What Day Is It Today

A Woman in Her Fifties...

2010-07-10T19:46:00.004-04:00

...has fantasies.

Me to Mr. Fifty-Something, early this morning, "I woke up early today so I indulged in a little fantasizing instead of getting out of bed."
Mr. Fifty-Something leans over and begins to caress my shoulder as he whispers a leading, "OH, yeah.....??"
"Uh, you're about to be terribly disappointed and possibly embarrassed."
Shoulder caressing ends, sexy whisper returns to normal. "Oh. Yeah?"
"Well, I was fantasizing about how much better things would be if people would just realize I should be boss."
"At work?"
"Well, it started that way then morphed into something ugly. I had to shut it down when I realized I was on my way to being boss of the world. I had to stop before I went crazy with power and fantasized myself into being Boss of the Known Universe."
"You already are, honey, you already are."

If a woman in her fifties has the wisdom to enjoy a good fantasy, a man in his fifty-somethings has the wisdom to indulge her.

A Woman in Her Fifties...

2010-04-27T20:17:00.004-04:00

I'm taking time tonight. Time to write. Time to edit months worth of photo files. Time to listen to American Idol and occasionally flip the channel over to Dancing with the Stars.
I am not taking time tonight to get ahead for tomorrow's work day. No drawing, no color separating, no marketing shots, romance copy or price breaks.
I am not taking time to shoo away 3 weeks worth of dust bunnies, clear off the dining room table or balance the checkbook.
The bathroom mirror will still be smudged in the morning, there will still be mulch tracked on the kitchen floor and my sweater from last weekend will still be draped across the back of a chair.
Tonight I'm editing photos, weeding the flowers, working on a digital memoir of Grandson Number Two's first year.
Doing the things that matter to me and letting the things that matter to everyone else wait for another day.
A woman in her fifties makes time. For what she loves to do.

Dear So and So....

2010-02-05T10:32:00.005-05:00

Dear Winter--Thank you for returning in your snow white persona. I was, quite frankly, sick of your dull gray garb and bone chillling dampness. And it was particularly gracious of you to time your return with my not having to go into the office.---Appreciatively, Hoping for a Snow Bound Weekend

Dear Primary Care Physician--Yes, I understand that it's much less costly to you to farm out my lab work to the local hospital. However, my insurance carrier sees it in an entirely different light and what used to cost me a $25 co-pay now takes a $275 bite out of my pocket.--Disgusted Patient Who Expects You to Make Freakin' Good Use of Those Two Vials at $137.50 Each

Dear Local Hopsital--Really, I don't know how you get away with it. First the inflated lab visit then the CT for Mr. L. that cost a full 60% more than his last PET/CT. Granted the PET/CT was done in a truck parked behind the building but, still, it's not like your radiology department is in the Taj Mahal or something. I'm not sure how you talked our insurance carrier into this contract but expect that gravy train to leave town when it's time to renegotiate.--Regards, Bug Eyed Patient Staring at the Bill

Dear Mail Carrier--I know you don't write 'em, you just deliver. But, seriously, take a day off. I hear it's going to snow, take a weather day. I'm not up for more mail from the ~~money hoarders~~ local hospital.--Anxious Postal Patron

See Kat for more Dear So and So.

A Woman In Her Fifties Gives Thanks....

2009-12-04T17:06:00.011-05:00

Tonight I'm thankful to have had those years of active, hands on, raising the kids parenting. Even the years of active, hands on, raising the kids parenting of dozens of other people's kids. And more thankful to be beyond them.
More thankful yet for October's hysterectomy. Just in case God was thinking of exhibiting that sometimes odd humor and sending some late life baby our way. (I think our priest is still traumatized from our marriage prep when he happily announced there "is still time for the two of you to have babies" and I yelped out a very unladylike, un-Catholic response.)
After a day with the second grade, and grandson, on a field trip, I am all for the certainty that comes with a hysterectomy. Tired doesn't even begin to cover what we felt by the time we had tromped around the state museum, eaten with 100 kids at The Old Sphaghetti Factory (what daredevil thought THAT was a good idea??) and driven 2 1/2 hours home.
The relief at telling the class goodbye, kissing Josh on the forehead and getting into our quiet car was immense. Quiet. No little boys showing me how loud they can make phony fart noises, no little girls ~~flirting with~~ taunting little boys, no teachers holding up three fingers and wondering why 100 voices didn't cease. Or at least diminish.
I had seen those three fingers so much by the end of the day--and nothing happening as a result--that I wanted to bend two of them down and yell, "You're holding up the wrong friggin' finger, lady!"
With a couple of night's rest the reflection of the day sums up to a pretty good time. The museum is interesting, not too big, not too small. The kids tried every single thing in the place and surely learned something worthy along the way. Maybe even learned some not so worthy things but I'm confident I've bought silence with a few well placed Hershey bars.
The kids considered the day a success because they got out of school, rode a flat faced bus, visited Santa and forever traumatized unsuspecting restaurant patrons who were simply looking for a quiet meal.
Kevin considered the day a success because he got to spend it with Josh and shape some young minds a la that Norman Rockwell fuzzy mental picture he sometimes places over reality.
The real success was mine. I only made two kids cry in the course of the day and I made it back with no more, no less, than the 4 kids assigned directly to our care before we left the school this morning.

A Woman In Her Fifties Takes The Bus

2009-12-02T22:49:00.000-05:00

Mr. L. and I scored 2 of 4 coveted spots as bus riding ~~animal keepers~~ chaperones for Joshua's field trip next week. Today his teacher (she of the former Colts Cheerleader fame) phoned his mom to offer us a ~~get out of jail free pass~~ chance to NOT ride the bus. "Some of the grandparents, if they're older, prefer not to ride the bus," says Ms. FCC. "Older?" Really? If she hadn't thrown in THAT word, I would have jumped at the chance to escape a captive bus ride with a hundred sticky, germy, excited-on-the-way-there,tired-and-grouchy-on-the-way-back second graders. The word was thrown down, however, so this woman in her fifties takes the bus. Just to prove she's as perky as any former NFL cheerleader.

Is there much use in hoping for a snow day as early as the 10th of December??

Gran-Natomy

2009-11-01T19:28:00.007-05:00

Kevin set up 7 year old Joshua's computer today so we could talk via Skype. I objected strenuously to the idea of introducing another bit of technology into our days but was clearly outmanned by Josh, his mom and gramps.

So tonight we tried it out. Kevin sat on the sofa and I stood behind him while he adjusted lighting, camera and volume for our first ever live online visit with Joshua.

We could hear him perfectly. He could only hear choppy bits of our side of the conversation. Since we aren't nearly as entertaining or funny as we like to think, the seven year old clearly had the better side of things so far.

We couldn't see him at all. He, however, could see us quite clearly.

So clearly, in fact, that his mother felt compelled to offer this information:

"Just so you know, mom, what he can see is just the top of grandpa's head and a full on shot of grandma's boobs right through her pajama top."

I had been thinking we could work on his Spelling together online. Maybe do his Reading assignment. A little Math. Never, not once, did I plan to cover Anatomy.

I had a few suggestions for where grandpa might want to store the video camera now that it's been removed from the computer.

Hello, God? Can We Talk...

2009-10-12T19:24:00.007-04:00

Yes, it's me again. Frequent caller, sparodic listener.

First I want to thank you for nearly a week and no call from the cancer center about Mr. L's recent blood work. No news is good news in our cancer experience. If you do manipulate (and you can tell I'm still conflicted on that whole possibility) those details, thank you.

Now, to get to the topic of the day, can we talk about spiders? I'm a bit arachnophobic. I'm not the scream high pitched squeals don't like spiders kind of girl. I'm the totally lose my voice, become immobilized and break out in a cold sweat don't like spiders kind of girl. Especially certain spiders in certain spaces.

You and I know the reason; no point in inviting anyone else into that nightmare, but I do wonder why you thought spiders were necessary? I mean, you gave snakes a feature role in Creation that explains their whole lack of popularity. But what were you thinking with the spiders? And why so many kinds, each more creepy than the last? And the hair. And all those legs. What, what, WHAT were you thinking?

Whatever your thoughts lo those many years ago when Creation came into being, could you cut me a little spiderless space right now? Like the other night, fresh out of the hospital, when I hobbled down the hallway, intent upon coaxing my objecting body into some basic bedtime hygiene, and--poof--there on the floor, right next to my foot was a spider. A spider who surely had a starring role in one of the Harry Potter movies. A big spider. A big hairy spider.

And I lost my voice, my painfully limited ability to move and my already dwindling calm attitude. Not cool. Not at all, at all. Pretty much all I had getting me through the moments last week was a strong vein of chutzpah and it flew out the door in the face of one hairy spider.

Then today when Mr. L. retrieved me from my bored housebound reality. Was the spider who suddenly materialized out of nowhere, clickety-clacked his spidery legs across the dashboard and disappeared into the vents just another freak of nature?

Or are you working overtime to answer Mr. L's prayers? He seems to think he could use a little heavenly help in dealing with what he considers to be an argumentive patient. Admittedly the first spider did distract me from my illicit intent to sneak a quick soak in a forbidden bubble bath while Mr. L. was napping. And after today's revelation, I won't be slipping out of the house with my camera for any forbidden driving until I see the lifeless remains of a certain truck dwelling arachnid. And we both know Mr. L. won't be producing that kill for at least another 2 weeks, per doctor's instructions.

Please, Lord, not to question your decisions, but please don't put any spiders in the M & Ms jar or on my comfortable chair in the backyard. Those small selfish comforts are really, well, comforting right now. Please don't take away my chutzpah and my chocolate all in the same week.

In case Mr. L's prayers have zeroed in on the weight of my sewing machine and box of favorite fabric, you can disband any potential army of spiders there. I'll wait until Mr. L. is here to lift it for me. I promise.

Take a spin with Liz at A Mom on Spin for your own conversation with God.

Dear So and So...

2009-10-09T21:45:00.007-04:00

Dear Mr. Nurse in the surgical recovery area--What in my groggy demeanor gave you the impression I would be entertained by your nickname for the hospital's habit of scheduling most gynecology surgeries for the same day each week? "Bloody Crotch Day" you called it? Really? And here I thought it must be Give A Jerk A Job Day. Normally I would have seen a certain morbid logic in your humor that I might have found worth a chuckle. But timing is everything, sir, and a couple of hours after surgery isn't the time. I hope you get a chronic prostate infection, an impatient doctor with large fingers and a Groundhog Day like repetition of the same exam again and again.--Affectionately, Recovering Hysterectomy Patient

Dear Mrs. Nurse--Dr. Who said to do What to Whom? Not to me, he didn't. How do I know? Because my doctor is a she, not a he, because my doctor is a gynecologist, not a urologist, and because I am not the owner of the penis you were supposed to be threading a catheter into so that poor man could go home.--Sincerely, Now WIDE AWAKE AND ALERT Patient

Dear Hospital--Two words. Staff training. You need some serious help in a few areas. You are a lawsuit waiting to happen.--Non-litigious But Genuinely Concerned Patient/Consumer

Dear Husband--Happy Birthday. Next year. No recovering from anything for either of us on your birthday. Deal? I owe you a good dinner and more.--Love, Your Sleepy Slightly Drugged Up Wife

Drop in at Kat's place for your own Dear So and So...

Three Month News

2009-10-06T23:40:00.005-04:00

Kevin's 3 month checkup day again. Oncologist thought things looked good, sounded like they should, felt like they ought to feel.

So now we wait for Kev's blood work to come back and hope those numbers don't show anything that would cause a call back to the clinic. The neuropathy in his hands and feet continues, always there, worse on some days, unpredictable as to what might trigger it. It's pretty clear by now that this will be a permanent side effect of the chemotherapy treatments, not a passing thing. One of those realities they definitely soft sell pre-treatment. Everything else looked/sounded/felt ok to the medical assistant, nurse practitioner, doctor, 4 year resident and lab tech who each got a turn at him. He also got a seasonal flu shot and scheduled a pneumonia shot for next week.

Under the heading of avoiding invasions of his personal space--always a good thing from Kev's view--he got a couple of bits of good news today. First, I talked with his surgeon's office in Indiana and Dr. Francis says if he's not having any additional/new symptoms of constriction in the bowel surgical area, he can push the next colonoscopy off until April. One year from the last one. Second, his oncologist says he doesn't have to have another PET/CT scan until the end of the year/beginning of next year. Kevin hates the PET/CT possibly more than the colonoscopy since it adds additional radiation exposure to his already over-exposed body so this was exceptionally good news.

Three more months ticked off the Cancer Come Back Meter. This is good news.

Have a Plan, Version .09 (aka Make a List)

2009-10-06T10:54:00.002-04:00

Today is Clean the House Day. Why? Because it's on the list I made. The To Do Before Surgery List.

My essential rule. Have a Plan. Having a list is almost as good as having a plan.

I'm not sure why cleaning the house made the list. Probably because it was suggested on one of the several forums I visited while seeking information. For The Plan.

FYI, I've categorized the forums from Essential Information to Good to Know to HYSTERical Women Having Hysterectomies. I didn't last long at that one. And they haven't emailed me a reminder to drop back in.

Anyway, somewhere along the line, there was a suggestion of having things done pre-surgery so you won't have to worry about doing them later. What I realized today was that it's not likely I'm going to worry now or later about the house being clean. Or super clean anyway. Scratch that one from The List.

See? I'm already ahead of the game.

I did clean the bathroom--the bathtub being my comfort zone when I feel rotten and I want a really clean comfort zone in the coming days--and I made a mental list of things I will never purchase again. Bathroom things. Things Kevin delicately refers to as "girl stuff." No more.

With all the $$ I'm going to save on that "girl stuff" I can do some serious shopping. My doctor said it was important to walk after surgery. She probably meant at the outlet mall. Recouperative Shopping. Who could possibly argue with that plan?

Dear So and So---

2009-09-25T23:52:00.006-04:00

Dear Grocery Patron--I am as uncomfortable with debit cards as you. But, for gosh sakes, if you're going to write a check in the grocery store line, you could fill out the store name and date sometime in those interminable ~~hours~~ minutes of waiting in the line. Something sooner than two minutes after your order has been scanned, price checked and bagged. Maybe master multi-tasking and learn to write and visit with the cashier at the same time. At least have located your checkbook and pen somewhere in your cavernous Vera Bradley tote. Aren't those things known for their incredible organizational pockets anyway? Use them.
And don't get me started on your sport of coupon diving in the depths of aforementioned Vera Bradley. I leave you with one word. Organize. ---Patiently Waiting Organized Person Behind You in Line

Dear Body--Yes, I know you are 50 now. But you seem to be forgetting who owns who. I am in charge and I would very much like you to remember it. Just give me a little break here and tow the line. I'm not kidding.---Thinking of Turning You in Under the Cash for Clunkers Program

Dear Grandson--While it is all about the fun and the learning and the teamwork and sportsmanship ~~blah, blah, blah~~ I expect you to kick some soccer butt this weekend at your tourney. Really. Granny is not sitting outside on a cold rainy day at 7:30 in the morning to see niceness. I want to see some serious soccer.---Love, Soccer G-Ma

Kat's got you covered for your own Dear So and So rambles...

