglas, am there with them, too... and with the billion other people who watched the Opening Ceremonies last week.  Danny Boyd made a movie for the modern age, and he did it with style. 

There was no over-the-top extravagance; dare I say he did it on the cheap?  I mean that in the nicest way possible, denizens.  I hate excess, except where bubbles are concerned... but more on that, later.  The production numbers were filled with smiles and sighs and though it may have been a bit odd to have the National Health Service assume center stage at an international sporting event, once I got over the oddity of it all I kinda sorta liked it.

The clothes really looked liked that in the 1960's - I had an orange and white harlequin block A-line dress that looked just like the black and white ones on the dancers.  David Bowie and Elton John and Queen and the announcers were singing along and so was I.
There were dancers of all shapes and  sizes and abilities. Notting Hill  and Mary Poppins who knew that James M Barrie donated the proceeds of Peter Pan to the Children's Hospital and all of a sudden the NHS connection becomes a bit clearer and sure it's a stretch  but they are promoting reading and that's a good thing.

C'mon, people, it's The Olympics; you have to feel the love, even if the reach is a bit too far. 
The production spoke to a young demographic.. "Another thing I don't understand," was Meredith Viera's constant response to the technology used in the show.  The crowd was a part of the cast, with LED's at each seat.  The dancing looked more like aerobics than anything else, but then, I'm not part of that target demographic so I went with it and, to my surprise, found the hip hop blending into the Beatles and all of it quite pleasing to my ears.  When the crowd chimed in with "I'm forever blowing bubbles" I was transported.... to summer evenings in the backyard with butterfly nets and lightning bug jars and bubble wands... and to freshman year in college seeing Women in Love and walking home humming that tune and dreaming about Alan Bates.
With Will and Kate kissing as a backdrop, and London's melting pot strutting its stuff on the field, it was time for the Parade of Nations, my favorite part of the Opening Ceremonies.  Greece came first, and that was the beginning of the what are those boys carrying conversation.  The girls accompanying the sign bearers carried flowers; what were those boys toting?

I got lost in the beauty of it all.  I want an Aruba team hat, and one from Lesotho and Hong Kong, too. Domenica's style and India's flowing turbans and elegant saris, the comfy Guamians and Portugal's scarves dazzled the eyeballs.  There were giant tulips on the lapels of the competitors from the Netherlands, the symmetry of which was opposed by the Mexicans who preceded them, each of whom seemed to have made a unique outfit based on shiny primary colors. 

Some less politically correct countries were color coded; the German girls were in pink and their boys were in blue.  Guyana put the girls in orange and the boys in yellow, but I'm choosing to avoid making clothes a political statement since it seems that the USofA outsourced the manufacturing of their outfits to China.

Instead, I'm focusing on the memorable - the Solomon Island's blue and yellow goatee, the bare-chested Fijian, the Finns boogieing to the BeeGees.

It made me sad to see them athletes videotaping the event instead of smiling and enjoying it like the blonde Australian girl who was jumping and yelping. She was glad to be there, and I was glad to share her joy.  The Nigerian women were swinging their hips and the Spaniards stretched out in a long thin line so that each and every one of them could have a few seconds on the international television feed.  There were Palestinians and Independent Olympic Athletes and citizens of Chinese Taipei who probably go home to Taiwan and it didn't matter to me at all. 

For one evening, we are all s planet together.  Out of many cauldrons that, it turns out, was what those boys were carrying, one Olympic torch was lit.  Not one outstanding individual, but many future Olympians had the honor of bringing the flame to the end of its road. 

It got a little dusty... something must've flown into my eye.... I admit to a tear or two. 

It's a good thing London does great fireworks; the sad went away with the first, crown-like burst.
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There will be more Olympic coverage as the Games go on.

Wondering where my commentary on Sir Paul McCartney might be?  I have given up trying to say it nicely - the man can't sing any more.  I was embarrassed for him.

Telling Stories

It's my fault that G'ma's dentures have been rattling around in her mouth these last few months.  Apparently, the dentist has been waiting for us to make an appointment to have the bent clasp repaired.  That fact was mentioned to me at her last appointment, but it never made it into my permanent memory bank, let alone onto the calendar.  With the upcoming nuptials, "Preparing G'ma" has a place on the To Do List and fixing her teeth tops her section. The appointment was yesterday, at 4pm.

