Useful Baskets

BlogHer sent me a container of body wash because I am a Visionary.

Now that you've stopped laughing, I'll show you how that turned into this post.  I like this brand of body wash... in fact, I like it a lot.  It doesn't take much to work up a nice big lather, it doesn't have a distinctive odor which transfers onto my skin and perfumes my day, the top opens easily and closes securely and the bottle sits safely on the shelf without wobbling or falling over.

I started putting together a mental gift basket for G'ma, based on this one product.  With this container, she won't be slipping on the dropped bar of soap, nor will she have to bend in half to pick it up when it inevitably falls to the ground.  In one fell swoop I've rescued her from a potential disaster.  I'll add a funky sponge or wash-mitt and several bottles of her favorite shampoo and conditioner.  A new soap dish for the sink, some pretty 3oz paper cups for her dispenser, and a new toothbrush will round out a gift that she cannot refuse.

What?  Someone might refuse a gift?  Obviously none of you have ever tried to give my mother something.  "You shouldn't have."  "I don't need it."  "Save your money for yourselves."  She becomes more adamant with every passing year; I could barely get her to let me buy her birthday dinner when she was in New Jersey.  She's much worse now.  But who can refuse such a useful gift?  Everyone needs to bathe, after all.  I'm going to use a wicker basket from my stash in the garage, and I'll bring it home with me after she unpacks the goodies.

When I was in college, Bubba sent me a package of stamps.  The woman was not subtle - she wanted letters and she wanted them from me and she wanted them often.  I couldn't use the stamps to mail a bill without thinking that one of them should be sending her a note, too.  It was a very effective form of blackmail. Thinking along those lines, how about self-addressed stamped postcards from grandparents to their grandchildren?  The package could include multi-colored pens and, if postcards aren't your thing, small note cards would work just as well.  Of course, Granny has to be willing to write back.... nothing is as reinforcing as seeing spidery handwriting in a freshman's mailbox.  If the student has the supplies, a letter writing chain is established and love is exchanged.  I'm liking this idea a lot right now.

Making a memory book for an elderly recipient is a lovely way to stimulate the brain while giving a thoughtful present.  For G'ma, I'm starting with her childhood photos, moving through mine and ending with my kids'.  I'm including explanatory text - it's included in the price of the book and is very easy to insert.  Shutterfly and Walgreens and CVS all have easy ways to create these books on-line or in the store.  If you are anxious about it, go into the store and let the photo clerk help you.  The books come in a variety of price points, styles and sizes.

After I was shot, blankets came to me in all shapes and sizes.  The most useful ones were small, light throws that covered my cold toes or wrapped around my shaking shoulders.  Continuing with the basket for older folks theme, I'm wondering if any of my readers have time to crochet or knit something quick and beautiful.  If not, perhaps your elder is the crafty one and might like some yarn in a color that you like and a crochet  hook or needles and a pattern; she could whip something up for you, knitting and purling the love into every stitch.  Better still, ask her to teach you, and put two of everything into the basket.  I know this is something G'ma would have loved when she was able.

There will be two more of these posts and then it's Thanksgiving weekend here in the USofA and we all know what that means - my readers are doing the last little odds and ends because we are ready to pour some bubbly and start the Holiday Celebration Season guilt free, having thought of and selected something for everyone.  Right?

Actress, Empress, Whore

Once again, Penguin sent me the book and BlogHer is paying me to review it but the opinions are my own.

Stella Duffy's subtitle for her fictionalized biography of Theodora of Constantinope says it all, and in just the right order.  Slowly, somewhat coldly, Ms. Duffy brings the reader into Theodora's mindset and time frame but most of all into the widening rift between Christianity's many sects as the first few hundred years after the birth of "the Christ" unfold.

It's not a piece of history with which I am very familiar, and that was a problem for me.  Chalcedon does not resonante; reading in paperback precluded clicking my e-reader for a little bit of web-surfing for background.  I've never been jealous of digital books before; now I see a useful purpose for an internet connection while I'm reading.  Duffy's assumption that her reader could keep the factions straight posited someone with more knowledge than I.  It was annoying to feel that I was missing parts of the story. An introduction would've helped immensely.

Sent for sex before she menstruated, sat upon by eunuchs, seeing her father mauled to death - Theodora's childhood was much worse than she seemed to think it was.  This disconnect between her reality and my perceptions made the beginning of the story problematic for me.  I read along, but I wasn't engaged.  Slowly, gradually, as the grown woman emerged from the child, Theodora did manage to suck me in and spit me out at the end, as the crowd called her name and Justinian took her hand as consort and Empress and wife.

The political machinations, the inner palace intrigues, the internecine battles amongst Christians were far more interesting to me than to the author, I think.  I have reader's lust; I want to know more.  Though told from Theodora's perspective, I don't think the book would have suffered from a bit more explication.