A Woman in Her Fifties

2009-09-23T22:45:00.000-04:00

Science be damned.

I've never understood the female practice of tottering around on sky high heels with pointy pinched toes. Or the lies we tell about how darn comfortable it is to walk around with your heel perched 4 inches above the ground while your 4 inch span of toes is compressed to 2 inches.

I spent 25 years working from my home. Working at home gives one a lot of dress code options. The freedom, for instance, to wear comfortable footwear. Since I hadn't gotten a job in the 18 months or so since moving here and the Drive-Thru Feed Barn doesn't have a dress code, my feet have lived in a seasonal rotation of croc sandals, sneakers and an occasional suede boot. No heels, nothing confining.

However, a princess does what she has to do when representing the royal throne in the public working world. Which means when a job possibility loomed, I dug out my funeral-holiday party-wedding heels from the depths of the closet.

They weren't too bad during the interview. I overlooked the fact that I probaly hadn't walked more than 50 yards and congratulated my feet on their adaptability.

Work Day One brought the realization that production layouts have to be logged out on a computer located in a far corner on the production floor then hand delivered to a desk at the opposite end of the building from my desk. Several times a day.

By Day Four the bulging blisters on the back of my foot had broken leaving a little more room for the growing callouses on my toes.

On Day Six I realized if there was a fire in the building I would probably fry as I scrounged under my deak to locate the shoes I had pried off swollen feet while working at my computer.

Somewhere between the oozing blisters and the burning sensation running up the back of my calves, I had an ephipany; a moment of clarity in the making since I was 12 years old and nagged my mother into buying my first pair of heels.

A woman in her fifties doesn't wince when she steps out of the car and into the work day. She doesn't hope the sheer agony of standing for 20 minutes while the boss tells a funny story in the hall isn't showing in her face. She doesn't sit in her favorite chair until she's within seconds of peeing her pants because it hurts too much to walk 20 feet to the bathroom.

A woman in her fifties wears comfortable shoes.

Dear So and So...

2009-09-18T06:00:00.013-04:00

Dear Bird Singing Outside my Window at 5:30 AM last Saturday--I get it. You're hungry. And I've been out of feed for two days. I know I've made the commitment to keep those feeders full and I'll go to the Drive Thru Feed Store today. But listen to me, you perky crimson moron, it was five-freakin'-thirty. On a Saturday. It was still dark outside, for gosh sakes! Darkness on a Saturday morning means it's officially still night and I am officially still sleeping. Keep it up and I'll take away the black oil sunflower seed you love and fill those feeders with nothing but cracked corn. Sincerely--Mrs. Audobon

***

Dear Tiny Town--If you're going to close the two main roads in town, one leading through town to the east, the other leading out of town to the west--at least post an alternative route. Don't assume that everyone in town knows to go up two blocks, turn at Esther Mae's house, go three blocks to where the old cemetary was and turn left to get back on the highway.
And why are there so many one way streets in a town this size? Everyone in the county could drop in at the same time and there wouldn't be enough people to cause a congestion.
That said, sometimes you are terribly quaint and old-timey. Loved the tractor parade to kick off the Corn Festival. It was worth being trapped in town for an hour.
---A New(ish) Neighbor
***
Dear Person Who Drives 30 MPH for 17 miles each day at 4:30 in the afternoon. On the two lane state highway with a speed limit of 55---I know there are some tight curves on this road. And a few hills and very little shoulder. But, really, 30 MPH? The entire way? In dry weather on sunny days? I know the hulking power under the hood of the Kia may be intimidating but could you at least pull over every now and then to clear up the snaking line of traffic behind you?
Impatiently--The Leader of the Parade of Drivers in Your Rearview Mirror.
***
Dear Commuter Karma---What is it with you that has me stuck behind Super-Cautious-Driver for 17 miles and the only times oncoming traffic allows for passing SCD we are traveling in those tight curve no passing or blind hill zones? Why don't you give me a break and go kick around the civil engineer who planned that road?
--Commuter In Search of the Tao of Driving
***
Dear Civil Engineer--Listen, I keep looking at the rocks, trees, flowers, fences--anything--in the vicinity of those tight back to back curves along my commuter route and I don't see a single thing that indicates they couldn't have been plowed under in favor of a straight roadway. Nada. No burrowing owls, no rare field mice, not a single swamp rose or rare prairie grass. This isn't scenic, you goofball, it's annoyingly slow in good weather and outright dangerous in bad. And I figure all those twists and turns increase my commute distance by a good 8 miles. I've put in an appeal to Commuter Karma to have you punished. Expect to spend your eternity riding in a silver blue Kia at 30 MPH with two old ladies on a road that stretches forever into the horizon.
Helpfully---Driver Who Aims for the Straight Road

Visit Kat for more Dear So and So inspiration

She's Turning 50...

2009-09-15T20:04:00.009-04:00

...it's getting closer. My quest to somehow mark these final days of my forties continues. Well, not so much that I care about marking my forties; more about the fact that I'll be fifty. Soon.

It's been a few days since you've had the benefit of my forty-nine, pushing fifty, year old wisdom. Tonight, I bring you this little nugget:

Sometimes the most charitable thing you can say is "No."

That's a big revelation from the woman who's spent close to 50 years trying to please as many of the people as much of the time as she possibly could. And increasingly resenting the hell out of it.
Father Dan presented the idea one day at Mass. Since I rarely agree with anything Father Dan has to say, the idea stuck with me ~~so I could pick it apart later and prove him wrong~~ and I spent some serious time thinking about it.

Father George clinched the deal a few weeks later with this treasure. "Make your 'yes' mean 'yes' and your 'no' mean 'no.' Then shut up and eat your soup." And there I was with two indicators that it might be ok to say "no" sometimes. More than ok. It might be the more right, the more honest thing to do.

This was a concept I could really get behind.

I'll admit I was an extreme yesser. No connection was far enough flung for me to be able to say "I just can't get that done..." I mean, I always knew I could get it done, I didn't want to get it done. But I could. So therefore, I should. Right?

No. There. I just said it. Say it with me. "No."

Don't want to handsew tiny glass beads on the neighbor's cousin's ex-husband's sister's daughter's prom dress? You can say "no." In fact, it's probably better to say "no" than to mutter under your breath that drawing attention to that butt with thousands of glittering beads is a fashion faux paus.

Don't want to bake 20 dozen cookies for the club bake sale? You can say "no" knowing that your 'no' is much more charitable than your ~~freudian slip of adding salt in place of half the sugar in those freakin' cookies you didn't want to bake in the first place~~ resentful 'yes.'

In honor of my recently found no-ability and my upcoming birthday, I've ordered this shirt for myself. Since I'm still not too confident with my "NOs" I'm thinking of buying the shirts by the case and just handing them in appropriate moments.

"I need you to volunteer to design a 20 x 40 print to illustrate my new business concept and I don't really have any idea what it should be but I like the color red and I need it by tonight....ok, then I can give you until tomorrow morning...and I'll need a logo and some business cards while you're at it..."

"Here's your shirt....."

So, God? Can We Talk?

2009-09-14T19:48:00.011-04:00

Still Me. In case you've accidentally stumbled back on this line. Because I'm pretty certain you took another call in the midst of last week's gender inequity ~~rant~~ inquiry.

Not to worry. I haven't lost my place. We were talking about my new friends The Hormones and the absolute lack of turning-fifty crap which did not befall Mr. L. when he hit that happy milestone. Tonight I'm still dwelling a bit on The Hormones. Trying to decide why they've dropped in now like some never seen before cousin showing up at the beach house and staying for the whole summer.

You know I've been seriously job shopping since late December. Eight months of limited possibilities and even more limited near misses. I spent a lot of that time trying to decide if maybe I've been wrong and you do actively manipulate the day to day details.

As in, maybe you've been trying to tell me that I had a job already. One where the pay was haphazard and the hours long but the benefits were pretty good and the working environment great. Mr. L. was happy and well cared for, the Misses Lorri and the GrandTwoSomes knew where to locate me at almost any given moment which is no small thing when there are crucial stories to be shared. Or babysitting to be done.

Why am I thinking these thoughts, you ask? (Which is, obviously, a rhetorical question since we both know you already know...) Well, having landed, lost and re-captured an interview late last month, I suddenly found myself with a job. Temporary at first but within the second day of work I had a permanent offer.

Here's the thing; that annoying little surgery scheduled for some 3 weeks from now. The one brought on my new BFFs, The Hormones, and their happy sidekicks The Creepily Multiplying Cells.

It's not likely that my job will be held for the 4 to 6 weeks my doctor says I need to be out. Not even the 3 weeks she says I can't drive. Business is business and this is the busy time for the promotions business.

So, what's the deal? Where do I lay the blame for a job given and taken away in nearly the same breath?

Sometimes crap happens?
I forgot to forward some email chain letter to 15 of my best friends?
That damn meatloaf again?
YOU???

Is this your work? A not-so-subtle smack of a reminder that I need to concentrate on doing what I was doing before I sent in that last resume? You know I don't believe you manipulate the details. I really don't. Not that you couldn't. I've just never thought that you do. Seems to conflict with that entire free will thing.

I'm not saying you don't have A Plan. I got to almost 50 without A Plan so, believe me, I understand the need.

But, really, whattheheck IS the plan? And how am I supposed to know if you don't become a bit more obvious? I need more than hints and clues, God. If you could maybe just drop a word document into my 'in' box or leave a printed version on the dining room table. I would offer to shred it after I read it, but, well, you know what went down between me and the shredder.

You could make it out of chocolate, though. It would be consumed. Possibly before it's read. The Hormones would make sure of it.

Yours in Confused Faith---Lorri

Connect with A Mom On Spin for your own heavenly call

The Throbbing Thrill of Fifty...

2009-09-12T21:16:00.003-04:00

One week until fifty.

In a true tribute to the way I've lived the past 49 years and 51 weeks, I didn't get around to the insightful daily tributes to turning 50 that I had planned for this month. At least I had a plan. That's a big improvement over the previous 49 years and 49 weeks.

The full impact of 50 is still creeping up on me. Today I was blindsided with another reminder of ownership of a half-century old body. I was excited that Dan Brown's newest book is being released with a large print version.

Large print? When did that happen? My ninety-seven year old grandmother reads those beach trash novels. The ones where a buxom English peasant girl is being ravished by the wealthy land owner until the true heir to the kingdom--disguised as the owner of the local pub--swoops in to save her virtue. Or at least claim it for himself. They're always full of delicate references to the hero's throbbing manliness and the tingling thrill of the virginal heroine. My granny churns through those things. In small print. The ones where the words look like thousands of tiny little ants crowded onto the page.

I had to give up beach novels ten years ago. Couldn't see to read them. Not even with the bi-focals that landed on my face some five years ago. I used to love to crawl into a warm bed on a winter evening and read a good trashy novel until late at night.

Now I tuck myself in at 9 PM with the large print version of Reader's Digest. It's not just the large type that appeals to me. It's those short articles and stories. Falling asleep by 9:15 makes it tough to get through anything classic. Or hot and trashy.

Dear So and So...

2009-09-11T22:07:00.007-04:00

Dear September 11, Nine Eleven, Nine One One--You are many things to me. The lovely autumn day our family and friends gathered at an outdoor chapel to watch my sister and new brother-in-law exchange their wedding vows. Exactly six years later we gathered in another location as our oldest daughter was married. That same September 11th was the last birthday a dear sister-in-law celebrated with us. Just as you were about to arrive again she lost a battle with cancer, leaving behind a grieving family including her 3 young children. We gathered that September 11th to begin saying goodbye. I thought we had seen the full course for one date. Intense joy and unbelieveable sadness.
And the next year you arrived again. You were a glorious fall morning. Crisp, not cold, not hot. Brilliant blue sky, white clouds. Full of promise. 9/11/01. Our daughter was pregnant with our first grandchild. I remember our son-in-law phoning from Michigan. He was in a meeting with no access to TV. Could I turn on the TV and tell him what had happened? The children in the daycare were playing around the room and the older kids migrated toward the TV once it was on. I had to turn it off. Both for the kids and for myself. We went outside to play. I remember sitting on the swing with a little one on my lap and one on each side as we watched the other children play. I heard the giggles, the little arguments. The pretending and the planning. And I could not stop thinking about the children in New York, Washington, other places, who had lost parents that day. Who had kissed their moms, their dads, goodbye that morning for the last time. Who had no one coming to pick them up from daycare.
You've changed us, September 11th. Again and again. Some of us have become tougher, harder, because of you. Some of us have become more vulnerable, softer around the edges, because of you. You've brought us together and torn us apart.
I'm sorry you are forever aligned with the sadness and tragic moments that have come to be you in our minds. Because today you dawned again. Crisp and bright and full of promise.
Thank you. May we all work to be the fulfillment of that promise.

Thanks to Kat for writing a poignant letter that helped me put my list of petty pickiness into perspective this day.

THE PRINCESS AND THE JOB

2009-09-10T21:58:00.003-04:00

The saga of Princess Working Stiff last saw our heroine as she negotiated the wilds of a Wednesday after work crowd at the grocery story. In a not so princessessly way. Since then, she has:

received an offer to make the temp job a full time permanent gig
negotiated said offer into a permanent part-time, 20 to 24 hours a week gig
agreed to work full time through the month of September to get the department caught up
dropped into an exhausted stupor every night after preparing the evening repast for the prince
realized that, overall, she really--truly--isn't a huge fan of people
rediscovered the pleasures of driving the royal carriage. alone. with her favorite music

Never Trust a Vegetable

2009-09-09T22:01:00.007-04:00

Yeah, it creeped me out too.

Some sort of nasty bell pepper dwelling caterpillar was my first guess when I found it inside the pepper-formerly-destined for Kevin's stir fry.

It's something inanimate growing in the pepper. Probably harmless, maybe a seed that's sprouted. But who knows? Maybe it's some "harmless" growth spurred by a chemically induced misfire in bell pepper DNA. Possibly it's the vegetable equivalent of my over-abundant estrogen fueled cell rampage.

Whatever it is, the last time I saw something that creepy looking growing in what otherwise appeared to be a healthy happy place was two years ago when a doctor showed me photos of the tumor he had just found during Kev's colonoscopy.

And that happy epidsode resulted in major surgery for Kevin followed by almost a year's worth of radiation and chemotherapy.

The Misses Lorri have always blamed my meat loaf for that entire incident. I've suspected all along that it was the vegetables. They look all healthy and good for you but you never know what secrets they're hiding.

This is why I've avoided vegetables as much as possible throughout my adult life. You can't trust 'em.

Barbie and Me, BFF

2009-09-08T21:20:00.032-04:00

I recently learned that my former BFF is also celebrating a significant birthday this year.
Yep, Barbie turned fifty, hit the half century mark.

I haven't purchased many Barbies since before the Misses Lorri reached their pre-teen years.

The massive box of Barbie (and her clothes, shoes, accessories, vehicles and friends) enjoyed an occasional visit during the days of owning the daycare. But Barbie and I have gradually followed different trails in life.