I arrived at the pod-castle just after 3.  Her nap was over, Law'n was on the tube, and the Horace Mann blanket was covering her lap.  She was wearing one of my favorite blouses, the yellow one with the gathered bottom, and a pair of pants that looked like ones she bought for herself but which, upon closer inspection, belonged to another resident.  Laundry is fungible at the pod-castle; every month or so the worker bees scour the closets and dressers, returning misplaced items to their rightful owners.  If I ask about a specific article, they are always able to find it.  I've given up any emotional  content which tries to attach itself to this issue; it's not worth the bother.

Wearing somebody else's brown pants and her own perfect smile, she ambled to her bathroom and emerged, twenty minutes later, hair brushed and ready to go.  Her hair is another issue, but one that I will put off until next week.  That glamorous style created by Jesse is unmanageable for her.  It's too bad; she looked great. Yesterday afternoon, it was good for a laugh as it blew into her eyes, no matter how she cocked her head.

"Look at my hair," was the prelude to every sentence which left her lips between her apartment and my car.  Air conditioning, the summer breeze, bending over to sit on the seat.... her bangs were drooping into her eyes and making her giggle.  I love to hear my mommy giggle.  I know, in that moment, she is happy.

Driving out of the parking lot, the facility's over-sized sign caught her eye, as it usually does.  "Friendship Villas..... is that where I live?"  I try to convince myself that it doesn't matter that she can't remember as I remind her that, in fact, she's lived there for nearly three years.  "Assisted Living... what the hell do they assist me with?"  Bad grammar aside, it's an interesting question and I stumble over the answer.


G'ma is at an in-between stage in the panoply of services available to the elderly in America today.  Not demented enough for Alzheimer's Care nor independent enough to manage her own home, she's caught in the middle.  Independent Living is the euphemism for the hotel-like accommodations which feed and entertain the no-longer-driving elderly.  It's possible to hire help to manage medications and to encourage participation, but monitoring the success of those services proved overwhelming for both of us.  She doesn't need all the care that is available to her in Assisted Living, but there's no alternative that works for us.

She's paying for care she doesn't use and they can't manage to keep her laundry straight?  It's one of the many pieces of her life which isn't working out quite the way we had planned. She's safe and happy, so I try not to worry....too much.

"What do they assist me with" morphed into "If I were dropped off on the side of the road right here, outside this driveway, I still would have no idea where to go."  That's true, and horribly sad, but the fact is that she's not going to be dropped off on the side of the road and she's never without someone to tell her where she belongs.  I remind her of this and she smiles.

The good thing about her lack of short term memory is that sad thoughts don't take up residence for very long. The bad thing is that she doesn't remember that we have this conversation each and every time I take her out.  I'll never tell her that these reminders are pinpricks in my soul; it won't make any difference and would only serve to make her momentarily sorrowful.  I keep those thoughts to myself.

She likes to point out the bright yellow and red and green cars which seem to dot our streets in greater numbers than were found in New York.  "Do I still have a car?" she wondered as we tooled up Oracle Road.  "Nope, brother took it one day for Niece-the-youngest.  You gave up driving the day you called me and said that it had taken you two hours to get home from the grocery store.  You forgot the way...."  and I continued with the saga she had related all those years ago, how she had driven all around town, noticing the homes of our friends and doctors and babysitters but unable to figure out how to connect the dots and find her own house.  "Did I ever get home?"  After pausing for the obligatory moment of giggles, I went on by retelling how she ended up in front of the library and, "of course you could get home from the library."

"I have no memory of that at all."


There's no affect attached to that sentence.  It doesn't seem to make her sad or mad or angry or frustrated or any of the other emotions which roil to the surface of my soul whenever we're in one of these situations.  It is.  It's a fact.  There's no sense in wasting attitude.

Once again, I go to school on being an old old person by watching my mom.

I retold the story of her journey to Arizona, from freezing in New Jersey and selecting her first apartment here to her fall in my garage and the consequent hospitalizations for a fractured spine and sprained shoulder and how the medications overwhelmed her and she fainted and broke both her ankles at the same time and wore two lower leg casts for 10 weeks and had three lovely Mexican ladies living with her and caring for her and how that was unsustainable financially so she moved to the pod-castle.

"I have no memory of that at all."

She was the keeper of the stories, the one who remembered which relatives did what when.  She kept track of our friends and our appointments and our responsibilities and our birthdays and our anniversaries and now it's all gone.  I amuse myself, at times, by imagining a pill that would reawaken those sleeping memories and surprise us all.  She'd remember and I could forget and it would all be just the way it used to be.