It's a great, sweeping tale, with a decent map which allows the reader to follow Theodora from The City to the desert and back once more.  Her life is sexual and sensual and resilient.  The smells, the sounds, the feeling of being in Constantinople (and the ache in her soul when she is not) are the story's best moments.  I missed it as much as she did.  The telling felt modern.

That's a good thing and a bad thing Anachronisms abound.  "Theodora didn't want to screw it up"  stopped me in my tracks.  I never thought the ancients used modern slang.  Bad grammar rears its ugly head, too.  Theodora was proud of her learning; she'd never say "That woman is no better than me."  Duffy assumes her reader has done as much research, has as much knowledge, reads as much Greek as she does. Casually dropping theotokos into a sentence without an explanation is showing off, not drawing the reader in.  Duffy spends her time explaining that which you've already read, repeating the actions and the reactions which are obvious and part of the plot-line.  I think she'd have been better served providing more background and less regurgitation.

By the time Theodora left the desert, I was in love with her.  As she found herself again in Constantinople I was proud of her.  And when she realized that

She was the highest woman in the Empire and she was exactly the same,  Everything had changed and nothing, and that she was still the same woman.... astonished her

 I knew that I was, ultimately, glad to have read this book.  I knew just what she meant, just how she felt as the duality was impossible to comprehend.  Been there, felt that.

I'm off to the library for more books on the period.  I suppose that means that Theodora was a successful read; it opened my mind to more.

Elementary School Remembered

Watching the schoolkids last night, I got to thinking about School #1.  I walked to the end of Benjamin Road and waited for the bus to carry me off.

It was neither called nor considered a campus.  It was just School One, with a boys' side and a girls' side to the playground and the steepest staircase in the world inside the oversized front doors.  I remember going in the side doors most of the time, which was much better since the staircase only went halfway as far as the main one.

Kindergarten was in the basement, as were the lunch tables.  We had a cafeteria, with hair-netted ladies ladling multi-colored glop onto heavy white ceramic plates.  In first grade those plates were frighteningly weighty; I mostly brought my lunch.

We had coat closets instead of hooks in the hallway, and my first grade classroom had its own bathroom.  In second grade we looked out the window to the flagpole in the driveway.  Third grade was in the corner and fourth and fifth were next door to one another, which really felt like cheating.  It seemed only fair that I get to explore a different corner of the building every year.  Sixth grade was upstairs in the other corner and we moved from room to room for math and social studies and science.  That was the only time I didn't have to sit first row first seat; the social studies teacher let us choose our own spots.  I raced to the window and sat two rows back.  I felt like another person.

Did we have backpacks?  I don't think so.  Did I carry my books in anything special?  I cannot remember.  I know that I used an elasticized band with two silver clasps to hold my books together in junior high, but that might have been a fashion statement rather than a utilitarian one.  I know I had homework and I know I brought it back to school..... I just don't know how.

Allow me a moment to mourn the passage of time, the loss of memory, the absence that is the gap a present-but-demented mother leaves when her child cannot ask for a reminder.  I won't be long...........

While I was away, I tried to recall what the Cuters had used for totes.  Jansport backpacks while we were in California, except for the year when Little Cuter used a rolling backpack and bravely withstood the jeers of her peers as she kept her friend-with-a-back-problem company.  The friend gave up quickly; my kid was so aggravated at her classmates that she stuck with it out of spite.

But when they were little?  I remember studying spelling words and writing stories and doing math pages but I don't remember packing them up and sending them out the door the next morning.  I can tell you which year he wore the University of Michigan cap (5th grade) and when she was Pippi Longstocking (kindergarten) but I cannot conjure an image of them carrying a book bag.

I'm thinking about this because my college at the University has opened a brand new building. The old one was demolished because it was unsafe.  It was the building in which I had most of my classes.  It is the space I conjure when I consider my college.  I remember the smell of the classrooms and the feel of the desks and the tables.  I'm having a hard time with the fact that it is gone.... just as I did when they tore down School #1.

Daddooooo understood just how I felt; he went to the site and saved me a brick. That, and my fading memories, are all that is left.

Halloween Trunk or Treat

We went Trunk or Treating tonight, my friends and I.

The elementary school is in a dicey neighborhood so the PTO (both members) organized a safe place to beg for candy ..... in the gated, guarded parking lot. 

Trunks were decorated

Some more elaborately than others.

There were pirates who masqueraded as teachers during the day.

And there was a box with a person inside it.

The fans were lining up to look at it. 

They really were.

There were little ones.

And there were big ones.

And there were some in between.

Native garb came in quite handy for this strange American celebration.

Moms were very useful when pom poms were too heavy to be carried even one more step while you were trying to keep up with your long-suffering big brother..

On behalf of men everywhere, TBG congratulated Optimus Prime on having the coolest costume ever.

He was very fierce.

Spidey made several appearances

and so did more handcrafted creations.

I especially like the teeth on this one.

But what captured our hearts were their faces.

The faces of America

An Absolutely Lovely Day

Sometimes, it all just seems to come together.  The weather, the people, the events, and the travel all line up in perfect harmony.  Life feels good.