There were some similarities in the early years. We each got married.

And lived a neat and tidy life in the suburbs with our own Prince Charming.

We raised our families.

And, in my case, several other people's families as well.

Somewhere along the line our paths went in different directions. Barbie became a teacher, an astronaut, CEO of her own company; all while maintaining her fashion icon status.

I stayed at home in my garden when I wasn't ~~bailing out~~ supervising the Misses Lorri through ~~potential arrests, expulsions and general mayheim~~youthful indiscretions. Once the Misses Lorri ~~became too old for the legal system to give a rat's ass what I had to say~~ had left the family nest, I began to think about what I might do now that I was grown up even though I didn't do much about doing it. Turns out only Barbie has an entire staff devoted to changing her wardrobe--and, thus, her life--with a few sketches on the art board. The rest of us have to actually DO something. And I found I was immensely qualified for nothing.

Eventually I wondered if this was the only job I might get.

I don't begrudge Barbie her success, her Princess crown or her to-die-for shoe wardrobe. Not even the magic that lets her change her accessories and instantly become a firefighter, a doctor or a top chef.

But that perpetually perky smile is un-natural. Freaky. And nothing's gone south on that body. Doesn't gravity exert any force in her eternally blue-skyed world? I've never seen her mainlining Midol or rushing to the bathroom after a good joke resulted in near social disaster.

We've spent the same 50 years here during which Barbie has become a Cougar while I've become another zoo creature entirely. Something from the Large African Mammals section.

What I'm looking for is a little equity in nature, the passage of time. Fifty years old and I'm supposed to believe she hasn't had a little work done? That she doesn't slink into the bathroom from a darkened bedroom and hope Ken doesn't see her before she gets the bags compressed, the furrows filled, the eyelashes faked and the hair fluffed for daytime viewing?

Happy Birthday, Barbie. I'm sure you'll understand if we don't get together for a drink and dinner. It could take you another 50 years to decide which of your 1,000,000 pairs of shoes to wear and I can't wait. Father Time has not been as generous to me as he has to you. Listen, call me if you ever have a hot flash, bloat up for half the month, realize your bras are older than your office mates or forget where you put the keys to the Malibu Beach wagon only to find them clinched in your fist. We'll talk. That's what best friends do.

So, God? Can We Talk?

2009-09-07T14:25:00.013-04:00

Hey, there, God. It's me. Again.

I know I've probably been bothering you a lot lately--and it may be particularly annoying since You know I don't subscribe to the belief that you manipulate the details. However, I'm attempting to fine tune my faith here; get it right, so to speak, so bear with me. Please.

And, if You are handling the details I want to make certain I'm reading the signs right. Like the whole Job (I'm talking employment here, Lord, not Job in the Bible. Although I am aware of the irony in the comparison.) versus Princess thing. And the cookies. You were never completely clear about the last chocolate cupcake, you know, although I chose to take the discovery of additional cookies as a good omen, if not an outright signal to indulge.

All of that, though, is for another day. Today I'm wondering about gender. Yours in particular. I've always been taught that You are genderless. Which worked well for me since for much of my non-makeup wearing, no hair fo-fooing, sensible, non PMS-ing life I've leaned a bit away from the typical gender things myself. What I mean to say, is that I've never needed to see You as sitting on one side or the other.

But lately I've been presented with some evidence that leads me to believe You are firmly male. And possibly biased creation favorably in that direction.

The worst thing visited upon Mr. L when he turned 50 was the AARP card which arrived in the mail. His body wasn't preprogrammed to turn on him after half a century of mainly peaceful co-existence. (We won't include that nasty butt occupying cancer that showed up two years ago. He was well past 50 by then and ~~Shakespeare's Witches~~ the Misses Lorri have always attributed that whole thing to my meatloaf anyway.)

What I'm talking about here, God, are my new life companions The Hormones. As in the ones who have recently awakened in the dark shadow of a fiftieth birthday this month. The ones that make me spit fire and speak in tongues (not in a Godly way either) in almost the same minute that I've teared up during a rerun of Married With Children.

As the Great Creator I think you have a little liability here for those bitches. And their evil intentions. At the very least I expect a free pass in the confessional for certain hormone driven transgressions. An absolute lack of tolerance for *&^$## idiots people. Moods that can go, within about 20 seconds, from Perfectly Content to Wants to Dismantle a Cute Furry Woodland Creature. With no obvious provocation.

I'm hoping you'll cut me a little slack on those or at least understand when I reach around the confessional screen and girl slap Father a few times when he assigns a stupid penance like trying to see the good in everyone or being more patient in the grocery store line.

Yours in Faith---Lorri

So, God? Can we talk?

Architecturally Unsound

2009-09-06T21:56:00.004-04:00

Having agreed to the hysterectomy my doctor has been lobbying for this past year, I was annoyed beyond belief to learn that step one was yet another exam. This time to determine just what type of hysterectomy is called for.

"What do you mean you need to have another look to decide what kind of surgery is best? You've been there, what, 14 times in the last twelve months and you've never once thought, 'You know, if I was remodeling this place, I would....'? Really?? When I get invited to lunch at a new place I'm looking at the house as I pull up front and thinking 'What this place needs is a porch. I would knock out that...' While I'm sipping my lemonade I'm comtemplating how I would get more light in the room by enlarging the window and adding some supporting columns. And I'm not an architect. You ARE a surgeon. And you've never once in fourteen visits put mental pen to paper to plan this particular remodel?"

"Hey. I was busy trying to keep the place from falling down completely until you decided to let me take a serious shot at salvage. Think construction project instead of remodel."

Dear So and So---

2009-09-04T07:34:00.010-04:00

Dear Person Who Decides What's On Sale--I know you follow me through the store--any store--to see what I have purchased this week just so you can put it on sale next week at deep, deep discount. And add that little **no price adjustments** disclaimer. It's so obvious. ---Observant Consumer
***
Dear Practically One of My Kids Mother of Miss Haylee--Sugar Free mints? Sugar free? Whose idea was this? Were you trying to kill me? I think I've explained there really are no substitutes for sugar or caffeine. Did you think I wouldn't notice? Yes, I know the bag is empty. We live in desperate times. ---Love, Ms. Lorri
PS When you give an enormous bag of M & Ms along with a bag of mints, Kevin can sometimes be confused and think the M & Ms are for him. In the future please make it crystal clear that the M & Ms are mine too. There appears to have been some confusion on this point and a hairy hand buried deep in the M&Ms may have been slapped.
PPSS or however that works....thank you and your lovely family for always thinking of ways to make us smile.
***
Dear Client--Your invective filled email concerning the artwork for your parent's 60th anniversary gift has been appropriately filed. My suggestion that you forward a picture of someone else's parents--since you are so obviously unhappy with the appearance of your own--was sincere. I am an artist, not a magician. ---Sincerely, Princess Working Stiff
***
Dear Prince Charming--I am not well suited for anything other than self-employment. I'm sure you knew this when I insisted it was time for me to have a grown-up job. If it helps at all, I'll put it in writing. You were right. I don't play well with others. Now dust off that white horse and rescue me from myself or resign yourself to mediocrity in the kitchen. And possibly the entire house. Don't make me explain. ---Love, The ~~Girl~~ Dead Tired Middle Aged Woman Standing Beside the Quickly Rotting Pumpkin Holding One Glass Slipper, a bag of cheetoes and a Wacom.

She's Turning 50...

2009-09-03T22:20:00.008-04:00

...this month. Ten decades. Half a century.
I was going to post something about turning 50 each day this month. Something fitting, appropriate, for a woman ~~firmly clinging to her forties~~ turning fifty.
And then life intervened in that dark comic way it does, I found myself with a job and "HolyCrapI'mTurningFifty" took a backseat.
It's amazing how much less time there is for ruminating on the big moments in life when you're working through the minutes in each day.
In any case, I need to mark these final days in my forties. I considered running amok and blaming a mid-life crisis. I've noticed a person can get away with a lot of general dumbass-edness by invoking the midlife crisis clause.
But the truth is, I don't have the freakin' energy to run amok. Not enough to even jog amok.
I got a job, coincidentally--or not so coincidentally if you happen to be my friend Father John, who often reminds me "there are no coincidences in God's plan"--on the first day of my month of turning 50. The first job I've ever had where I'm not the owner of the business. Not even ~~the~~ a boss. Father John may be on to something. It's possible God thinks I need to learn that I'm not the boss. (I wish He was a little more clear on this one--I see a lot of situations that could use a good boss...)
So here I am with a significant birthday looming and a still-has-the-new-smell-on-it job and I'm still wondering 'what will I do when I grow up?' I haven't exactly had a firm goal in life. Even now I have trouble nailing the "what" part of what I would do with my life if I had a do-over granted.
Which isn't likely.
All of which leads to my almost fifty year old wisdom for today:
There won't be enough time to do all the things you think you would a) like to do. b) be good at doing. c) ought to do. So choose wisely.

Grocery Store Karma

2009-09-02T17:38:00.007-04:00

In 8 months of getting a job being my job, I had forgotten that things like grocery shopping have to be done even though I am tired at the end of the work day. I pushed the August 31 expiration date on Sweeney's milk as far as I could this morning.

I also forgot that many other princesses are facing the same reality, making the grocery store something of a battlefield at 5:30 on a Wednesday evening.

It started in the parking lot when some fit young chick, with healthy knees, whipped her convertible into the parking place I had clearly marked as my own. Knowing full well that I'm not sure yet who is who from where in the new workplace, I refrained from flying the aged old gesture of contempt lest fit chick turn out to be the customer service rep in cubicle number one.

Then I had to stalk an old lady in the parking lot and offer to help with her bags in order to secure a cart.

Finally in the store, ready to shop, list in clenched fist, I hit the aisles with the efficiency of a drill sargeant. And the appetite of a starved recruit.

Note to self.....$167.20, that's why those who know tell us not to grocery shop when hungry.

The other princesses were shopping on the same budget plan--empty shelves greeted me when I went looking for the 10/$10 zippered baggies for my princess lunches. And the B1G1 smoked sausages were a waste without the 10/$10 buns. The place looked like a hoard of locusts had buzzed through in advance of a blizzard warning.

I managed to fill the cart anyway--Cheetos and string cheese are a perfectly acceptable lunch--and staggered toward the mile long check out lanes. Seven lanes open, six are on hiatus while Bagger Boy runs price checks. I contemplate my strategy. Go for the one moving lane or play the long shot that the short non-moving lane will kick into high gear as soon as Bagger Boy nabs a 128 ounce apple juice. As I mentally run the percentages I see fit chick cut off two old ladies and a pregnant mom in the 20 items and under lane. Still muzzled by her vague familiarity to CSR #1, I feel vindicated when I'm tapped on the shoulder by a cashier and told to move over to where she's opening a new lane.

YES! In a move more of vengeance than nice, I bring one of the old ladies and very preggy mom with me to the newly opened lane.

There's a pleasant glow of karma kicking ass as we walk past pushy fit chick impatiently smoothing cash which the under 20 items mechanical cashier repeatedly rejects.

The Princess Diaries continued...

2009-09-01T21:54:00.004-04:00

Our princess was last seen joining the drone force as she headed off to punch a time clock, literally....for the first time in her life. Really, folks, a time clock. The princess is dismayed and wonders what happened to the concept of honesty. Really. A time clock!!

Coming home the first evening to no dinner was a total surprise. Princess Working Stiff was certain she had signed up for the meal plan. After all, hadn't Prince Charming nearly always returned to a full meal deal at the castle lo these many years?

As our princess peels potatoes, dices peppers and sautes onion, feeling a bit like Cinderella scrubbing the fireplace hearth while the stepsisters eat cake, she catches a whiff of something else in the air. Wait. Oh yeah, she recognizes that smell.

Enjoli.

I can bring home the bacon.
Fry it up in a pan.
blah blah blah

The princess wonders where she left her sequined gown and feathered boa.

Once Upon a Time, in a fractured reality, a princess answered an employment ad....

2009-08-31T22:15:00.007-04:00

First she had an interview. Then the position was put on hold, interview off. After a couple of days to adjust to the disappointment, the job reopened as a temporary spot. Two days later the princess was asked to come out to see the place and talk.

...And suddenly the end of the day was here and the princess realized she had a job. A REAL job, albeit temporary, working for a company, punching a time clock and paying taxes to The Man.

The Princess wasn't entirely sure what what she thought about this new job thing but she thought it could be very interesting and a good change of pace. And it's good to change the pace every ~~decade or so~~ now and then, right?

So tomorrow morning the princess will hang her crown near the door as she carries her lunch, her Wacom and her newly signed time card off to The Art Department of Family Owned Company. The on, off, on nature of getting there has left the princess a little leery about the benefit of this opportunity but, always game for an adventure, she's planning to play on the team.

Princess Working Stiff heads to bed early and sighs thinking that life was easier when all a girl had to do was kiss the right frog and she could be set for life.

Dear So and So---

2009-08-28T09:21:00.008-04:00

Dear Whoever Wrote the Copy for the Employment Ad: "Immediate" is not spelled "i-m-m-i-d-i-e-n-t." I thought it was a funny mistake the first day it hit the paper in those BIG letters with the bolded font. For a job in graphics design. After seeing it run for 5 days I realize not only are spelling skills lacking, computer aided spell check is apparently on the fritz.
***
Dear Potential Employer: Not only will I be an asset to your layout and design department, I can spell "immediate" and many other big words. And I AM available for immediate work.
***
Dear Shredder Manufacturer--In my humble opinion, you may have misrepresented the ease with which your product is emptied. I questioned the design in my mind but your ad copy promising the amazing identity theft proof capabilities of your cutting pattern was enough to sway my doubts. On review, I have decided that no one wants to assume the identity of an almost 50 year old, unemployed woman with a rebellious estrogen overload anyway. I am returning your product. By the way, my AARP card which arrived in the mail this week is jammed sideways in the mechanism along with my birth certificate and a bottle of Midol which my arthritic hands could not open.
***
Dear Grocery Store Coupon Generator. What was in my cart that prompted you to spit out two coupons for future purchase of laxatives? Was it those crappy fiber bars that Sweeney eats? The raisin bran? The probioticfiberenhancedantioxidantbalanced yogurt drinks? You never spew forth with multiple coupons for Hershey or Mars products. Did you think I hadn't noticed??

Blog Posts Past

2009-08-26T22:11:00.010-04:00

I must be sinking into hormonal morbidity. I tear up over everything. Today it was watching the fawns by the woods. Thinking that I had seen this little family come full circle since I moved here. Their moms are the fawns I watched grow through last summer.

Not content to beat myself up with the present, my trip down memory lane took me trolling through August blog posts past.

8/2007. Kevin is newly diagnosed with cancer. The blog becomes an easy way for family and friends to stay informed of his progress. And it gives me a place to rant and rave and be thankful all at once. And probably keeps me from squeezing the life out of a few Dead Doggers.

8/2008. Kevin is immediately post-chemotherapy. We ride our bikes again. He can sit down in the evening and stay awake for 30 minutes instead of 3. Ice cream returns to his menu while he figures out how to live with what we'll find out are permanent side effects. I'm measuring how to put a life back together post-cancer caregiver.