The light changed, I drove on, my fantasy vanished.

I don't mind telling those stories.  It makes the time pass and I've bowlderized them sufficiently so that no awkward parts remain.  No sense in reminding her that she lay like a sack of potatoes on the bathroom floor.  No sense in reminding her that her refrigerator was filled with left-overs in take-out containers yet she continued to order dinners.  No sense in reminding her how difficult it was to prepare her medications and Daddooooo's medications and of the consequences of those difficulties.

No, there's no sense in that at all.  Instead, I tell her stories, in the same sing-song voice I used to lull the Cuters into a peaceful, resting state.  I'm parenting my parent, even down to story time.

A Letter to Aurora, Colorado

Dear Aurora,

Tucson sends you its love.

The media reports specific numbers of killed and wounded, but we here in Tucson know that's only a part of the story. This happened to all of you, each and every one of you. We get it. Really, we do.

Everybody has a story, or is one degree of separation from a story, that puts a loved one on the way to or passing by when or right across the parking lot. That is true here in our small-town-metropolis of just over 1 million; it must be even more true in yours, one third our size.

Does it seem as if all the faces in town have the same glazed and dazed expression? Do you feel as if you are walking through a movie or a bad dream or any of the other banal explanations thrown your way? There's more than a little difficulty involved in realizing that this really did happen right there in your town.... where you shop and stroll and send your kids to the mall. It's just a regular town in a beautiful part of the country. We get it. Really, we do.

Colorado and Arizona may look like the Wild West to those back East, but we know that cowboy boots and silver belt buckles are only the outward trappings; in fact, we're just the same as everybody else. Going to the movies or going to the grocery store shouldn't be a cause for concern, no matter where you live.

Yes, you are a few miles from Littleton and it didn't take long for that connection to run as an undercurrent to the sorrow and the loss. Border skirmishes and guns-blazing-ATF-raids were our background noise. We know, as you do, that it has nothing to do with what happened that day. It's something with which to fill air time. People need to know why and cultural differences and prior bad acts fill the gap neatly.

Welcome to the eye of the media hurricane. For a while, everything will whirl around you. You'll see friends and neighbors and first responders on the screen just when you thought you could prepare dinner or sit down for an hour's televised diversion without being reminded that horror had struck just across the way. There is no escape; it's everywhere.

Not that you should or would forget those injured and lost, not that you ever could. Their stories are part and parcel of your memories of that night. The toothless 6 year old, the pregnant dad, the friends and the heroes, they are with you now and forever. We get it. Really, we do.

For those of you who were there, you are now the other, the ones to whom it happened. I did nothing more than take a girlfriend's daughter to meet her Congresswoman. I was Everywoman. It was an event, but the kind of event that grown ups and kids attend every day. Then, bullets flew. Suddenly I was iconic, I was everywhere, I was the neighbor who took the little girl to meet Gabby. My pseudonymous blog was suddenly inextricably connected with my real life, and my real life bore no resemblance to what it looked like the week before. It was a hard pill to swallow.

I saw the same confusion on the faces of Tucsonans I encountered. We were stunned. We were shocked. We never thought that such a thing could occur in our little corner of paradise. After all, it was just a sunny Saturday morning.... for you, a balmy Thursday midnight.... a regular day in a regular week that all of a sudden, without any warning, became another day that will live in infamy.
 
We get it. Really, we do.

What got us through those awful first few weeks, what has sustained us individually and as a community, has been the overwhelming love and support of a nation. President Obama came to us as a father and a husband, Brian Williams shared our pain on Dateline, late night talk show hosts sent their love. We were cosseted by kindness and comfort from total strangers. A ten year old in New Jersey, a grandmother in Iowa, long lost high school classmates - my heart was touched by those who knew me and those who thought that they did. Strangers accost me on the street, in restaurants, in the produce aisle and compliment me on my progress. Privacy? Not any more. I'm part of an historical event, just as you are. We have no choice.

I'm a public figure attached to an awful event and it's an odd place to be. It's not a role I sought, nor is it a role I can ignore. Without asking my permission, life threw a wrench into my carefully laid plans. My foundation was shaken in a very public way. My reactions have been scrutinized on an international scale. The Associated Press and National Public Radio and the New York Times have been in my living room. Who am I? Am I the same woman who picked up Christina-Taylor that morning? Am I a national figure worthy of public attention? Are my opinions more valuable because I was shot?