I awoke without needing the alarm.  My favorite gym clothes were clean.  The soaker hose was still attached to the connecting hose so watering the un-irrigated, newly planted Texas ebony tree was simply a matter of turning the faucet to the right.  It was nice to get to the gym without stones in my shoes and cactus prickers in my hands.

There was a parking space right in front of the door.  My favorite greeter was behind the desk and Amster and the Littlest Little One arrived right on time.  The LLO gave me a warm and mushy kiss on my neck, leaving lots of pink lipstick to prove that she'd been there.  Her hug, filled with excitement and love, was balm to my soul.

We worked our legs, doing squats and quad curls and calf raises while we caught up on our lives.  Blending two families involves lots of negotiating, therapy and the re-evaluation of some hard-won truths.  Creating competent children takes a village and a school district and friends as well as all the parental and grand-parental units; it helps if most of them are operating from the same playbook.  Since Amster and I know that our way is always the correct way, we are shameless in our disparagement of those who are on a different page.  It's nice to have company who agrees with you.

I was gifted three school photos and another pink kiss and then it was off to Costco and the grocery store and then home with Hershey's Kisses and Kit Kats and Smart Water and Diet Coke.  I was tempted by the Droid display, but Big Cuter has assigned himself the task of re-phoning his parents so I merely gazed as I pushed the cart by.  I found hearing aid batteries and shelled walnuts and was next in line at the check-out.  Things were definitely going my way.

TBG came home to unpack the heavy items from my car; lifting them from the shelf to the cart to the trunk to the garage floor was the most that I could manage.  I had that thought and then I stopped myself in mid-self-pity:  two months ago I wasn't able to lift them at all.  I have to stop concentrating on the can't parts of my life.

My playmate's UU* meeting ended early (apparently something of a rarity for those talky liberals) so I raced to meet her at the Dairy Queen.  Blizzard (she) and strawberry milkshake (I) in hands, we drove The Schnozz to the Pasqua Yaqui reservation south of town where their outdoor amphitheater was hosting the Desert Bluegrass Association's Annual Festival.  There weren't more than 200 of us there; with room for several thousand we had our choice of seats and spaciousness.  I knew it was going to be a good day when we both opted for the front row.

To our right were an older-than-we couple with a shiny red motorized scooter that seemed to serve each of them quite well.  Had the UU's talked longer I'd have had more time to gather my gear and my camera would have been in my hands instead of on my desk.  Alas, you'll have to envision them toodling off to the rest room or the soda vendor, the one remaining watching closely until the vehicle and passenger were out of sight.  To our left was an even older gentleman who moved not a muscle until our program fell at his feet and, in one graceful gesture, he bent and retrieved and returned and sat still once again.

My UU playmate, newer to Tucson than I, was struck by how old this crowd is.  I hadn't really noticed.  I'm becoming a real Tucsonan; I was looking at the varieties of cowboy boots walking rather than the age of the wearers.  We sat for 4 hours as Steve Smith & Hard Road, Blue Highway, Kickin Grass Band, Crucial County and the Titan Valley Warheads strummed and picked and fiddled... oh, my, did they fiddle.... and sang the old songs and many new songs and mostly we were just boppin' along, clapping or tapping or swaying.

The breeze was soft and the temperatures were in the 80's.  The amphitheatre is covered and the wooden seats have arm rests.  Mr. K's Barbeque was the main food vendor, and the smell of smoking meat wafted over the crowd when supplies needed replenishing.  The performers were locals (there are - or were -  Titan missiles just outside of town) and Kentuckians and New Jersey-ites and they were all very grateful to be part of the fun.  When Kickin Grass sang My Grandfather's Clock I could hear the Cuters in the back seat of the car in Chicago, chanting along as the clock stopped...... never to toll again.... when the Old Man died.


A grandmotherly vendor said "I know you" in that tone of voice that lets me know that I'm in for a hug and a teary smile.  Fifteen minutes later we were all best friends, her son, the youth pastor, and his wife promising to come up to Tucson for the anniversary events in January.  Walking away, my UU playmate asked if that kind of thing happened often.  Hearing "Every day" she just shook her head.  My reality is often very different from that of the unperforated; I tend to forget that.


I bought a CD and we found The Schnozz in its second spot right in front of the door of the day and I listened to tales of life in central Mexico as the mountains turned pink and purple and the traffic moved smoothly over newly paved road.

It was an absolutely wonderful day.
*****
*Alison commented below that UU was a new term to her.  It's shorthand for Unitarian Universalist, a religious group which, according to my playmate, is full of people with lots to say.  Thanks for keeping me honest, Alison!