~~Long, drawn out days to 8/2009~~ Fast forward to 8/2009. We've settled into what Kevin calls "our new normal." He's still working through the change of side effects. He appreciates little things he was so surprised cancer disrupted. Being able to have ice in his drink. Smells that smell right. Taking a weekend nap instead of a daily nap. I've realized you can't reassemble the same life post-cancer because some of the pieces got misplaced in the process and some of them don't fit anymore. So you put together a new puzzle. Bring some of the good from those innocent, pre-cancer,days. And some of the bad too, just so you don't ever get complacent again. Wiggle around the new pieces, flex the old ones until you find the fit. Figure out what I want to do now that I'm all grown up....

My Karma got Hit by a Truck...

2009-08-25T20:03:00.013-04:00

eff Karma, Fate, Nature, People, the Economy, Inter-Planetary Alignment. Whatever it is that makes things turn out the way things turn out. And toys with me in the process.

It has to be some sort of karmic kick in the rear that I score a job interview for a graphics design/layout artist position and then lose the interview in almost the same breath.

I sent in a resume on Saturday. Yesterday I was offered an interview. For a job with "digital photography experience a plus." In a company which got rave reviews in my research. A job I can so do and do so well. A job that's not 60 miles away and that needs filled immediately.

Disappointment not being in short supply, today while I'm ~~pondering the possibility that I may have oversold myelf on my resume~~ letting the fates mess with my confidence, the phone rings. Interview canceled. Position put on hold.

Another job lost to the economy before I even have a chance to lose it on my own lack of merit. I would at least have liked the opportunity to show them how much talent, loyalty, creativity, energy, skill and general office bonhomie they couldn't afford. (and let them know how cheaply it can actually be had...)

Monday Musing...

2009-08-24T12:38:00.000-04:00

***I've realized I can be creative or I can be neat and tidy. The two events will not occur simultaneously. A cataclysmic clash of worlds (and resulting tsunami wave of mess) occurs when I feel creative in multiple directions.

***The fabric/patterns/sewing stuff obliterating the dining table and the pile of tutorials/notes/doodles in front of my monitor are witness to the reality noted above.

***I would seriously consider donating a body part to the creator of the Wacom. Just to let him/her know how essential their product is in my day.

***There is something immensely satisfying about taking a yard of cloth or an empty frame on the computer and transforming it into something unique, amazing, beautiful.

***Sometimes you do hit a home run. As in scoring a most excellent job interview for a most excellent position as a graphics artist with some digital photography work thrown in for good measure. Yeah, that would be me. Now to round the bases without tripping....

Wise Eyes

2009-08-22T21:29:00.004-04:00

Second Grade.

You know your grandson is still a wonderfully young boy when his second grade teacher is a former Indianapolis Colts cheerleader and you realize he would be much more impressed if she was a former Indianapolis Colts player!

Dear Joshua, I love how you see the world at seven years old. There is so much wisdom in the depths of those baby blues! And sometimes a not small dash of quirky innocence too. Don't let go of the innocent part too quick, kid.

Love--G-ma

ps--I can make a good guess that there will be a lot more daddies helping out in your classroom this year than in previous years. Isn't it nice that the dads want to take a turn as room parent and general all around helpers instead of always leaving those jobs for the moms?

Dear So and So---

2009-08-21T15:15:00.006-04:00

Dear Sadistic SOB Who Designed the Roll Out Shelf on My Computer Desk--Yes, I know I considered it quite the selling point when I bought your product. However, after multiple occasions of forgetting to move my drink BEFORE sliding the shelf in, I have decided that either you secretly own the carpet cleaning company or I am simply too stupid to safely operate such elaborate mechanisms.

***

Dear Body--It's true, I've largely ignored the owner's manual. I keep you clean; I don't bother with polish though and I've never once had you detailed. I feed you low grade fuel from the soft drink and chip aisle and the only thing premium in your diet is that I don't buy off brand soda. I've skipped most of the routine maintenance milestones, avoided regular tune-ups and generally ignored any system warning lights. Still, I am dismayed by the mutiny in progress. Do forty-nine years mean absolutely nothing to you? Where's the loyalty? Let's get back on track here; don't make me sacrifice a few inner parts just to prove to you that I mean business.

***

Dear Backyard--Thank you for keeping me company this last week. I appreciate your quiet support more than you know. You are a peaceful place rather than a lonely place and I thank you for that peace.

***

Dear Husband--while I know you are exhausted from a long week of 20 hour work days while you've been traveling...and it's very endearing when you tell me you're counting the minutes until you are home with me, please be aware that I have been alone for some 7223 minutes of the 7260 you have been gone. This accounts for 2 minutes interaction with the grocery store cashier, 5 minutes with the 77 year old lady from two doors down and 30 minutes spent negotiating control of my uterus with my gynecologist. It's ugly here. Come home bearing gifts.

Garden Goddess

2009-08-20T22:28:00.006-04:00

Main Entry: gardener
Pronunciation: \ ˈgär-də-niŋ r, ˈgärd-niŋ r \
1 one who makes into a garden
2 to ornament with gardens

It's official. I have regained my status as a gardener.

Ladies and Gentlemen, I introduce The Tomato. Lovely, you say? Yes, it is. And there have been 23, count 'em, 23 before this one. From a little 2 x 2 plot in our downsized reality.

I'm not just a gardener. I'm a niche gardening goddess.

Can't Buy Me Love...

2009-08-19T23:11:00.009-04:00

...but $4.99 can buy me enough baked chicken for three meals and a cashier who calls me "Honey." I knew I had been home alone too long when I wanted to go back in the store for something, anything...just so I could hear an in-the-flesh person call me "Honey" again.

I considered slipping her a five spot and asking her to say my name out loud.

Kevin is out of town for another week of leadership training. Being on my own 24/7, no job to go to, in a town where I know almost no one, is making me crazy. I've gone through enjoying the silence to talking to myself to talking to the plants. To hearing them talk back.

(And don't remind me of those chaotic years of children living at home, & daycare kids all day when I used to wish for some extended time alone...As my mind rolls the tape of my mother saying... Be careful what you wish for....Be careful what you wish for...you might get it.)

Tanning Solutions

2009-08-18T22:21:00.006-04:00

I have a polite middle aged woman's version of the classic farmer's tan. The mid-life woman's version stops just below her knees where her discrete capri pants cut off the sun and starts again on her upper arms just below where the hemmed edge of her cap sleeved t-shirts rest. In between, from shoulder to knee, is a blackout area that hasn't seen sunlight in 15 years.

I was noticing this while waiting in my doctor's office today. She was called away to deliver a baby. Again. What's with babies waiting to make their grand appearance on my time? It must be some sort of gyno rhythm; I cover up with a sheet the size of a hand towel and somewhere nearby a laboring woman is suddenly at ten and ready to push.

It's getting to be common place. Me sitting in a less than private place with some very private places more exposed than I'd like for longer than I want while my doctor delivers a baby. I don't really mind waiting while babies get born; I mind waiting near naked while babies get born. It's a timing issue. Maybe we need to separate the specialty after a certain age. Those of us with no reproductive plans could opt for a GYN who doesn't have the OB attachment.

At the very least, since the blackout zone is on display, they could put in some tanning lights so I could even up my polite middle aged woman's tan.

Monday Musing

2009-08-17T18:43:00.011-04:00

***My Response: Lovely. Here's a look at my office today.
...Mr. L.'s intial email: Take a look at our classroom. (panoramic video of typical gray classroom with no windows, multiple tables, overhead flourescent lighting)

***if the cat insists on staying around here, the least he can do is eat the bird in the woods. The one with the song that triggers the baying response from the dogs across the creek. Or he can skip the bird and just take out the dogs.

***if dark clouds really intend to throw down rain, they should give a girl more than a two minute warning. Some thunder or something. So she can pack up her office with a little care.

***in an absolute pinch a girl can balance a laptop, two cameras, one external hardrive, a cell phone, a cordless phone, a Wacom and her notebook while opening the backdoor and blocking the entrance of the cat who doesn't live here. A girl can be pretty certain the power supply to the computer will dry out with time.

***although logic demands that the Pepcid AC, consumed to quell the painful gut gnawing caused by having Pepsi for supper, should not be rinsed down with more Pepsi, sometimes life thumbs its nose at logic.

Dear So and So...

2009-08-14T09:43:00.025-04:00

Dear Person Who So Miserably Failed to Understand the Concept of Leadership--"Sam, there are three people on this staff that I always stuck up for--Steve, Sue and Sally" was really no way to say goodbye to the fourth member of the staff . Bad mouthing TPTB, those who hold your paycheck--and now your severance--in the pages of their account books, is also bad karma. By the way, the moment you demand respect--and fail to exhibit it toward others, above and below your position--you have disqualified yourself from deserving it. You might find some insight in this that reveals why you were let go yesterday. And, just so you know, Gumby is not saying you are #1 as he waves goodbye. Not at all, at all.

*****

Dear Sam--Did you wake up this morning with a job to go to? And who didn't? I think that about covers it. But if you want to send your Gumby to my house, I'll fix him up with a special wave too.

*****

Dear Catless Person--I don't really care if it was the economy or a hard heart that caused you to throw her away in the woods out back. She's hungry and lost and looking in my window for her family. You suck.
*****
Dear Husband--Storing the hideous apple streusel fiber bars in the box labeled "Oats and Chocolate" fiber bars is just mean. Isn't it punishment enough that there are fiber bars in my pantry instead of Hershey bars? I should have listened when my nose tried to warn me as I opened it. Instead I had to spit saliva sticky apple streusel fiber bar into my hand. And rinse my mouth out with alcohol. I suggest you check your shoes.

Step One--Admit You I Have a Problem

2009-08-12T10:44:00.012-04:00

I need a Twelve-step program. In fact, I think that's one of the steps.

The only program I'm ~~admitting to~~ vaguely wondering about is one for out of control mint consumers. LifeSavers Wint-O-Green mints to be precise. And you have to be precise because the others just won't cut it. Do you understand that? Don't hand me some cheap imitation or a nasty peppermint or crappy tictac. LifeSavers Wint-O-Green.

I've known I have a problem. After 15 or so, my tongue feels funny and my gut hurts, a burning pain that requires Pepcid AC to relieve.

Kevin keeps them stashed in his brief case and underwear drawer for those truly ugly moments. This time I instructed him not to enable me. No replenishing the hidden mother lode once I discovered and mined it. No emergency stash. Tough love.

I ran out in all the obvious places early last week. And the less obvious by that Tuesday morning. Perfect timing. I was on a nothing to eat order for 18 hours before surgery Wednesday and I would use that time to get through the first No Mints Hours. Made it to Thursday night before I started searching the house. By Sunday I had eliminated the stash in the console of our truck, searched the sock drawer and the toes of each sock in case my dear husband was getting wiley or actually thought I meant what I said about cutting off my supply.

This morning I found myself jonesing for mints in the seedy underside of the passenger seat of the Rendevous. I scored three, wrapped and pristine. I'll admit I would have eaten them if they were unwrapped and sticky with carpet fuzz.

If I wasn't kicking the habit I would be interested in the online site I found, totally by accident, today. http://us.myflavia.com/product/index.jsp?productId=3457750 Notice the box you can tick for auto delivery. No more slinking into CVS for a bag and stopping into the WalGreen's down the road for another. Not that I'm interested. Not at all.

Monday Muse...

2009-08-10T11:00:00.011-04:00

***how does a toilet just magically break? Sprout a hole in the lower corner of the front of the tank? And how does a tenant manage to make that phone call to the landlord (or me, as the case may be) with any comfort level? "...just sat down and it broke..." I'm not saying it's not true, I'm saying it's uncomfortably weird. I've put it at the top of the list of phone calls I wouldn't want to make to my landlord.

***if I throw out the cooked bacon when I'm cleaning the refrigerator and then I regret it because I could go ahead and use it in the green beans I've decided to cook for dinner, is it bad form to retrieve it? If it landed in the grass out back, not in the dirt where the deer raid the feeder, and the crows haven't gotten to it yet and it's way too late in the morning for the raccoons to have given it a taste test? I mean, I boil the heck out of the pot of beans anyway....

***this email today, filed under the heading of Why does Mr. L. even bother trying to keep me in the real world loop...

My Response: Nothing on my end. I mean the usual everyday stuff like world peace negotiations, meeting with the UsedToBeBig Three in Detroit to pound out a plan where they learn to play nice with our money, teleconference in with world economic leaders to determine why, why, why M & Ms were $2.94 a pound yesterday at Menards. Other than that I'm clear. Oh, and do laundry. It's been awhile and I noticed you are wearing your swim trunks as underwear.

Mr. L's initial email:
Saturn goes in by 11am Tuesday to Monro
MIO Wed for a short meeting on Visual
Bob says change brakes at his shop is fine anytime.
What else is happening this week?

***if I ride my bike the half mile up to the local drive-thru liquor store (now there's a marketing plan that just begged for government intervention), can I buy one can of beer? To go? Should I bring my own plain brown paper bag like the cloth bags I take to Kroger or will one be provided? And will it be like stopping into the winery down the road for a bottle of wine--where they expect I might actually know something about wine? (I don't.) Will JR (and I can pretty much assure you his name tag will be spelled "JR," pronounced "Junior" And it will be his legal name and spelling.) at the drive-thru ask me what I want to serve with the beer? And will he even blink when I tell him I want to poke holes in it with a nail and stuff it up the rump of a chicken on the grill? I'm betting not.

GeekSpeak

2009-08-09T21:30:00.000-04:00

Nickel-Metal Hydride.
My husband can actually use those words together in a sentence. I'm not sure what impresses me more--that he can formulate and explain a sentence around those words--and knows whattheheck he just said--or the fact that he can do all that and, still, he picked me.
Sometimes it's a bit much for me though. I just wanted to know if he could swap the fades-a-little-quicker-every-day cordless phone for the one already on the charger in his office. When I moved here we had three of those chargers; one for each phone in 3 different rooms, novel idea that that may be. Now there is one and it lives, or dies, in the Guest/Office/Exercise/AirDryingLaundryTooDelicateForTheDryer Room.
Anyway, I'm getting sidetracked here and your eyes are glazing over like mine do when Mr. L. talks about things like Nickel-Metal Hydride batteries. Especially when all I usually want to know is 'can you make it work and does it come in any other colors?'

This Is My Brain...

2009-08-08T12:24:00.008-04:00

...and this is how it feels for a few days after the hospital.

And why I object so loudly to the whole repeated production of D & C w/hysteroscopy. Everything pertinent to the actual surgery/biopsy routine is feeling pretty good. I'm not interested in any mountain biking but overall I'm good to go. It's the general anesthesia induced cobwebs in the brain that bug me for days.

We gotta stop doing these or I gotta find a doctor who's sympatico with my bite on a strap it'll be over in a few minutes approach.

Good Morning, Mammogram!

2009-08-07T22:02:00.021-04:00

My breasts and I headed to the hospital at 7:20 this morning. (Via car, no biking today. The scarecrow guy is still riding by a couple of times a day looking for corn after last week's caper. And Kevin says I can't have a pet.) Why did I schedule this thing for this early? This week?