When the reporter sticks the microphone into your face, remember that we've been there, done that, and we get it. We really do.

You are not alone. The hearts of a nation are sharing your pain. The attention will wax and wane as the judicial process grinds its way forward, and events will occur that bring back the emotions you think you have carefully packed away. PTSD may rear its ugly head. Time will dull the pain, and you'll have moments where you don't hear the shooting or the screaming. I promise.

You can choose to allow the events of that night to change your life or you can choose to ignore it as best you can. Opinions will fly, full of certainty and conviction. Others will presume that they know just how you are feeling. Strangers will approach you in parking lots and reporters will call and ask for your reaction the next time something awful occurs..... and there will be another time... and another.

Political and philosophical conversations aside, the personal piece is yours and yours alone. If I've learned anything at all from my experience, it's that every one involved has his or her own reality. No one is more accurate, more precise, more right than another. This happened to you as individuals, but it happened to your town and your country, too. Everyone feels the need to weigh in. There is a new definition to your existence.

It's an interesting, pock-marked road to travel. Please, remember that you are not on your own. We get it. We really do.

Fondly,
The Woman Who Took The Little Girl to See Gabby

Throw Out the Artwork

Yes, that is what Little Cuter emailed me this morning: Throw out the artwork.

Allow me to explain.  In preparation for her upcoming nuptials, hosted in our humble abode, I have been purging our personal spaces of detritus.  I have been cleansing with a vengeance.

It's not cleaning, per se.  I am sweeping up major piles of dust and debris, but I'm saving the actual washing of the garage floor for Ernie and his big strong guys.  I'm old.  I'm achy.  I'm lazy.  I'll pay.

But there are pieces of the task which cannot be accomplished by hired help.  Decisions must be made.  If I let TBG get involved, there will be nothing at all for my grandchildren to discover about their parents; he'd toss it all.  I'm closer to him than he thinks on this issue; what I save I save because I don't want the children to be angry if I dispose of a treasure they thought was safe at home.

Big Cuter was horrified that the photo album I created after his Grand Tour of Europe was not where he thought it would be.  No, dear, it was not sitting out on the shelf in the room in this house which is nominally yours but in which you have slept perhaps 50 nights in six years.  I had no idea that you would need it when I packed up the last room I moved you into and out of while your actual residence was elsewhere. 

Moms make mistakes, and apparently stashing his memories in a box with other childhood trinkets was a big one.  It reappeared when he was home for the holidays and we went through the boxes of books and toys and magazines and other relics of the days when he and his stuff were strewn over the floor.  He always knew where everything was, even if no one else could walk without damaging herself or his things. 

The kind of cleansing upon which I have embarked requires a ruthless dedication to the ultimate objective - less.  We had friends in Marin whose children could put something on their bulletin boards only if they removed something else.  Clothes were replaced, one by one, rather than added upon without thought.  If something came in, something went out.  The mom's entire childhood is contained in one, slightly oversized, shoebox.

I can't live like that.

On the other hand, I can't stand all these boxes.  They line the walls of the garage, marked with the kids' names and the contents within - books, collections, video games, stuff.  Four of the boxes contain the photo albums which don't fit on G'ma's shelves at the pod-castle.  The rest belong to my young adults.  I don't mind holding on to them for now, if what is inside is worth saving.  Yesterday, it was Little Cuter's turn to have her belongings put under the microscope.

I found soccer trophies of all sizes and descriptions; she definitely wants to keep them all.  I found trolls dressed, as she rightly pointed out, in clothes made by her babysitter and her mommy and her very much younger self.  Those she will save for her own children.  There's a polar fleece vest from the last soccer team she coached, girls who loved her so much there were always one or two of them hanging from her arms or her waist or her neck.  It, too, is a keeper.

And then there's the artwork.  I struggled with that this week just as I did when she was first creating the masterpieces.  There's a hidden talent lurking beneath the surface, but sports and friends competed for time and an evil photography teacher quashed her teenage spirit.  I remember the pride she felt when she presented me with the yarn self-portrait.  It was garish then and it is garish now but it's my girl.... by my girl.  How can I throw it away? 

How?  Simply by talking to the sanest, most reasonable human being I know - the artist herself.  Without batting an eyelash, without missing a beat, after listening to me brag about moving boxes and clearing out space she gave me permission to throw out the artwork. 