Shopping By Skinflints

I was ready to plunge into the nifty tidbits my favorite little girl sent my way when the title stopped me in my tracks.  Skinflint is an interesting word, or was to me, at least as I saw it up there on the monitor.  I'm always amused when my fingers do something that my brain doesn't recognize.  Reading the Phaedo for class this week I'm considering everything in terms of recollection; how did that get up there, anyway?  Saved, as always, by the interweb, I found the Online Etymology Dictionary  which quickly demystified the whole thing.   Sadly, it's just word soup.... someone who would skin a flint to gain an advantage.  Now, that is being tight with your money.

Many of us are feeling skinflint-ish these days, I fear.  It's hard to buy extras when necessities might be a struggle.  Random gifting, unnecessary trifles, the times call for more than that, I think.  Nurturing those thoughts but not sharing them, I whined to Little Cuter this morning that I was suggestion-less.  I can't find the picture for the post I wanted to write, and without it there's really no point.  Super-Girl to the rescue, Little Cuter offers you these sites and suggestions, as relayed and edited by her ever grateful maternal unit.

Seems like, these days, it's taking a village to write a blog post.

http://tinyurl.com/3zmfaha

First, LC sends you to ebay for their Daily Deals.

I've just spent a delicious half hour wandering through Tools, and Tech Deals Under $20, and Gifts and Gadgets.   It is quite possible that someone in my family may receive something like this in December.

But if you are trick or treating on Monday and it's going to be cccccold outside, perhaps this might be an acceptable way to stay warm while begging at doorsteps.

In her own words, Little Cuter will tell you that every day they post awesome deals for almost half off really cool merchandise that you might actually want to buy. Most of the time it's free shipping, too.  


I'm interrupting this post for an important message: there's a really good point in that first sentence.  I no longer spend time on sites that tempt me to spend money on foolishness.  I can be separated from my money by a pretty picture and a well-written spiel; I stay away to stay solvent.  Finding a site with merchandise that you might actually want to buy at a price that is much lower than anywhere else, that's the place to shop.


Next, I introduce a new-to-me site which, were I working and in need of wardrobe replenishment would be, I think, the only place I'd go. Shop It To Me refers to itself as your free personal online shopper.  You fill out a quick form letting them know which designers and brands (ranging from Eileen Fisher to UGG) in which sizes are of interest to you and they do the rest.  Of course, to me, the rest includes deciding and purchasing and paying and gift wrapping and card writing and USPS shipping of the completed item, but in this context it refers to the emails they send you when they find sales on your stuff on-line.  I'm already planning how to spend the time I'll save by using this. 

Little Cuter wants to remind you about GAP and Old Navy, both of which email exclusive deals to members from their websites.  If you're reluctant to buy frivolities, how about a new pair of jeans?  I don't imagine there are many in my readership who wouldn't appreciate that.  A quick trip to the closet for the size and style number of your loved one's favorite pair coupled with the discount offers ought to be just right for someone on your list.  I usually like to shop those stores on December 26th, since everything is so drastically reduced.  But if you want something for under the tree or after the candles are lit, these old faithfuls may be where you want to look.


Finally, having already weighed in on the value of experiences as gifts, my girl would like to remind you to look at GroupOn and Living Social for experiences and the like.  Is a salon offering a deal?  Buy two and take your girlfriend for a mani/pedi together.... and if that girlfriend is 9 or 10 and you think of Christina-Taylor and me, why that's okay, too.  Sometimes the simplest things put the biggest smiles on a person's face.  Buying tickets to a children's show or a museum event and passing them along is another way to save money and share the love.  If you take the kids and give mom and dad an afternoon off, even better, don't you agree?


I'm going to look for that picture and post it next week.  For now, as we come closer to November, let me remind you that our goal is to be finished by December 1.  Have you ordered your cards yet?  

Have you seen this, denizens?

TBG and I were channel surfing and even the magic fingers tickling the remote were stunned and immobilized by the last 15 seconds of this ad.  Is Mark Bloch, Herman Cain's campaign manager and COO of The Friends of Herman Cain really blowing smoke?

I just don't get it.  If I were The Onion, I'd create an add like this.  Did no one in Mr. Cain's campaign ever take a course in literature?  Has no one there ever hear of allusion?  taking a drag on a ciggie may make you feel like a real man (more on that below... believe me, lots more on that below) but you've left the viewer while blowing smoke ... which The Urban Dictionary defines as  giving a gratuitous and insincere compliment, possibly to deceive.

If that's not the perfect definition of a campaign ad, I don't know what is.  The in your face nature of this one is just so blatant, so insulting, so perfect.

Perfect, you ask?  Yes, perfect, I reply.  Perfect because we are talking about it and any publicity is better than no publicity in today's political climate.  Some of us are actually paying attention to the words, but my guess is most of America is fast forwarding or muting through most of these commercials.  The image of an old white guy with a cigarette might just draw the wayward eye back to the screen.  It's certainly caught the attention of my fingers, and those of Slate and Time and many of my bloggy and Facebook cronies.

I hate feeding the frenzy but I can't let it go by.  I tried.  I really did. But then I found this one

and my fingers refused to stay still.