If you haven't had a mammogram, discard all the pain filled stories you've heard. And certainly schedule one if you're in my age range. (You know, that certain age.) The mammogram itself isn't bad. (Thanks, honey, for doing your part in getting these things used to being handled.) It's the lead up and wait that gets to me. The perky technician--who won't be old enough for her own mammogram for another 18 years--tells me to take off everything from the waist up and put on a "gown" that opens in the front. Dusty rose. It's not even a gown, more of a cape; shorter than the ones you get at a good hair salon and with one flimsy ribbon to tie. Center front.

Someone obviously needs to rethink what and where we're trying to cover here.

Miss Pre-Mammogram collects me and goes over a few questions and instructions. Ol' Dusty Rose is kind of cool here; I mean, once the breast feeding years are over how many times in life does a civilized woman get to rakishly toss her cape off one shoulder and reveal a bare breast? (note to my daughters...I do not want a detailed list of venues and dates where you may have executed this very move...)

We go through the contortions of breast placement on shelves which surely have been stored in the freezer, the infamous compression, "hold your breath," snap a picture and release. Reposition in another come hither pose. "Right arm here, down more, push in closer, stretch up on your toes..." More awkward than agony. Miss P-M--who is a very competent technician even though my favorite bra is older than she is--leads me back to the waiting room and instructs me to wait, in my dusty rose glory, while they take a look at the films.

This is where the territory gets rough. Like the bathroom line in McDonald's, women like to make small talk in these places. I apparently missed that female trait and prefer to wait in silent invisibility. No such luck today, my stealth mode isn't working. An identically dusty rose caped woman smiles. I am going to have to be pleasant, possibly friendly. Crap. I nod and try to decide if she's new to the arena or in the midst of waiting for her own clear to go signal. And I try not to make eye contact, the implicit symbol of accessibility. Doesn't matter, she mentions the weather. I smile. She asks a question. Great. Now I have to respond. Another encounter. So we chat. In our common half dressed mammogram splendor. She gets the all clear and continues to chat me up while she's in the changing room. Ack! This is too similar to the through-the-stall-door bathroom chatter that I'm so lousy at. If she flings open anything to show me the incredible storage capabilities, I am going to hurl.

Miss Pre-Mammogram comes back in. I can't catch a gynelogical break these days. They want "more films." Apparently the left side isn't as naturally photogenic as the right side. And Talky Talkerton has finished changing and continued chatting. A reality that continues as she walks with me across the hall to the ~~refrigerated meat locker~~ radiology room on her way out. Her "Good Luck" as I head back toward the atom smasher makes me pause. Good luck? Do I need good luck?

Two more shots of the reluctant leftie and I'm good to go. Presumably for another year but now there's that whole "good luck' question floating in the air. I am encountered out for this week. Where's freakin' George Clooney when a girl needs him?

SlamIt! BamIt! Man-0-Gram It!

2009-08-06T22:59:00.015-04:00

I remembered late today that I scheduled a mammogram for tomorrow morning. Early tomorrow morning. The mammogram itself doesn't worry me. The stories of pain and torture are exaggerated and my modesty scale has already been tipped for this week.

The encounter part of it concerns me. My encounter--as in talk-to-me, touch-me-again-and-I'll-eat-you--intolerance is at warp level. I don't know what I was thinking when I let all this get scheduled in the same ~~week~~ year.

The whole mammogram thing is another one of those gender inequities that puzzle me. If men had to take off everything below the waist, wrap up in a wash cloth that opens in the front and sit with a bunch of similarly garbed men while waiting to have a man-o-gram, this would all be different. Imagine a guy having to belly up to a refrigerator chilled plate where a male technician is waiting to help him lay out his goods so another refrigerator chilled plate can smash them to pancake thinness. And then, because that first go wasn't fun enough, he assists the tech in rearranging his recently smashed package for a shot from another angle. Assuming there are any men left standing, the tech asks him to wait while the films are checked. In case they need to repeat the process.

An idea like this wouldn't even get out of the brainstorming session if men were handling, squishing and filming man parts. We need more women in the medical device design business. When we perfect the Man-O-Gram as a testicular screening event, we women will get a pinpoint accurate breast screening tool that involves turning sideways and coughing discretely while a hunky male doctor (and it'll be good enough if he just plays a doctor on TV) holds a warm, soft finger gently under each boob. Breast cancer will always be caught early, and eventually eradicated, because we'll all be standing in line to have George Clooney do our breast exams.

On a Scale of 1 to 10, 1000

2009-08-05T15:06:00.005-04:00

Some buttinski baby decided it just had to be born today. Which considerably delayed my party. Which contributed greatly to Mr. L.'s Waiting Anxiety and my Overall Bitchiness Range.

I passed the time by planning how I was going to Photoshop the cute little smiley faced pain chart once I got out of there.

Two hours after the weigh in, pee in a cup, kiss my clothes goodbye, get an IV started, answer the same 20 questions for the twentieth time, sit on a bed behind a curtain that really doesn't conceal or deflect anything rigmorale began, I was getting edgy. Listen, my uterus was here long before the chick's across the hall and she's already done, outta here and eating lunch at Burger King.

And somehow I had morphed into a plural being (which may explain the outrageous co-pay; I am being billed as two.) A cheerful nurse checks in with "Things are running a little late because doctor had to deliver a baby. How are we doing in here?"

"Well, you're doing fine because you have all your clothes on, I just heard you ordering your lunch and you're getting paid to be here. I, however, am naked beneath a flimsy open backed gown whose little ties are all torn off, I haven't had lunch. Or breakfast. Or supper last night. And I had to pay for the effing pleasure. We? Really? WE???"

D-day

2009-08-05T04:03:00.009-04:00

**disclaimer: If you can't say or read the word uterus, go away. Really. Just effin go away. You've obviously never had a uterus of your own. Or never had a willful one that took control of every day of the month for months on end.**

We've been at this for a year now. I own more photos of the inside of my uterus than of my face. After monthly raids for ultrasounds, biopsy and surgical assaults, my uterus cowers everytime I get undressed.

Dead Women Pay No Bills

2009-08-04T19:34:00.005-04:00

I didn't mind this morning when Cheerful Lady called from the hospital to bump my scheduled time for an upcoming D & C. The doctor has an earlier opening. I'm all over that idea. The sooner she's in, the sooner I'm out.

Call Number Two from the hospital today was to recap what I had already answered 11 days earlier in the registration call. And 3 days later during the lab visit. "Listen, ma'am, I've answered these same questions three times for the hospital. I hope you have a pen and write down my answers this time. I make this stuff up as I go and it's darn hard to be consistent."

Call Number Three was the clencher. A review of the same questions and same answers then "...I would like to collect your co-insurance now." Say what? You have to be kidding. I have to pre-pay for a hospital visit? And why? They don't want to risk being unable to collect after the fact. Seems the local bad economy has bitten me in the uterus.

If I thought the implication was simply that I'm a deadbeat who can't or won't pay I wouldn't mind so much. I'm more concerned that this is a confidence problem on their part--they know they can't collect from dead people.

2 Years, 15 Hours, 56 Minutes

2009-08-03T23:41:00.011-04:00

Two years. Two years, fifteen hours and fifty-six minutes since a doctor I had never met before and have never met since told me Kevin had rectal cancer. I remember thinking, even as he was telling me about lesions and tumors and cancer and surgery, that he was doing such a good job of giving me such shitty, pardon the pun, news. And the nursing staff was fantastic. The gastroenterology suite at Home Hospital has become my benchmark place for where you want to be, who you want to deliver, stunning, life altering news.

Anyway, in honor of Kev's second cancer-versary (Not that he likes to celebrate or even recollect the date. He was blissfully under the influence of anesthetics through the worst of the day and has taken that approach as often as possible since. But the minutes, seconds of the day are permanently etched in my mind.), to mark the momentous two year occasion of being stunned, muddling through it and leaving it behind (damn those puns), I found this little gem on YouTube. A lovely tribute to the doctors he had in the beginning who set the stage for how we would get through it.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_N0w2rORwSc

Head-iquette

2009-07-31T22:23:00.006-04:00

I decided to have a man weigh in on the bathroom exchange. Today's question: You're standing in line with 5 men in a bathroom. Do you talk with each other? Make eye contact? Open your wallets and rave about the mutiple compartments?

Kevin tells me that male bathroom ettiquette decries making eye contact. With anything. And small talk is limited to the observation that the place could stand to have more bathroom space.

They also don't chat at the sink, comb their hair, refresh their makeup, brush their teeth with their finger or contort around in the full length mirror to see if their butt looks big in those jeans.

Bathroom Talk

2009-07-31T12:50:00.005-04:00

I was stranded in line in the women's bathroom at an interstate McDonald's. Sandwiched in between a lady with a Vera Bradley bag the size of a compact car and a lady with a Coach tote that could comfortably carry a soccer team.

Coach leans past me and gushes over VB. VB unzips to show her many pockets, pouches and matching zippered wallets. Not to be outdone, Coach slides a hand over her smooth leather then deftly unzips to reveal her expandable girth.

If this isn't maddening enough a bodiless voice chimes in from a stall then sticks out a patchwork Coach hobo with pockets inside and out. Stall Number Two springs to life and a green Kate Spade combo of shoes and bag appear above and below the door along with a verbal discourse on the wonderful pockets to be found inside. There is a chorus of admiration from the hair-combing, hand lotioning, lip coloring group clustered at the sink. (OK, I'll own it; the shoes were outrageously cute and I wanted to ask where and how much...)

My mother used to warn me about bathroom talk. To be honest, I think she meant my sailor-esque language but I'm not taking any chances here. I try to stay in stealth mode.

I stick out like the proverbial sore thumb--I'm not packing a purse and I'm the only one who hasn't made a contribution to this edifying exchange. VB and Coach look expectantly my way. I wish for a Dooney & Bourke clutch or something stunningly purple from Cole Haan. Mother's warnings be damned, I rise to the occasion, dig my hands into the pockets of my jeans and pull the linings inside out.

"Wrangler. Five pockets. Two topstitched in the back, a nifty little coin pocket that's unusable but cute as hell and two deep front ones that'll hold 5 maxipads, 7 tampons and a large Hershey bar."

The sighs of envy are audible.

Oh the Places You'll Go...

2009-07-30T22:57:00.004-04:00

Kevin's been away all week for business. My first week of staying alone since I moved here. Used to love the alone evenings when he traveled and I was still working. Twelve hour days with a boatload of busy toddlers and preschoolers has a way of making you appreciate quiet. That really deep quiet of alone.

A week's worth of 24/7 alone quiet is a little more disconcerting.

So I've explored a few places that I have seldom or never been since moving here.

The dumpster. I do believe this is the first time I've taken out the trash since I moved here. I can see the reality of why I've avoided this place even though the lie I used to tell myself was that it was good for Kevin to get some fresh air into those chemotherapy infused cells.

The Forbidden Closet. Followed closely by the power switch on the vacuum cleaner. Things I've rarely seen. I'm keeping that door closed in the future. Vacuuming is over-rated anyway. I saw things in that closet that I haven't seen since Sweeney had to give up garage occupancy at our house.

***note to self. never trust a man when he says he'll "take care of it" if "it" involves the disposal of any of his tools, tape, nuts, bolts, screws, jars of general crap and unrecognizable bits of wire and twine***

Under the bed in the guestofficeexercisesurplusjunk room. Wow. I am never again going to doubt the man's ability to pack after seeing the vast quantities of stuff he's stowed under one puny queen sized bed.

The Storage Shed. There are spiders in there. At least one of which I am certain starred in a Harry Potter movie. Bad place.

The drive-thru feed & seed barn. Sure I've been there before as a passenger, but never before have I had the heady experience of being in the driver's seat and placing the order. Oh the power!

Congratulations!
Today is your day.
You’re off to Great Places!
You’re off and away!
You have brains in your head.
You have feet in your shoes.
You can steer yourself any direction you choose.
You’re on your own.
And you know what you know.
And YOU are the guy who’ll decide where to go.
--Dr. Seuss

Technology Hostage Taking

2009-07-29T17:25:00.011-04:00

I love communications technology. Voice mail. Email. Love 'em. I don't mind if a machine answers and gives me 10 choices, 9 of which involve other machines.

Except when it doesn't deliver. Then I fight the urge to throw my computer across the room. I expect an equal input/output ratio.

Yesterday I typed in the web address from last week's lab visit. Plugged in the appropriate information so everything could be cross checked to be sure I am me. (because the world is brimming with identity thieves who want to be an unemployed middle aged woman with complex hyperplasia) Came up with "We have your results. Please contact your doctor's office to review the results and discuss further treatment guidelines."

Crap. I try it agin just to see if there's a glitch in the software. Nope. So does this mean the whole online results thing is just a taunt to tell you that they are holding your information hostage? Or does it imply that something is less than normal? And who cares anyway, whatever the results are, they are MY results and I want them delivered as promised, ONLINE. Isn't there some sort of right of ownership implied in my payment?

Crap again. This is going to mean an "encounter." I call the office, listen through the choices and realize I'm going to have to talk to a real person. Who then gives me someone's voice mail.

I leave a message, one that clearly says I have checked with the lab and am following their instructions to contact the doctor. Please call me back at xxx...

The next day arrives and no one has returned my call and the stupid online site still advises that I call my doctor if I want to know whatever it is that it knows. Now I'm annoyed. I have a hostage situation with my lab results and I'm being ignored by the lady with the nice voice on the doctor's office voicemail.

I hate being "THAT patient" even more than I hate technology that doesn't give me answers on demand so I'll wait until my next appointment. Which I won't miss because a machine will call me the day before with a reminder.

Brown Bag Biking

2009-07-27T22:28:00.021-04:00

One of the nice things about small town living is that you can get almost anywhere by bike. I had an appointment in town and decided to ride the mile and a half distance on my bike.

There are two genres of bike riders around here. The ones decked out in biking clothes and helmet with little rearview mirrors. They say things like "On your left" as they zip by in a blur on the bike trail.

Then there are the riders who bike because the Chevette finally crapped out or that fifth DUI was a deal breaker with the judge. Their bikes are on auto-pilot for the local UDF and the discount tobacco store. They wear NASCAR caps instead of bike helmets. Some of them bike with their water bottles wrapped in discrete brown paper bags.

I have an entirely different bike image in my Mind of Make Believe. Aqua blue bike with a cushy seat, easy to reach handlebars, a wicker basket on the front (with wildflowers in it) and a bell. I think it's on an ad for an osteoporosis drug; toned and trim middle aged woman pedaling her bike along a small town street with a bag of healthy produce peeking out of one of those baskets on the back. And the bell on the handlebars. The bell really factors large in my Make Believe Bike World.

Sometimes I get bit in the ass by my own fantasies. And I don't mean that kinky fun way we all secretly love.