If she's not going to be sentimental about it, then neither am I. 

Aurora, Tucson, and Me

I have to write about it.

I've tried avoiding it.  I've tried minimizing it.  I've tried ignoring it.  I've tried tuning it out.  I've skipped headlines and entire sections of the newspaper.  It's not working.

Eighteen months ago I was one of those people... those regular, everyday people, those I just went to the movies people.... those people in the all-too-familiar hospital gowns with the silly ties that won't stay together. 

I understand why they have those goofy grins on their faces; they've lived to tell the tale. 

There is sorrow all around them, but they are here to lend an ear... or to be leant an ear themselves. 
*****
Thirty minutes after the bullets stopped flying, I was sedated. I stayed that way until Mr. and Mrs. Obama came into my room and went right back down the rabbit hole again as soon as they left.  It wasn't until Thursday morning that I was fully awake.

I think that is why it has taken me so long to tune into the media coverage.  I have no memories of the immediate aftermath; in many respects, this was just another news story.  Once the weekend passed, though......
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Location... location... location..... as your Realtor will tell you, it makes all the difference.  The Tucson shooter's family sent a relative out front with a typed statement which he read to the press before retreating to the family's home.  The Aurora shooter's family, who live in San Diego, hired an attorney who conducted a press conference wherein she said pretty much what the Tucson relative had read aloud.

The two shooters look eerily alike.  Didn't anyone in their orbits notice that look in their eyes?
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I run away from the feelings and the stories and then I feel guilty for trivializing a catastrophe and then I plunge headlong into the birthday boy and the toothless 6 year old and the good dad driving the kids to the late show and I start typing through tears.

I read each and every one of the mini-biographies which ran in the New York Times after 9/11.  I wept and I smiled and I looked forward to each day's new stories.  I was touched by most, I remember some even now, but it always felt as if it had happened to the other.

There's not so much of that feeling any more.
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The randomness resonates.  My hyper-sensitivity to the security of my surroundings has gotten another boost.

Between Netflix and Peapod, we really don't have to leave the house at all, do we?
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I have a place to put the January 8th emotions, a special box in the corner of my psyche that I can open or close at will.... for the most part, anyway.  I don't know what to do with these Aurora feelings.  

I'm listening to stories about heroes and lost loved ones and driving through the neighborhood I missed a certain little girl who would have loved to have helped me choose my earrings for the wedding.

These Aurora feelings are just like the Tucson feelings.  I am the other.
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Send love and healing vibes and warm wishes to Aurora, denizens.  I'm here to tell you that it really, really helps. 

Random Thoughts

Thanks for the love and concern you've been sending my way as the sorrow in Aurora unfolds.  I was heavily sedated immediately after January 8, 2011, so this part brings back no personal memories for me. The loss, the devastation, only exacerbates what's always so close to my heart. 

Time passes, and the wounds become less raw, less omnipresent, but never less painful.  I hope that those Coloradans are as enveloped in love as my family and I were; that's what got us through the darkness.
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There's an interesting discussion on BlogHer about purple backpacks and long division and the Lands End back to school catalog.  People are all over the map in their responses, but the tone of it all is civil and intelligent while "agreeing to disagree" through gritted teeth.  It's just what on-line conversations should be all about.
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While I'm on that subject, I tried raising gender neutral children and, except around the edges, I don't think it's possible. Kids are who they are and as long as they are accepting of differences it doesn't matter to me whether they are wearing pink or not.

As TBG said, as our little boy stared at him in disbelief, "I'm man enough to wear a pink shirt to work!"
*****
The Euphorbia rigida (gopher plants) have settled in nicely but haven't grown into a hedge as I had hoped.  Today, amidst the light sprinkles on our edge of the monsoon, whose deluge we can see to the south and the east, I went back to Rillito and purchased 9 more.  The originals were 5 gallon containers; these newbies are 1 gallon.  As usual, the size of the plant is almost the same.

I hope that the originals' success was not due to the larger root system they'd developed in the nursery.  I'll tend these new ones lovingly, right up until the wedding.  After that, they are on their own.  We'll see just how tough desert hardy really is.
***** 
My primary care physician is now sending prescriptions to the pharmacy electronically. This is a good thing; it's faster, more accurate, and requires one less stop at the front desk for slices of dead trees. 