It's long, I know, but it's so awful and manipulative that I watched in amazement for the whole 3 minutes and 42 seconds. I'm not sure I was breathing; it felt more like gasping.

If you can't devote the time, or you're at work and can't be caught watching, here's a brief precis:  The main character is international film and television star Nick something or other, a fact he reveals at 2:05 in the video.  Before that, you see him riding up to what at first blush looked like an outhouse but which turned out to be the home of a damsel.  The guys hanging out near the door spit and scratch and give Nick crap for carrying yellow flowers.  His response?

Why's it always got to be about color?  What are you guys..... liberal?

I suppose that makes my noting that it was the black guy spitting on Nick's boot racist.  Honestly, I just don't know.  The only certainty I have is that the long shot and then the close up of the saliva dripping was less than pleasant.  Almost as unpleasant as Nick's ending voice over about empty phrases like hope and change and snarky references to community organizers reading lines on a teleprompter written by others just as he forgets his own line and has to ask for the cue.

Is he promoting stupidity?  Inability to remember?  Lack of competence to do his job?  It's not like it was a hard line, either..... Ok, punk, get real shouldn't call for extraordinary acts of mental gymnastics if you are really an international film and tv star, should it?

His tagline is "I stand for Herman Cain because Herman Cain stands for us."  Aside from the obvious grammatical inconsistency (there's no one else in the frame and his conversation has been all me and I) I'm not sure what the message is.  Herman Cain represents those who do their jobs marginally?  Herman Cain represents those who use their fists to solve their problems?

Neither of these ads has the I'm Herman and I approve this ad verbiage; PAC and SuperPAC monies must be involved.  But each of them has Mr. Cain's fabulous smile (c'mon, we can disagree with him and still think he has a pretty face, can't we?) grinning from ear to ear through chubby cheeks right out at you at the end.

He seems as if he's a likeable guy.  The fact that his 9-9-9 plan is simple to understand doesn't mean that it is appropriate for our country, even if he smiles when he describes it.  I'm glad he built a business.  I just wonder what 25% of Republican primary voters are supporting this morning.  He has a muddled perspective on abortion and no real knowledge of foreign policy or even foreign countries.  He has no history (that I can find) of having weighed in on the issues in a substantive way.  And now, with the opportunity to speak to America and offer to lead us he is relying on blowing smoke.

If there's someone out there who can explain this to me, I am all ears.

New Friends from Old Places

Nathakes made the match, and she knew what she was doing.

We'd been trying to get together for several months.  Schedules and illness and life in general kept getting in the way.  They flew in last night, though, and the dinner we'd had on the calendar for a month or so was actually going to happen.

I decided at the last minute not to wear my cowboy boots

 I walk better in my Chucks.

This is only relevant because I'd told her I'd be wearing the boots and corduroy shorts.  We'd never seen one another before; I was worried about recognizing them.  

We parked and walked and arrived 8 minutes early, entering the restaurant's patio behind a couple we really hoped were not to be our dinner companions.  Worrying, we closed the gate behind ourselves and looked up to see a smiling couple waving in our direction.  

They looked just like us, albeit somewhat less careworn.  There was a lot of It must be them It is Are you Oh, we wondered if going on in the beginning. They hugged and hand-shook appropriately and we agreed that sitting outside was preferable.  They'd arrived that afternoon from Chicago; 85 at 8pm was quite tempting. 

Without any awkwardness, we plunged right into the details.  Why Tucson for a second home?  Where were you before?  Why?  Kids?  Jobs?  And weaving through the conversation was our concern over the absence of our waiter.  Three ice teas and a water didn't seem to warrant 30 minutes of waiting, especially when two of us had just arrived at altitude and had to keep hydrated.

We loved the same things about Tucson, it seemed.  The ache in my hip made an ache in my heart when she said hiking as the first thing she liked to do here.  Yoga, but not Bikram, is on her list, too.  She seemed genuinely surprised that I wanted to help her find classes; she'll soon figure out that that's what makes Tucson special.  We're all in this together.

It was fun to listen to her concept of distance; as new homeowners in a new neighborhood everything seems far.  Another reason to love her: when I said that long distances are easily traversed on quiet streets with few traffic lights and gorgeous vistas her response was classic Tucson - The drive is half the fun.

I can't wait to take her to Tombstone, past Texas Canyon alongside I-10

http://www.panoramio.com/user/1306961?with_photo_id=11299290

The guys were both in the business; there will be lots to discuss later on. I told her where to find decent produce and ground beef and we laughed about the options available to a true Tucson locavore.  Bicycling and rehab and politics and where are those pizzas anyway and then......

..... in the middle of another conversation, where did you grow up was on the table and it turns out that she and I were one year apart at the same high school.... that she grew up next door to my 6th grade boyfriend.... that my brother knew her brother and that we could find one another in our yearbooks... which both of us had close to hand right here in Arizona, thinking that we were making new friends when we were really rediscovering old relationships..... kinda sorta.

Some things, it seems, are just meant to be.