I'm riding home and see a man selling sweet corn out of this truck. I want another dozen ears for the freezer so I stop to buy some. "This will be very cool," I think, "riding my bike home with my fresh sweet corn..." I like the fantasy so much that I buy TWO dozen ears of corn and the guy selling it is so taken with the novelty of selling sweet corn to the lady on the bike that he chucks in a few extra ears as he's quadruple bagging the stuff.

First pinprick in my cloud of fantasy....I don't have a basket--either front or back--on my bike. Mr. Sweet Corn and I MacGuyver the bag handles around my handlebars. Steering is now a bitch but I tell myself it's pretty much a straight shot home, I can just sort of lean to the right when it's time to turn off the highway.

They don't sell sweet corn by the pound and now I know why. No one could afford it. Thirty ears of sweet corn weigh about as much as a small child and balance half as well on your handlebars.

And somehow the ride home, the one that looked so level in my mind when I thought about it early this morning, is slightly uphill. I explained a few days ago that I am gravity challenged when it comes to uphill travel. My bike is wobbling with the hill effort and the effects of draft every time a car whizzes past on the highway. In my Biking Land of Make Believe the drivers cruise much slower. Probably so they can hear my little bell ring back at them when they wave a cheery hello. In Real World Time the cars zip by at 60 miles an hour which leaves them unable to hear the loud expletive I shout in their wake. I would give a one fingered wave but it takes both hands and some serious shoulder work to keep the bike on the road.

I know people driving by are looking for my discretely brown-paper-bag wrapped water bottle.

An ear of corn falls out of the bag. Then another. And another. I don't stop. What's the chance of being able to get this machine moving again? Each time my knee smacks the bulging bag another ear of corn falls to the ground.

I get home with 24 ears of corn and less of my dignity. I drop my bike in the grass and drag the corn through to the patio. I may have creamed corn in the freezer this year.

Back outside to retrieve my bike. I see a bike rider go past, a guy with a frequent flyer card from UDF. He's got a brown paper wrapped bottle in one hand, an ear of corn in the other and corn sticking out of each pocket. There's another ear of corn shoved down the front of his wife beater T shirt. He looks like an animated scarecrow as he gives me a wave with the ear of corn.

Make Believe Bike Land shatters as I imagine beaning the guy in the back of the head with my little bell. I grab a brown paper bag wrapped drink of my own to nurse my fractured dignity while I clean two dozen ears of slightly battered corn.

"Here's Your Sign," Part II

2009-07-27T06:52:00.007-04:00

Dear Universe, Karma, Fate, *OD/God,

Thank you for sending me such a clear sign that you not only created cookies, you want me to eat them. Even the missionary bake sale cookies. While cleaning the freezer today and repacking the white chocolate/lime cookies (yech...whose idea was that flavor anyway?), I found the half dozen peanut butter cookies lurking in the bottom of what I thought was an empty bag.

Now could you be a little more definitive about the last chocolate cupcake?

L.

PS I know it's already been done but if you want to try a twist on the loaves and fishes thing, I'll leave the empty peanut butter cookie bag in the freezer.

"Here's Your Sign..."

2009-07-26T21:28:00.012-04:00

Why does life continue to throw so many ~~insane, crappy,outrageously ridiculous, stupid~~ interesting, yet unbloggable, moments my way? Things I can't ~~mock~~ chronical online lest world peace be compromised, the global economy become unstable or potential employers refuse to ever give me a job.

Oh wait...

Anyway, the "here's your sign, stupid" moments of interaction with real life others will have to be saved for in person whispers and swearing to never reveal. Sometimes even changing the names is not enough to protect the idiotic. All of which means you, gentle reader, are left with the undirected wanderings of my mind.

Dear Universe, Karma, Fate, *OD/God,
If a woman eats the cookies she made for the missionary bake sale, will she end up in a black hole, be reincarnated as a housefly or go to hell? What if she's me? I'm not really saying either way but, just in case my overall self has been so bad lately that the cookie eating would be a deal breaker, it would be good to know.
In the interest of total honesty, she also saved the best two ears of corn for her dinner tonight from the 2 dozen she was preparing for the freezer today.
To build her own defense, the bake sale has been postponed indefinitely and she'll make some new fresh cookies (plus a few) when it is rescheduled. But you should already know that part because you are whatever/whoever you are.

L.

PS If you can't ring up with a direct answer, please send a sign. Can you at least give me some odds on how much further I'll be in if the last chocolate cupcake comes up missing?

PSS Please don't send bugs as a sign. Or a flood. Or global warming or perpetual darkness. Let's keep it simple; maybe a post-it on the frig.

Senior Adult Moments

2009-07-25T21:32:00.017-04:00

We're sitting on a bench at the outlet mall tonight and I'm sharing the indignation of my certain age moment (see 07/21) with Mr. L.

"and then she sez, 'when you sneeze or cough does a little urine ever leak out'....Whatthehey! When did that question land on MY list? Certain age, my happy ass..."

Thinking of his own experiecnce with exams, rectal cancer, treatment and side effects, Mr. deadpans back with "Next time tell her 'No, but sometimes when my husband sneezes he shits himself.' "

You probably have to know that Mr. L. rarely swears in my hearing range so it always gets my attention or you need to be over a certain age to understand why I laughed so hard I cried.

Damn. Who knew the act of laughing was so closely related to sneezing and coughing.

Cyber-cise...size...

2009-07-24T15:18:00.004-04:00

I went for a walk this afternoon. Just to enjoy the absence of rain and occasional bursts of sunshine. OK, not totally true, partly as a counter balance against the 2 cookies, orange soda and meatloaf sandwich (yes, it's true. Every bite. Now shut up.) that called itself "lunch."

This corner of town has too many hills. And, courtesy of the previously confessed cookies, soda and meatloaf, this body isn't made for hills. Uphill is a simply a gravity thing, the forces of nature are firmly against the propelling of this butt up that hill. Any hill. Even a gentle incline. Downhill wages war with the left knee. It just hurts. Probably due to the impact of that butt pounding along above it for every step.

So I crawled home (Until today I thought my truck was tricked out with every gadget possible. Now I know what it really needs is a tracking device where I push a button and it drives itself directly to wherever I am. Like halfway down a hill with a gimpy knee, an overweighted ass and a bad attitude.), shook the meatloaf crumbs out of the keyboard and surfed the internet. Surfing is exercise, right?

Thursday Thoughts...

2009-07-23T21:25:00.011-04:00

...what the heck happens to a blog post that looks fine when you write it and then you publish it, drop in for a look see and your carriage returns between paragraphs have multiplied like rabbits in a clover field? What kind of demons are at work here?

... my wake up call today was oldest daughter with a verbal mental wander about what she would do with her morning communte when I die. Tomorrow. She said "Tomorrow." Now I'm wondering if she has inside information. I suggested that hopefully by the time I die she will have MADE A FRIEND. She reiterated "Tomorrow" with more emphasis. Remember you read it here. Someone call the cops if I don't wake up in the morning. They can call my kid and keep her company on her commute.

...there are horrible scary things that visit my backyard in the dark. Bugs with pinchers on their butts. I was out there tonight with my camera trying to get a picture of fireflies when the butt pincher bugs showed up. I'm going to have to do a search on bug reproduction because it looks like it might be challenging....

...what cruel and heartless rat put that mirror on the back of the door in the second bedroom? The one that had the flabby chick with the graying part line staring at me when I reached behind the door to pull out a mat board? Apparently it's a portal to a parallel world, one I'm never going to visit because I do not want to get to know the mirror chick.

...someone invited me to join their Facebook group today. I had to decline because I don't have a Facebook account. I consider it sometimes, out of sheer nosiness to know whatthehell is the big deal. But I keep coming back to the conclusion that my wall would be empty. Or worse, filled with posts from people I don't really want to talk to. Is there a friendly way to send a message of "NO!" when someone asks to be your friend on facebook and you don't want to let them into your inner sanctum? I don't think so. And then you have all these "friends" you're not all that keen to be friendly with and they probably feel the exact same way about you. Me.

...wet cool Thursdays aren't much better than rainy cold Wednesdays. They're worse actually because they've added 24 hours to the misery. I need sunlight. It makes me nicer. Not nice, nicer.

Whose List Is This?

2009-07-22T07:10:00.001-04:00

After a nearly two decade long sabbatical I've become reaquainted with the inner workings of the doctor's office. I counted the other day and realized that if the recommendation is for a yearly visit, in the last 12 months I have made up for 17 years worth of skipped visits. Or better yet, banked ahead for the next 17 years.

Either way, I am there far too freakin' often.

There's a standard list of questions the medical assistant asks at every visit.

"Age?" "Forty-five minutes older than I was when I filled out the 'Age' line on the form the front desk lady gave me when I walked in here...."

"Date of your last...(fill in the blank with a half dozen closed door moments)" "Last week... Last month... I can't remember... This morning... Forty-nine minutes ago as I was leaving home to come here... Huh? Never, not once, not even for money."

"When you cough or sneeze does a little urine ever leak out?" "Whoa! WHAT? WHAT? "

"Oh, we ask that of every patient over a certain age. It's a very common problem for women especially if you've had several kids..."

Whose list is this anyway? WHEN did THAT question get on MY list?? Who decided it was more pertinent in my health profile to stop asking about my sex life and start asking how often I wet myself? Twenty years ago I know I was not being asked if I peed myself when the cat got too close and triggered a sneezing fit.

note to self.....like it or not, you ARE over a certain age....

note #2 to self...damn kids.

I Love Techonology

2009-07-21T21:11:00.013-04:00

The ever so favored by women "annual." The girl at the desk even called it that when she scheduled next year's an entire year in advance. "Do you want to schedule your annual now?"

Took me a minute to think that one through. My idea of "annual" doctor visit involves decades between not twelve short months.

The woman's annual check up is full of stuff we endure and men think is nothing compared to them having to stand sideways and cough while someone watches. We used to at least be able to feel a little equality knowing men were eventually going to have to endure a friendly DRE by their doctors. And now damn if they haven't incorporated a similar maneuver into our annual exams!

"And you're doing this why?" "To check your uterus and ovaries." "I think we need to talk about geography..."

My ~~punishment~~ reward for skipping the April D & C was another endometrial biopsy. It's just as well to have that biopsy sneak up on you so you're not pre-planning how miserable it's going to feel.

If men had uteruses they would be put to sleep for these biopsies. For a week.

After a chat with the NP, I caved and scheduled the D & C. They get you in a weak moment when what you're thinking is, "Good. No more endo. biopsy" instead of the obvious, "Holy Crap, another D & C." The helpful scheduler pushed it ahead on the calendar because of the 4 month lapse since April. And because she knew I was already thinking of reasons to cancel.

FWIW, I think "Better safe than sorry" is a pointless phrase and I'll probably have more to say about it later even though I've agreed to the D & C now.

I did get one neat tidbit out of the morning. A website where I can input my pertinent data and get the results of my PAP online. Now that's cool. No waiting for a phone call. No listening to someone else read the highlights and wondering just how interpretive their account might be.

No talking to a real person. No encounter. I love technology.

I used to like being a girl...

2009-07-20T22:20:00.006-04:00

One of my least favorite machines called today. The one that reminds me of appointments with the gynecologist. I ignored the machine in March, then the real life person who called to schedule the April D & C. I was busy--Kev's colonoscopy, Kate's baby, there was enough bodily invasion to go around in our family so I rationalized that my July appointment would be soon enough to talk about it.

I feel better than I did last summer. Which is pretty much the same as being all better, right? I'm big on the 'if it ain't broke, don't fix it' approach when it comes to my body. And, with the exception of the last year of rebellion, my uterus and I have had a pretty good working relationship for many years with minimal interference from outsiders.

People (yes, I mean me people, not people people. But it makes me feel better to globalize certain behaviors and this is my blog...) do totally stupid things in the doctor's office. Like carefully folding their underwear inside thier pile of clothes so they can sit naked beneath a scanty open backed gown with a flimsy paper sheet over their lap while they wait for the doctor. Who will then touch, poke, prod, scrape and visually inspect places never seen by the occupant of said body. But at least the underwear will be safely tucked out of sight. Wouldn't want anyone to see anything personal, would we?

Fair Play

2009-07-18T22:21:00.006-04:00

Quick trip over and back from Indiana today. Oddly, the baby's parents did want him returned ( I think they're afriad we're going to ruin him. Shows what they know. We are far too old and tired to intentionally wake a sleeping kid for some middle of the night rocking chair time.) We tagged the return-the-kid trip with a chance to visit Haylee and her cupcakes at the fair. CareBears this year.

I remember last summer when Kev's big pleasure was being well enough by mid-July to indulge in a little fair food. Everyone walked away satisfied today--Haylee with her blue ribbon cupcakes and Kevin with his ribeye steak sandwich and hot butter dripping sweet corn.

Travel Light in Life...

2009-07-17T19:52:00.005-04:00

...take only what you need.....a Port-a-crib. Bouncy chair. Car seat. Base for car seat. A dozen blankets. Cloth diapers to wipe his face. Disposable diapers for the rest of him. Baby wipes to wipe any area covered by the dispoable diapers. Baby bath gel. Baby Wash Cloth. Baby bath tub. (In my parenting years the baby bath tub doubled as the kitchen sink in it's off duty hours.) Special dishwashing detergent to wash his bottles. Clothes. Many, many clothes. (which grew exponentially in number once I decided he needed the next size up. Of everything.) Pacifier. Auxillary pacifier in case the unthinkable happens and the preferred plug is lost. Shoes. (His feet have never touched the floor, but shoes are an essential part of the outfit.) Hat. Toys. (Like we're going to distract him with anything beyond our own leering grandparent faces.)

We just unloaded the last of the baby stuff from the car last night and already it's time to start packing up for the Return The Baby trip tomorrow. His parents are still, obviously, in the starry-eyed newness of parenting since they want him back.

We won't leave until early tomorrow morning, but the ritual of Packing Up The Baby's ~~Crap~~ Necessities began in earnest tonight. How can one little baby need so much stuff? Shouldn't there be some sort of weight to baby ratio? Two pounds of stuff for each pound of baby?

Forget buying a puppy for this kid; he needs a pack mule.

Baths, Bottles and Bedtime

2009-07-16T23:20:00.001-04:00

Indiana this week. Got to enjoy Kate and the Flapjacks at Purdue's Summer Concert Series, see Hannah collect a blue ribbon with honors for her first venture into 4-H photography and bring the baby home for a visit. Without his parents. Drive home went well although my arm was numb from repeatedly reaching into the backseat to poke the kid. Just a little poke every so often to make sure he was traveling ok. Baby sleeps all night now and brings his own bed and blankets--making him a near perfect house guest as far as I'm concerned. Did the whole baby bath time routine tonight. Definitely a change from our usual late evening hours. A soothing bath, a bottle, some low lights...ok, so maybe it's not so different from our usual late evening hours. Anyway, it worked like a charm and grandpa and baby are both sacked out soundly.