On the other hand, the intricate lab request for my blood work is sitting on my desk, boxes checked off in typical medical professional writing style... which is to say, it's messy.

Slow steps, sure.... but this is creeping along glacially.
*****
Tucson Bloggers had a CPR class on Saturday night.  The four women sitting behind me laughed with me as we noted that none of our spouses had joined us to learn how to save a life.  We joked about calling one another for assistance.... though the southeast corner of Tucson is quite a ride when seconds count.

The instructor was young and smart and entertaining and serious.  Check for alertness - Call 911 and get an AED - 200 chest compressions ... it's not that difficult.  The Heimlich Maneuver isn't called the Heimlich Maneuver any more but the motion hasn't changed.  2" above the belly button - press up and in hard.  If you're home alone, look for an edge not a corner and do it to yourself, remembering that, if you choose to use a chair with wheels, be sure it is pressed up against the wall before you impale yourself on the armrest.

TBG is still laughing at that image.
*****

Who Do You See?

Someone came running up to me at the gym this morning, her face alight with delight at my progress, or so she gushed all over me and anyone else who might have been listening. She proclaimed that she''d watched me walk across the room and there had been "none of that lurching from side to side" she'd grown used to seeing. 

I liked having my efforts at proper ambulation recognized and rewarded.  I wasn't that crazy about the whole lurching from side to side image, but I had to admit that it was accurate, if painful to admit. 

My goal has always been the same: a fluid gait.  The number of muscles and tendons and joints and ligaments and bony structures which have to work in unison in order for me to achieve that goal is unfathomable. 

Not that one couldn't count it.  I am certain that Shannon, and Kyria and Becky could figure it out, but the number would still be unfathomable.... deeper than deep.... to the bottom of the ocean and beyond... a never-ending distance where the end is always out of reach. 

I can feel it getting closer... I am making progress... but I never know how close I am to being done.  I just keep plugging along.

Today I did squats and toe raises and leg presses and hamstring curls and more stretching and exercises prescribed by the women who are directing my rehab and then I went looking for ceramic pots.  I need a big one to replace the tall one blown over in last week's storm.  I wandered througjh three different businesses, each covering an acre or more of uneven ground and all manner of obstacles to fluid mobility. 

I bent and examined and lifted and carried and drove home and planted and moved pots and fertilized and cleaned up and swam laps and as I dripped across the bedroom floor on my way wash off the chlorine, TBG, with all manner of love and concern in his voice,  told me, gently but firmly, that I was "limping about as badly as I've seen you .... ever.... you are all scrunched up and your shoulder is nearly touching your hip."

He wasn't buying my "look at all I've done today" spiel; he sets high standards and that's a good thing.  His advice - take your time, get yourself organized, think about your hips and your shoulders, use your poles if you need them - is what everyone who's working on me tells me.  And, of course, they are right..... since I was able to right myself and move out of the room with nary a lurch.

Seeing progress when I'm strong, and possibility when I am weak.... people feel very free to comment. Not quite sure how to define myself these days, I'm looking outside for clues. Not for the long term; I know that will take care of itself.  I'm unanchored in the here and now and I wonder.... what do you see? 

A Companionable Silence

G'ma and I went out for ice cream last week.  There were new glasses to be picked up from Dr. Le and hibiscus to be purchased at Rillito and the weather was down to double digits.  The timing was right.

I arrived at the pod-castle while the residents were finishing up their desserts.  Hot coffee and fresh baked cake; my mom could have been sitting at a diner, sharing a meal with friends.  But, the facts are that these friends replay the same conversations over and over again and she has no idea what their names might be or how she came to be sitting at the table with them.... and, the most important fact, she doesn't seem to mind.

"Who are they?  Who knows?! They're pleasant company.... at least I don't remember them being unpleasant."  Such is the wonderfulness that is my maternal unit.

She greeted me by name.  From then on, everything else was gravy, sauce on the sundae, the cherry on top.  The married couple wanted to know where I was going and why.  The lady G'ma sometimes recognizes as someone she's seen before complimented my necklace.  I rambled on about gardening and the up-coming wedding and we all took a moment to notice that the giant clock on the wall of the dining room was, for the first time in several years, actually telling the correct time.  It was no longer perpetually 2:20.

I kept to myself the narrative arc which wondered why an environment which served a confused clientele would leave a confusing landmark in place.  I figure that since this is the major complaint I have about my mother's care I am pretty lucky and should just keep this one to myself. 