Welcome to Tucson.  I'm working on your blogonyms right now.  Nathakes has very good taste in friends.

Although it has been a while since I've posted on my recovery, the rest of the world has been quite involved in my progress.  As we approach the anniversary of the shootings, the opportunities for comparison, condolences and consideration of consequences have multiplied exponentially,  My calendar is filled with meetings about event planning and my in-box is filled with inquiries.  Each and every one of these situations includes a reference to healing.... specifically, my healing.... more pointedly, my hip.

It's very odd when others take a proprietary interest in your getting well.  The cashier in the grocery store is as proud of me as I am of myself when she sees me bending over and lifting the heavier items out of my cart.  Another perforated attendee and I compare our problems remembering to utilize our ankles and our toes as we walk.  It's hard to escape, hard not to focus on the fact of getting shot.

A costumed young man wore a bandolier of bullets around his neck at a fundraiser TBG and I attended last Saturday night.  Granted, it was M*A*S*H themed, and most of the costumed guests were in scrubs or fatigues, but my body began to quake the moment I saw his outfit.  It wasn't physical pain; my heart was aching and my whole self was responding.

Bullet wounds (mine at least) don't hurt very much in the long term.  The startling shock of seeing an exit wound scar on my shoulder blade as I'm doing lat pull-downs will always hurt, I'm sure of that.  But the physical pain was never an issue for me.  Had I not shattered my hip, I imagine that days could pass without my remembering that bullets had penetrated my body.

Sigh.  It's a nice fantasy, isn't it?  I go there sometimes when I need a break.

Unfortunately for me, the hip is an integral part of the human skeleton.  It's recruited in every position I've found.  I know this because it tells me so, sometimes quietly, sometimes quite loudly.  Sometimes it's a little bit of warmth that creeps up and around my glute, curving down to the top of my femur, settling almost comfortably in the acetabulum Dr. Boaz so excellently repaired.  Sometimes it's a sharp stabbing nothingness that leaves me stumbling as femur and socket dance around a bit before settling back into place.

I've been told that nothing I can do short of being drawn-and-quartered will separate my femur from my socket.  There are times when I truly don't believe that is true.

Every once in a while there's a tingling in the numbness that decides to transform itself into sharp-toed ants walking on pointed stilts across my lower thigh.  Last week the outside of my kneecap was throbbing for no reason that I could determine.  As I try to balance my hips and approximate symmetry in my gait, my inner and outer thighs alternate verses. The chorus is always the same This too shall pass.

As in child-rearing, every stage is terrible until the next one comes along.  Every stage seems to last forever and then, just when it seems impossible to bear for a moment longer, it's been replaced by something which, while not really better is, at least, different.  Change is good, even when it hurts.

I try not to complain.  I try not to make my physical self the center of attention.  But after class, when I stand slowly and then don't move until I settle into myself, as I am static while others are mobile, it's hard not to notice.

And then I remind myself that I am here to feel the pain, that I can articulate my emotions and write them here for you to read, that I will heal.  I look back on my first three months on Douglas, quietly allowing the world to go by, as my one and only job was to heal.  Now, in the last three months of my first year afterwards,  I smile at the memory of the applause I demanded when I was able to lift my kneecap 2 inches off the pillow on which it was resting.

Progress is measured in small doses.  Two steps forward and half-a-step back isn't really all that bad.  The changes are interesting if uncomfortable.  And, I am getting better.  Really, I am.

Thanks for asking.

I Found It!

My holiday spirit, that is.
For a while, I though I'd lost it.
But Amster's kids located it while she was at Wally-World this morning.

Messer's 6 and 8 remembered the drill from years past.
They chose the clothes they wanted to use, and began stuffing.

Some of us worked diligently at our assigned tasks.

Others were more interested in collecting bugs.

or in stacking towers.

Proving, once again, that the toy is less important than the box in which it was delivered, that box filled with styrofoam and empty space and imagination.  These pill containers I've salvaged from G'ma kept the Littles occupied while Mr. 8 did some serious problem solving.  A precise young man, he did not appreciate the fact that his stuffing was coming out of the shredded jeans.

 
The fact that I had an entire container of brand new safety pins just added to the fun.

Unnamed but not unloved, our creations were transported to the front yard.

Where serious arranging

and re-arranging took place.

Then, of course, it was time for posing.

All in all, it was an absolutely perfect Sunday morning.

I'm typing and looking at this fellow right now.

Life is good.

A Gift for the Whole Family

Sometimes it's just easier to do one big thing.  Friday Shopping Secrets understands this, and would like to offer some suggestions.  Just remember that little ones like something to open now; I'll be appending ideas for those who cannot experience delay of gratification.  Never fear, denizens, I've got you covered.

I'm a big proponent of experiences over products.  I remember holiday hikes more than what gifts were presented when the Cuters were 8 and 10.  The infamous Christmas of '96 is notable for the absence of appropriate batteries and the crushing misery which followed.  I suppose this counts as an experience; the feelings are certainly more memorable than the actual toy itself.  At least for me.