Kate and the Flapjacks at Purdue

2009-07-15T23:29:00.003-04:00

This is summer. How summer evenings are meant to be spent; sitting on the lawn outside the union on the Purdue University campus. A little cool for a summer evening but comfortable. Perfect, in fact. People are sitting in lawn chairs, on blankets, on benches. Some are picnicing, there are bikes leaned up against trees, some people wander through by accident and stay. Children are dancing, toes are tapping.
Music makes it way through the trees, between the campus buildings....The Woodstove Flapjacks at Purdue Summer Concert Series. Kate sang a few songs with them. Gorgeous evening for an outside show. If you haven't gone to one of these July Wednesday evenings you've been missing a good time.
I bring the baby over to hear his momma and daddy play tonight. His other grandma, Carol, rides up on her bike. We pass the baby back and forth between us as we swap grandma observations and listen to the music. Kate and James are singing together on stage. Carol holds the baby and I am alternating my camera between band and baby. Friends of mine, of Carol's, of Kate and James, stop to admire the baby, ask how things are going.
This is what it should be. This enjoying new life among us. This gathering of family. All sorts of family. You are one blessed kid, little one.

http://www.slide.com/r/46ZsYbPH7z-j-g14CnCaN77yWPy3J1dx?previous_view=mscd_embedded_url&view=original

TGFI

2009-07-13T21:37:00.010-04:00

That's not a typo.

Not TGIF. Today is Monday.

Thank God For (the) Internet. TGFI

(Or Thank *OD For (the) Internet, T*FI, for my fundamentalist reader who won't write G-O-D. If it helps, you can think of this post as a prayer petition. I am truly thankful for the internet tonight.)

Been working with Hannah on her 4-H Photography project and we've been saved by the internet. A previously not known by me requirement of 3 activities in a manual has surfaced here at the late date of 4 days pre-judging. With Hannah in one place, me in another and some of her photos in a third, it's been a bit of technological slight of hand to make this happen.

TGFI

My family has a checkered 4-H past. Three girls, all 10 year 4-Hers, all knowing the fair began the third week of July with judging the previous week. I was never able to convince them that the 4-H motto is not "Any project worth doing is worth waiting until July 1 to begin." Our week before the fair experience was filled with sleepless nights, tears of frustration and meals eaten standing in the kitchen because every table in the house was covered with someone's work in progress. By judging day the house was silent--a combination of sheer exhaustion and that fact that no one was on speaking terms with anyone else.

I have trouble believing Hannah's projects have been completed with so little drama. It just seems un-natural, not befitting the 4-H way as my girls knew it. There's still time though. The project goes in at 7:30 on Thursday morning and Hannah's not a morning person...

2009-07-12T20:49:00.003-04:00

Dear Joshua,

Thank you for calling to tell me about Kiwi, your new kitten. I'm sure you will take very good care of her and she will love being in your family.

Yours with Smiling Love,

Gran

Dear Joshua's Mother,

I was a bit surprised last night when Joshua called to tell us about the kitten you adopted at the street fair. But then I remembered that the line for the cat adoption booth was much shorter than the line for the clown making the balloon animals.

I know you are an accountant and understand numbers but I'm not entirely sure you've really done the math on the time investment here. It's also possible there are a few pages missing in the Manual for Moms I gave you when The Boy was born. There should be a chapter on the value of choosing pets with the lifespan of a helium fill versus those which will last to dance on your grave.

Yours with Smiling ~~Payback~~ Love,

Mom

Grandmothering 101

2009-07-11T22:50:00.003-04:00

He peers down at the tiny intruder.

"Who's your favorite now, Grandma?"

"Joshua, you are my favorite first grandson because you taught me how to be a grandma, how much fun it is to have a boy around. Your cousin is my favorite second grandson because he reminds me of all the fun I've had since you were born and how much more fun the three of us will have together."

Grandmothering 101. It's a killer.

By the Numbers, July 2009

2009-07-09T20:48:00.005-04:00

The numbers from Kev's most recent bloodwork. One year down. ONE YEAR! (no one...NO ONE...rain on my parade by pointing out the much larger number on the 'to go' side of that equation)

One year since his first post-treatment check-up. He's doing ok. Numbers look good this time. A little worry in some chemistry numbers but it's a wait and see worry, much better than a fix it yesterday worry. Neuropathy continues. Probably isn't going to go away and varies some from day to day. No obvious lumps, bumps or panic inducing sounds from within according to his oncologist.

I still worry when I see him getting tired or out of breath sooner than I expect when we're biking. Time, it just takes time to get over the side effects. Time to accept that sometimes a cough is just a cough and an afternoon nap is just an afternoon nap...

...or a prelude to something more, but that's for another blog entirely!

Idiotsms

2009-06-30T05:15:00.000-04:00

After 49 years I think I have a good grasp of the English language. I generally make myself understood and I don't have to reach too far to understand what it is I'm hearing. And then I run into a phrase like "I'm not blowing smoke up your ass" and I have to mentally stop the conversation while I play the tape back to figure out whattheheck that means.

"I'm not blowing smoke up your ass."

Who said that in the first place? Who says it now with a straight face? Who looked at all the words offered in the language and thought, "Wow, this really conveys what it is I'm trying to say!"

Same with "Piss up a rope." What does that mean anyway? I know what it intends, but what does it mean? Is it more user friendly than, say, "Go Away" or even "Kiss Off." I don't think so.

Gads, I know I'm old when some of these phrases are more idiot than idiom.

As long as my mind is in wander mode, I also encountered "meteoric rise" in the newspaper this week. Don't meteors fall? Did some writer decide this was a tit for tat (and whatthehell is tit for tat. Tits I know, tats I'm not so sure about) thing? If someone had a meteoric fall into obscurity then someone else could surely have a meteoric rise to fame?

"At the end of your rope." "One foot in the grave." Those are implicit, maybe even explicit with normal cognition. I even get "rainin' like a cow pissin' on a flat rock." It makes sense. I can visualize it. The others? They're all Greek to me.

Splintered Posts

2009-06-10T09:58:00.005-04:00

Alrighty then, so I'm not that good at keeping promises. Like the one to myself where I was going to get back to regular blogging. Not that the masses having been waiting on the edges of their collective seats for word from me, but blogging does keep me from ~~murdering~~ harming the (relatively, I mean if you made it into my blog you're not exactly innocent...) innocent out of sheer boredom. Those of you who are foolish, bored, righteous, curious enough to continue coming here deserve just what you get.

There is truth in the old axiom "You get what you paid for..."

*OD/Godder gets major props today for tenacity and general stick-to-it-even-if-what-you're-sticking-to-is-being-a-crazy-as-a-loon-pain-in-the-butt-edness. I mean it's been how long since I've posted with any regularity (watch out, there are many unpublished posts lurking in the wings and who knows when they might start showing up) and he still manages to attempt a comment post a couple of times a week.

I invite him to stick around because he entertains me. Let's keep in mind that a line of dancing ants on the kitchen counter entertains me so my standards aren't high these days. However, I have to offer this caveat to *OD/Godder and others who might wander through: If you are easily offended you might want to put one hand over your delicate eyes and read cautiously through a slit between your fingers. But first drop me a comment line and tell me why? ?? Why the hell are you here if you're easily offended?? It's obvious by now that I'm easily offensive so why do it to yourself??

Once you're good with that concept, please pull up a chair and stay awhile. I rarely publish comments but I do read all of them carefully and with consideration. Wouldn't want to miss a golden opportunity to pull a (blog) post out of my splintered eye.

Welcome Back

2009-06-05T23:55:00.001-04:00

Forty-four days of no new posts. I have a bunch written off line and awaiting my editor skills. I'll get to them one of these days. Tonight I'm fulfilling a promise to myself to get back to regular posting. Barely in under the wire as it's pushing midnight, but better late than never. Or so they say.
Welcome back to me.

Grin and Bare It

2009-05-25T19:46:00.003-04:00

He Who Loves To Be Naked spent the weekend with us. The new kid loves nekkidness. And its flipside, close cuddled up snuggling. And the Fates, Karma, Equilibirum, whatever has indulged the great balance and given our not-an-early-morning person daughter a kid who is at his finest from 3 to 6 AM.

All of which worked well for the Indulgent Grands--Kevin & myself. The kid turns it all on about 4 AM...grinning, yawning, cooing. The whole bit full force and we fell for it like anchors. Fed him, oohed and ahhed when he filled his drawers, admired his stretching love for the morning air on his bare bum and were enthralled when he curled up on his grandfather's chest and fell asleep with a goofy grin on his face.

You should have saved some of the big guns for later, kid. You had us at the first bare-assed grin.

Great Times

2009-05-10T21:20:00.003-04:00

Annie. Family Treasure. Ninety-eight years of wonder. Two sons. Six Grandchildren. Ten Great Grandchildren. Five Great Great Grandchildren.

You were "Great" even before those grandkids started coming.

Mother's Day...

2009-05-09T23:15:00.000-04:00

...and Grandmother's Day...and Great-Grandmother's Day...and Great-Great Grandmother's Day.

You are such a blessed little boy. (And I feel so sorry for the far in your future woman who will never even a little convince your wimmin that she deserves your love)

Welcome LIttle One

2009-04-24T22:59:00.001-04:00

Welcome to the world, little one.

Another boy in the clan, our second grandson.

It's A....

2009-04-23T20:12:00.001-04:00

Leave Your Troubles Behind...

2009-04-22T23:23:00.008-04:00

I'm killing the hours, minute by painful minute, until morning brings Kate's surgery and the arrival of a new little person in our family.

I've already confessed to being a rotten waiter. I'm no longer apologizing for it. I think God and I have worked out an agree to disagree position on the merit of patience.

I do a mental review of the day and evening. A whirlwind of putting away from our trip over here for Kevin's appointment, accompanied by a parallel whirlwind of packing for my trip back over here today.

Went to Mass on campus tonight, which was absolutely amazing. I'm always awed by the college students at St. Tom's. And Father Patrick's homily made me think, which is what a homily ought to do.

The laugh of the day, the week, possibly the month, came tonight when our friend Patrick K. (he who often gave us the only smiles we had some days last year with his daily emailed joke during chemotherapy) asked about Kevin. We talk about what the doctor had to say then Patrick deadpans, "So Kevin's troubles are all behind him now?"

Kevin laughed out loud when I called him after Mass and replayed the scene. I plan to scan in the full color photos Dr. Francis provided of Kev's inner workings and add Patrick's caption.

This could be the start of a line of greeting cards just for recovering colorectal cancer patients.
"Leave Your Troubles Behind"

Customer Complaints and Patient Satisfaction

2009-04-21T20:43:00.012-04:00

I barely had time to awe my captive audience of seniors before a nurse popped out to direct me to the recovery room.

"This is good. Under an hour. Well under an hour."

Kev came in, walking steadily on his own and looking for some snacks. I am amazed. He had an "I'm hungry" headache and he wanted to go to El Rodeo for fajitas before we headed for home.

Dr. Francis stopped in to confirm that the plumbing should hold up another 6 months. There was/is scar constriction but he thinks this was as bad as it will get. Recheck in 6 months to be sure. We talked a little about some of the battlefields of medicine these days; things like caring for patients versus the more anonymous customer mentality. It's an analogy Kevin and I can relate to after feeling like he had a barcode on his butt and was cha-chinged! through a cash register in Cincinnati.

So we are celebrating the unexpectedly good news. Even better, the 6 month recheck will be booked as Kevin's had-cancer-has-to-be-checked-yearly colonoscopy, sparing him a fourth prep and exam in this calendar year. Having the troops back off on the invasion is always a good thing in Kev's eyes.

Waiting with Patients

2009-04-21T13:11:00.015-04:00

I am waiting. Again. Along with a roomful of other people, fully half of which also show signs of being impatient waiters.

We've been here since 11:20. It's now 12:57. Kevin and his nurse walked back to the surgery suite at 12:41, IV already in place, all set to start.

The fact that I know, to the minute, when he was led away is testimony to my clock watching tendencies.

The waiting will be fine up to an hour. That's my worry point for a sigmoidoscopy. After an hour, things have usually gotten more complicated in some way and my clock watching, leg bouncing impatience will become obvious.

With plenty of time to go in my worry-free hour, though, I can people watch in between being chatted up by several elderly patients who are intrigued by my computer's ability to be "on the 'net with no wires or plugs." It seems to be senior day at the surgical center; Kevin is among the few patients who appear to be under 65 or 70.

Most of the people in the room, though, are waiters, like me. Waiting for a patient to be called back to surgery or waiting for one to come out. They stream up to the reception desk in turns to ask about time...an appointment hour that's passed, how long until the patient is in recovery, released, returning for a check up. While my policy is not to ask about him until it appears he's been lost--and in pushing 2 years worth of this stuff, that's the one thing that hasn't happened--I know the leg bouncing, toe tapping, watch checking rhythm of the anxious and impatient.

Another senior peeks over to see my computer in action. She talks about her amazement at learning something new each day no matter where she finds herself.

Today I'll set aside the worry in favor of the wonder. I'm going to post this and pop up the front page of my blog...the seniors are going to love the pixel by pixel crawl of my inchworm followed by a burst of butterflies.

I may not have patience, but I can pass the time with wonder-filled patients.

BOSTON UPDATE

2009-04-20T14:28:00.003-04:00

My sister has finished the race. Looked a little dicey on Saturday evening after she arrived in Boston and realized she was sick. She was out there running today though with a 10:30 AM start. Interesting little side note...her start time offset was 0:01:59, meaning it took one minute and fifty-nine seconds for her to cross the start line once the race began. Bit of a crowd there at the beginning.

Kevin was texting with her pre-race so we'll hopefully hear something from her again once she visits gear pickup. ***edit note....a brief text message tells us that she's looking for a cold beer to celebrate the moment...***

Race stats:

Total Race Field: 26,331 Entrants
Time: 3:47:17
Overall Placing: 12,187
Women's Placing: 3,559
Age Division Placing: 617

Rightsideupsidedownness

2009-04-19T22:31:00.003-04:00

Kate's rightsideupsidedown kid is still that way. In spite of the best efforts of the doctor, this baby is still happily floating feet down in it's watery world. Kate still thinks she has more time to go before her due date--that baby knows it's not quite time to greet the world and is enjoying life rightside up until then. Her doctor disagrees so a battle of the wills is almost certain to play out this week in that office.

In any case, baby appears to be healthy and Kate feels ok so we'll wait and see what this week's appointment brings.

I remind Kate that she was my own stubborn baby, arriving 3 weeks after the projected due date and still managing to be born face first, as if she couldn't wait to see the world she had delayed meeting.

BABY UPDATE

2009-04-17T18:56:00.002-04:00

Does it come as a surprise to anyone that Kate's baby is in a breech position? Is anyone surprised that my artsy gotta-do-it-different kid's kid would eschew the common and much easier position of entry in favor of a "my way" way of greeting the world?

Kate herself was a breech baby who was turned at the last moment but still delivered face first, neck flexed back in an apparent eagerness to see what the world offered once she was headed in the right direction to get there. She was also 3 weeks past her due date. All of which, I now realize, was a bit of foreshadowing as to just who this new little person was destined to become.

The news of her own rightsideupsidedown kid, and the doctor's eagerness to simply schedule a c-section, threw Kate for a loop. For about 15 minutes. After which she rallied, met with her doula for some regrouping and researched her options. That's my girl. Arm yourself with information then wear down the medical opposition.