Coffee finished, we said our goodbyes, promised to be back for her 2 o'clock pill. "And if I'm late, what will happen? Will I keel over at 2:01?"  She may be forgetful, but she's still the woman I used to know as Mommy.... at least every once in a while.

Yes, we get our eye care at Wally-World and I couldn't be happier.  Dr. Le hugged me from behind as I stood atop G'ma and her new eyeware.  The doctor tossed a little grief our way, wondering why it had taken us three weeks to pick up the new, slightly stronger, pair.  G'ma liked her new, smaller pair of specs, though the right side seemed "unbalanced.... kind of smoky."

I knew that was the glaucoma which Dr. Le had found for the first time last month.  With a somewhat stronger prescription, the world looked clearer to her... except where it was not.  There's a surgical correction, of course, but we're not fooling around with anesthesia and a nearly 90 year old woman any more.  By the end of the day, she'd forgotten to mention it, anyway.  It will become her new reality and as long as she can see my face and the television there's no need to worry.... at least that's what the doctor and I decided, with her agreement. Her "NO surgery!  I can see just fine!" was dispositive as far as we are concerned.

We strolled the aisles and bought toothpaste and denture cream and candy bars, all to her preference.  Some things you just don't forget, it seems... things like Colgate not Crest and Baby Ruth's not Pay Day bars.  Loaded up the car, chocolate in the cold pack, and drove through the drive-through at Dairy Queen.

A strawberry milkshake makes a perfect lunch for me.  Fruit and calcium... mmmmmmmmm.  G'ma, of course, (chime in here, grandchildren), had chocolate in a cup with chocolate sauce... as always.  $5.01 in cash and we were outta there, parked under the only scrap of shade I could find in the parking lot, facing the busy main street.  We had the a/c running and our seats practically shaded and we watched the cars go by, slurping and spooning in total contentment.

She's a slow eater of ice cream, my mother.  She's deliberate and precise and she doesn't like it when drips occur.  There's a method to her madness.... always has been.... always will be... and I love it.  We were each absorbed in the moment, with no need to talk.

" This, I think, is what they call a 'companionable silence',"  I said. 

"Yes, it is," she said and she smiled and she put another carefully assembled spoonful into her mouth and I smiled at her clacking dentures and her frozen chocolate tongue and at the fact of her sitting there next to me and, right then and there, we knew that life was good.

Reality, TV, and Me

I suppose if I had to choose someone to write my story for television, it would be Aaron Sorkin.  Even so, it was weird.

I knew that the shootings were going to be featured on The Newsroom; I'd heard a reference to it in the promos. Chronologically, it fit perfectly into the lull after the new year, when the Gulf Oil Spill had retreated to background noise and newsrooms around the country were searching for the next big thing,  I thought I was prepared.

The story arc became very clear when TBG reminded me that Christina-Taylor's question, framed in my car on the way to meet Congresswoman Giffords, was about pollution and the destruction of the Gulf Coast.  That was the running motif to our domestic worries in early January of 2011.  I'll never forget it.

Big Cuter, watching The Newsroom in San Francisco on a break from studying for the Bar Exam, was more startled than his parents.  He's usually the one with the calendar in his brain, keeping track of what happened when.  In this instance, it was only obvious to him after the fact.

I guess you had to have been there.

For us, sitting on Douglas, clutching our own selves, too personally involved to even glance at one another, the sequence of events was immediately recognizable.  The inaccuracy of the initial facts being reported - not the least of which was Gabby's death - hit TBG hard.  For him, the worst part of the whole event was sitting in the UMC waiting room, watching talking heads declare that his congresswoman had died of her wounds.  If she were gone, what had happened to me.... to the family members of the others crowding the waiting room, knowing nothing but what was broadcast on the screens attached to the ceilings. 

"That news cast such a pall over the room," he remembered.  The need for speed crashed against any considerations of accuracy.  Getting it first was more important than getting it right.  Jeff Daniels' protege says it best: This is a person we are talking about.  Or, as TBG continued to opine, "real people were affected by their inaccuracies... seriously...."

It's our story.... it's a part of history.... and I am still amazed that I am at the center of it all.  I'm sure that The Newsroom will move on to the Arab Spring and the snowstorms in the USofA because that's where the reporters went after lurking in Tucson for a few weeks.... waiting for the next big thing.

I don't feel like a very big thing.....