For several years we instituted a walk through the open space between turkey and dessert on Thanksgiving.  We'd pass neighbors and friends and smile through the introductions of nieces and grandparents and sons-in-law-to-be and then we'd move on, each group self contained yet interconnected.  It reminded TBG and me of similar walks through his parents' suburban neighborhood with his dad by our side.  He never said much, but his pleasure in our company was palpable.  In retrospect, I'm sure he appreciated those early evening strolls much more than the sweater vests and long sleeved polo shirts we sent him as tangible expressions of our love.

Actually, I know that is true.  After his death, we found years of those gifts in his drawers, still folded and pinned and tagged.  Never worn, because he was frugal and wouldn't unpack a new item until its predecessor had begun to fray.  The man had the same pair of shoes for 25 years; shoe trees were his secret.  He was happiest when his family was close and safe.  He lived for the experiences.  It's a lesson we've taken to heart.

So, my first suggestion is Get Up and Move.  Tell the family that walking around the block is their gift to you. In everything except a blizzard this shouldn't be an issue, no one cares how many layers or how silly or how far... it's the experience.  Be sure to take pictures and throw snowballs and ooh and ahhh at the neighbors' decorations.  Drag little ones on sleds or in wagons or on shoulders when they get tired, but walk further, or in a different direction, or out on one side of the street and back on the other - just so that it's special.

I'm smiling just thinking about how much fun you'll have.

Family vacations are another good option.  If your crew can do as modern brides and grooms do, the travel part of the holiday can be postponed to the summer months.  That leaves you months and months for planning and plotting and preparing and excitement.  If funds are tight, it gives you more time to save.  And if kids learn to put off their happiness until it can be shared with others who love them, all the better.  I've never been one to let a teaching opportunity pass me by.

Cornell Adult University is where I'll send you first.  Ithaca, New York, centrally isolated and nearly impossible to arrive at in any but the most convoluted manner, is a summer haven of greenery, water sports, wine tasting and intellectual stimulation.  Once you get there you don't need a vehicle; the Cornell campus is easily walkable.  Should you want to venture off campus, someone in your class will be able to give you a ride.  It's that kind of a vacation.  There are 4 weeks of offerings for adults (the 2012 schedule is not yet available) and age segregated programs for the kids.  Children share a room with a sibling or a new friend, depending on their age, your choice, and the program they choose.  Counselors are with the kids from 8am til 11:15pm; you pass on campus and in the dining hall like happy ships in the night.  Breakfasts are family affairs, so you get to catch up on all the fun that everyone is having.

Looking for something less organized?  How about a multi-family house rental along the coast?  TBG's cousins invited us to spend a week with them at Sunset Beach, North Carolina,  when our children were all very small.  We pulled shorts on over swimsuits when we needed to dress up, grilled dinner outside every night, and played cards and Monopoly til the wee hours with the wee ones taking their turns just like the grown ups.  We were spending no more money on vacation than we would have at home - everyone has to eat, after all.  We shared the cost of the rental which, for a week's stay, was much less expensive than hotel rooms would have been.... and it was a much nicer space.  No one seems to mind sharing a room with 3 sets of bunk beds when you've been playing with your roommates all day long.  By the time their heads hit the pillows they were out for the count.  The ocean is free.... and tiring.

Need an adventure closer to home?  How about leaving a local map and a marker under the tree for everyone who can fit into your car.  Each recipient chooses a location and everyone else agrees to go with a good attitude and a smile.  The Cuters and I did this when we first moved to Marin; bookstores and pet shops and small museums gave us adventures, map lessons, and time well spent together.

Still at a loss?  How about the beach in winter?  The playground with snow?  The fishing pier without fishermen?  Take an August outing and transplant it to the winter months and laugh at yourselves as you scrape the snowflakes off the picnic tables.  I guarantee that the memory will last longer than the Alaska Barbie you buy for your 8 year old.

Meetings... Oh, So Many Meetings

I promised myself that I would not attend meetings.  I was moving to a new town, a new state, a new set of connections and none of it was going to revolve around meetings.  I don't like meetings.  I don't do well in meetings.  I tend to annoy those around me with my discomforted sighing and eye rolling as discussions wander aimlessly and time trudges by.  I really shouldn't go to meetings; no one benefits from my presence.

That promise was tested early and often.  Creating a newsletter seemed to require attendance at board meetings.  Interviewing high school seniors for my alma mater required attendance at board meetings.  I was beginning to feel a bit of mission creep so I began to set my boundaries more definitively: if I wasn't on the agenda I didn't show up.

This made those who presided over the meetings happier than they would have been if I'd been there, even if they were unaware of the gift I was bestowing by not attending.  The minutes were fine with me.  I didn't mind missing the under-currents which preceded those written words; those under-currents were why I didn't want to be at the meeting in the first place.

This week has been filled with meetings, and I was on the agenda of all of them.  There is much planning going on in my life right now.  I've watched three different women lead three different meetings and I never wanted to twitch or bitch or moan.  What needed to be accomplished was accomplished and it was all done within a timely manner.  I'm wondering if I have to rethink my opposition to meetings.

Tuesday's agenda assigned time slots to speakers; the Logistics committee didn't seem bothered by the fact that they were allotted one minute.  The meeting began on time and ended on time and there were 35 people in the room and everyone got to speak at least once.  Decisions were made and diversions were cut short and by the end I had covered my copy of the agenda with personal notes and ideas to take home and expand for my own purposes.  I'm actually looking forward to our next get-together.  I'm wondering if I am already rethinking my opposition to meetings.

Monday and Wednesday were smaller, more intimate gatherings.  Specifics were discussed and assignments were made.  Skills were discovered and put to good use, and questions were answered right there and then.  Putting names to faces, sharing the air, getting a sense of one another without the buffer of the keyboard - it actually felt pretty good.  The quiet student in the corner was actually taking copious notes, participating in her own way.  Minor concerns were eased before the passage of time between emails made them morph into major issues.  We were quick, purposeful, and finished in no time.  Perhaps there is something to meetings after all.

Once the last one was finished for the week, I took myself and some bags of Hershey's Kisses to see G'ma. These meetings have been interfering with my visiting schedule; I was glad to have a chance to drop in and deliver sweets.  Though it was nearly 11 when I arrived, she was just completing her morning ablutions.  While waiting for her to come out of the bathroom, I read the minutes of the pod-castle's Resident Council Meeting and was brought up short when I saw her name on the list of attendees.

G'ma had actually left her pod-castle and walked across the plaza to another building.  She represented her fellow residents.  She participated in the world around her.  All of a sudden, meetings are looking pretty good to me.

According to the minutes, the discussion centered around satisfaction, concerns and suggestions.  Norman is happy living in the pod-castle and has no problem with anything.  I'm relaxing just thinking about him.  Though Virginia attended the meeting to just listen, Duane thinks that some caregivers could do a better job and be more friendly.  Rather than being concerned that someone is mis-treating an elder, I read that and felt comforted that he was able to express a negative opinion and see it in print the next day.  If everyone were totally happy I'd be looking at the KoolAid to see what happy drugs are contained therein.

Bruce would like to see more games, especially checkers and dice and I'm wondering if shooting craps is a pod-castle approved activity.  To Gary, everything is very good and Dora thinks that everyone...takes good care of her and I'm left feeling warm and fuzzy about placing G'ma in the pod castle, especially when I get down the list to William, who is very happy but sometimes would like to be left alone.


So would I, William.  So would I.

And G'ma?  What was her contribution?  Apparently, she has no complaints and is very content.


If meetings can accomplish all that they've brought to me this week, I am definitely going to think more highly of them in the future.  I've learned, planned, grown, listened, plotted and greeted.... and my mom had it read into the record that her life is good.

Thank you, meetings.  Thank you very much, indeed.

Where's My Halloween Spirit?

I've missed a lot this past year, at least as far as holiday decor goes.  My Valentines Day box, the Easter bunnies, the American flags for Memorial Day and July 4th..... all undisturbed in the garage.  I missed them, but not enough to direct someone else to place them just so.  Maneuvering them off the shelves myself was impossible, and anyway, my one and only job was to heal.  I gave myself a pass.

Now it's the middle of October.  Halloween is 2 weeks away.  I have one pillow, 

one candle holder

and my blinking haunted house

That's it.  No rows of orange plastic pumpkins lining the stairs; there are no stairs.  No wheeled ghosts or goblins or scarecrows to trip on; no children have been in this house for ages.  G'ma has all my straw decor; TBG claimed it made him sneeze.

I managed to save these for the powder room

but it's a far cry from the days of crescent moon shaped soaps and tiny erasers in the shapes of bats and cats nestled amongst black and white stones in the soap dish.

Even TBG remarked that my decorating is more restrained this year.

I found this fellow and managed to stick him in the courtyard

but I know that the first big gust of wind will carry him over.  Alas, that's not enough to motivate me to get out and push just a little bit harder.  What will be will be.  It's only decorations.

And I believe that until I look further out toward the street and don't see a scarecrow.  We recycled a week's worth of newspaper yesterday, so even if I had the energy to create one I am missing the key ingredient for the stuffing.  I found the clothes for him, neatly washed and folded on top of box #1, waiting to be displayed against the big rock out front.  I just don't have the oomph.

My cheetah... he really had the moves

Am I old?  Am I tired? Am I decrepit? Am I missing some kids to help?

Yes and no and really, who cares?  Does it really matter?

The new improved relaxed and confused me is just accepting that it is what it is and I am moving on.

Seret taught me that years ago, and tonight, as she's cooking for my kids and I'm thinking about Halloweens past, it's a good memory to have.

I'm just going to enjoy sitting on Douglas, snuggling with my sweetie.  I'll make a scarecrow next year.