Sunday morning at 8 AM one of the partners in her doctor's practice is going to try to coax this baby into turning and facing life head on. It's a hospital manuever where the baby is monitored while they do some external prodding in the hopes that baby will reposition.

We're going to head over late on Saturday and be at the hospital Sunday morning to offer a bit of (grand)parental support. There's some small chance an immediate c-section could result but it's not likely.

Kate thinks her troubles will be over if Baby Gizmo cooperates and upsidedownrightsides him/herself. I can smile that secretive smile of a mother who knows much better. Kate's life adventures with a "do it my own way" kid are just beginning!

BOSTON BOUND

2009-04-15T09:47:00.004-04:00

This one's for my sister who will be running the Boston Marathon on Monday, April 20, 2009. My little sister did her first mini-marathon in 2004 in Indianapolis and has been non-stop since. She's run marathons and 50 mile cross country races all over the United States. Qualifying for Boston was a big goal for her and I'm outrageously proud of her. A couple of years ago she was chosen as an alternate for the Blue Planet Run, an organized global run to promote awareness of the need for clean drinking water.

So she's not just a good runner. She's a good person who's a good runner.

Kev says he's her biggest fan. He supports the racing scene by frequenting the various food vendors who congregate at these venues. He's been known to get so excited when she crosses the line at Indianapolis's Mini that he throws both hands into the air, dousing bystanders with Pepsi and the guts of a gyro in one fell swoop.

The weather forecast for Monday is mid 40s and cloudy which should make for good running conditions. (this from the woman who wouldn't walk across the parking lot to the mailbox on a damp April day in the 40s)

Support the runners by viewing the race live online Monday at
http://www.universalsports.com/SportSelect.dbml?DB_OEM_ID=23000&KEY=&SPID=13048&SPSID=105671

WAITING...

2009-04-08T10:24:00.003-04:00

...that thing which I do so poorly that I'm actually quite skilled at not doing it well.

Waiting this time for Kevin's blood counts from this week's visit with the oncologist. The all important CEA which may (or may not, let's be honest) reveal cancer growth. He doesn't have another PET until July so the CEA is our current indicator of what's happening right now. Last PET was February (which we viewed, see yesterday's post) and all looked fine.

We will be in Indiana for the Easter weekend, helping with the Triduum and Vigil at St. Tom's and enjoying time with family and friends.

In the meantime, I wait. Impatiently.

A Peek Inside...

2009-04-07T22:03:00.001-04:00

In a blissful change of pace for Kevin, hearing "have a peek inside" didn't result in a medical spelunking expedition through a body cavity.

Instead, Dr. Skinner provided a computer look at Kev's most recent PET/CT scan. That's the inside of Kevin you're viewing, with his oncologist giving a fingerpoint tour of the anatomical structures from top to, er, bottom.

If only he had had this photo when our girls were teenagers. He could have definitively refuted those disgusted girl looks that said his brain was either absent or firmly planted somewhere other than in his head.

Embracing the Child of *OD

2009-04-01T02:34:00.000-04:00

The blog has a groupie. Well, more detractor than fan, but a regular visitor nonetheless. Someone who dug up the blog on a search or saw it on someone else's blogroll or knows someone who knows someone who knows a friend of mine with the blog address. Some distant, cyber out-there, writer who is determined to save me from me.

The blog groupie believes everything happens because God planned it to happen that way. He's mightily worried that I mostly don't think it's a plan at all, but rather a perfect storm of God-gifted free will which lands any one of us where we are at any given moment.

I moderate comments the blog receives so Mr. *OD'S Plan gmailer hasn't gotten any press here. I even stopped publishing posts for a while thinking the lack of content (apparently the lack of relevant content wasn't a deterent) would send him packing. Hasn't happened so I'll be posting again and probably going back to publish those weeks of unpublished posts.

I love that the blog groupie doesn't write "God," he writes "*OD". He thinks it offends God when people write G-o-d. He filled multiple comment boxes with a dissertation urging me to repent and be a "child of *OD."

I'll continue to risk my salvation, and possibly yours, by spelling God with a "G" and wondering out loud if He doesn't agree with me that some people could benefit greatly from a sharp twack on the noggin.

To be honest, I'm tickled pink that my commentor cared enough to do a daily drive through. He's been more consistent about visiting than I am about posting. He's also missed the fact that I am completely and dangerously bored most days and find him even more entertaining than the 4-footed window peepers I encouraged this time last year.

I'm going to embrace my inner Child of *OD. It's so me. I'm think of putting it on a t-shirt.

Today's Post From My Daily Photo Blog

2009-03-25T08:02:00.007-04:00

Met these 3 as they hiked along the road near the edge of town. They are traveling to increase awareness of the causes of canine cancer. Comparative Oncology is getting a lot of buzz these days for the advances and impacts it means to both people and animals. Luke and the boys have been walking for just over a year now and hope to reach Boston in another year. Visit them on the web at www.2dogs2000miles.org

Filed this shot under "Inspiration" on my 365 blog. http://www.thismomentcaptured.blogspot.com/

MARCH SHOWERS...

2009-03-22T22:45:00.004-04:00

...bring April babies.

Kate's friend hosted a baby shower for her this weekend. I picked up Paige in Indianapolis and we headed to Lafayette so I could ~~check out the grandma competition~~ enjoy some time with baby's other grandmothers. We started the party at an eclectic little shop selling handmades and offering classes and space to create a mountain of decorated onesies. I kind of wondered what Kate had in common with a shop on Main Street (Kate who's never been 'main' anything) but once I saw the welcoming "You Crafty Mother Fucker" sign I understood the connection. From there we landed at her friend's home for the more traditional side of baby showering--gifts and food. Kate has some amazingly generous and talented friends. That's my best observation of the day. A lot of good people will be in this kid's life.

Ash Wednesday

2009-02-25T22:07:00.009-05:00

Walked into the church and caught the eye of our neighbor, the school teacher, so we sat with her.

I'll be volunteering in her classroom soon. I'm not certain how these things happen, other than that it's Lent. You're supposed to take on new burdens, step out of your comfort zone, grow a little.

Ms. Maria, the teacher, asked what I was giving up for Lent.
"I gave up my whole freakin' life and moved here."

Ok, that's a little unfair and untrue. I only thought it, didn't say it. But I did have to admit to Nothing. That's what I'm giving up for Lent. Doing nothing. Thus, the classroom volunteering.

Anyway, I was sitting there at Mass tonight, watching the children being carried, pushed, pulled and prodded, up to the priest to be marked with ashes and I remembered Hannah and Ash Wednesday.

2002. Hannah was not quite 3 years old as Lent began that year. She was at the evening service with us and very reluctantly allowed Father Andy to mark her forehead with ashes. Her eyes were huge as she watched him mark my forehead. As we returned to the pew, she tugged at me.
"I have to go potty. NOW!"

You don't ignore the urgent warnings of a barely trained 3 year old so I hustled her off to the bathroom. She headed for the sink rather than a stall, climbed up the sink and peered into the mirrow. I could see indignation on her face as she moved her bangs back to reveal the cross of ashes.

"He DIRTED me!"

It was beyond bedtime as we left the church and I thought she was asleep in my arms, head on my shoulder. I learned differently, though, as we passed Father Andy and I heard a muffled little voice whisper, "DIRTER!"
Hannah went with me to St. Tom's on Ash Wednesday every year after the "dirter" incident. For another 5 years, I would tell her the story and, through those years, her understanding of Ash Wednesday, of Lent, of becoming clean through faith, her sure and simple faith, surpassed my own.

Headlines

2009-02-12T22:29:00.004-05:00

I caught a line on a news ticker on AOL tonight. "Somber Pics of Town Devastated by Job Cuts" Somehow I knew it was going to be our town:

http://www.pixcetera.com/pixcetera/ohio-town-faces-economic-collapse/47316?icid=200100397x1218784565x1201226665

Welcome to my job search environment. I have a lot of company.

The Woodstove Flapjacks +One

2009-02-09T21:33:00.004-05:00

Kate joined James and the band onstage at their CD release party just over a week ago. Kevin posted a couple of videos on youtube. Check them out at:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9-u79I5HVm4

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1cP6kUc0QUE

NED who???

2009-02-07T22:56:00.004-05:00

This turned up in our email, courtesy of our friend John, a retiree from the law enforcement arena.

(Regarding Ned Schmed aka; Nedly Schedly) Being suspicious in nature, a trait that carries over from my law enforcement days, I decided to do a background check on NED. Ned has many faces and plays many rolls, be careful – be very very careful…
1 Ned is a derogatory term Ned is a derogatory term applied to certain young people in Scotland, akin to the term chav in England. The stereotypical view of a Ned is a white adolescent male, of working class background, who wears fake brand names (particularly Burberry), who engages in hooliganism, petty criminality, loutish behavior, underage drinking and smoking or general anti-social behavior. Ned’s are often assumed to be unemployed. Wikipedia
2 Ned is a global, all-volunteer group Ned is a global, all-volunteer, member-governed, online social network (in combination with real-world locations) that is made up of social entrepreneurs, activists, artists, social purpose enterprises, grassroots nonprofit, non-governmental, and community-based organizations, and is collaborating and taking action locally, nationally & globally, in order to make the world a better place. NED.com
3 Ned is a quality elevation dataset The USGS National Elevation Dataset (NED) has been developed by merging the highest-resolution, best quality elevation data available across the United States into a seamless raster format. USGS
4 Ned is the National Endowment for Democracy NED the National Endowment for Democracy is a private, nonprofit organization created in 1983 to strengthen democratic institutions around the world through nongovernmental efforts. National Endowment for Democracy
5 Ned is a college book store
6 Ned is a company traded on the stock exchange NOAH EDUCATION ADSb(NYQ: NED)
7 NED (aka: Nedski - Ned Luberecki is a banjo picker. Welcome to Nedski.com, this is the web home of banjo player Ned Luberecki. Ned is currently the banjo player for Chris Jones and the Night Drivers, Larry Cordle and Lonesome Standard Time and occasionally tours as second banjoist with the Tony Trischka Double Banjo Bluegrass Spectacular Band. Ned was formerly the banjoist for The Rarely Herd, The Gary Ferguson Band, Radio Flyer, Paul Adkins and the Borderline Band and the Apocalyptic Cowboys.Ned is now teaching private banjo lessons exclusively at The East Nashville School of Music and is also a popular instructor at music camps such as Nashcamp, Camp Bluegrass, Acoustic Music Camp, The Smoky Mountian Banjo Academy, American Banjo Camp and the Midwest Banjo Camp. Check out the links section of this page for more information. Ned is now an instructor at BluegrassCollege.org.
8 Ned is a chaisaw guy (???) http://www.nedthechainsawguy.com/
9 Ned is an Engineering University in Pakistan The NED University of Engineering and technology is the oldest institution now in Pakistan for teaching and turning out Graduate Engineers.
10 Ned is popular School Assembly show. Ned is the character used by the SuperYo demonstrators to teach about character and becoming a champion in life at school assemblies. The "NED" program is done all over the US by many relatively unknown yo-yo players. NED is an acronymn for: Never give up! Encourage others! Do your best! http://www.thenedshow.com/

I've been aware that other cancer patients we know have found NED to be a fickle friend at best. Not necessarily reliable. I think NED's going to get fully onboard with Project Kevin. We're nice people. We're fun. We're smart, entertaining. If the good company doesn't do it, then the food will. Whole bran muffins. With blueberies. And pecans. I've offered NED my pillow, the center of the bed. Regular check-ups with Dr. Skinner.

Thank you, John, for the run down on NED, the encouragement, the prayers. And the laughs. Always for the laughs!

Another Job Possibility Slides Down the Icy Road....

2009-02-06T10:51:00.005-05:00

Camp Joy called this morning. I didn't get the job. Went to the other candidate; who, I've learned, is on the board of directors at the local YMCA and the Area Planning Commission. I'll be darned if they didn't go with the more qualified candidate. Where's their sense of adventure, risk taking, living dangerously? Pity? I could have been their poster child for giving opportunity to the undeserving and under qualified.

NED Schmed

2009-02-05T09:59:00.006-05:00

Leftover meatloaf, breakfast of champions. The kind made with hamburger. From a cow. None of the pasty looking turkey stuff. And not that 95% fat free ground beef either. This is hamburger with a nice greasy feel to it.

My rationale is that NED is supposed to be sticking to Kev like a bur. So he can't be here judging me and the meatloaf. He's in Kev's office, judging Kev and the illicit Pepsi I know is perched on the edge of Kev's desk.

Do you hear me, NED? Pepsi! Probably a 16 oz. bottle! And I'll bet there are chocolate Hostess cupcakes in the bottom drawer. You think you've got time to fixate on my breakfast when Kev's got chocolate melted on his fingers, cake crumbs inhis moustache and Pepsi on his breath?

Just so you don't think I've totally discounted NED's lessons, the meatloaf is covered in ketchup. I think the Reagan administration brought us ketchup as a vegetable. Which means I am having a serving of vegetables with my breakfast. And grains. There's oatmeal holding all that greasy hamburger together. Don't the oatmeal people run some ad about it being heart healthy and full of fiber?

NED, I'm doing you proud.

NED

2009-02-04T16:42:00.025-05:00

There's a new guy in town. NED. Kevin's new life partner. We're a threesome now.

Not generally known for my sharing nature, I'm willing to scoot over and give NED his own pillow in the warm, snugly center of our bed. Whatever it takes to keep him around. No guest room, no temporary status or short term visits. NED is being embraced, possibly hugged til he chokes, with wide open arms.

NED is one of those guys we didn't appreciate when we first knew him. He's quiet, low key, unassuming. The kind of stable influence you take for granted and assume will always be around until he isn't.

The antithesis of Cancer.

Cancer took over our lives like the house guest from hell. Dropped in uninvited, trashed the place and drained our wallets. We used every means possible to uproot Cancer; we isolated him, fed him toxic cocktails, turned up the heat in his room with radiation and cut off his funding. Our mission was to send him packing and change our address so Cancer could never find Kevin again.

NED, on the other hand, is being wooed with breakfasts of sticks and twigs and fresh berries. Whole grain breads. Organic veggies. Fresh air and a plethora of experts trained to anticipate NED's every need. I bake bran muffins for NED, with raisins and cranberries. What now passes for chili in our house has no meat in it and double the beans. We entice NED to stay with a refrigerator full of anti-oxidants, probiotics and other formerly foreign words. He sticks around through the occasional lapses into BigMacs and pepperoni pizza.

It's working. Donna called today from the cancer center. Kevin's most recent PET/CT scans are "clear, absolutely fine."

No Evidence of Disease. NED

Thanks, NED, for sticking around. And thanks to each of you for your prayers and continued support.

Perfect Numbers

2009-02-04T11:54:00.007-05:00

I published the post about Kevin's blood work results a little late...it was in the midst of when he was feeling very sick and I was feeling very frustrated. So I'll repost them now instead of having you dig back through posts.

First number column is the current result, second shaded column is the previous result so you can see how things are changing. CEA level is considerably lower which is what we want. Other numbers tell us he is recovering from chemotherapy's beating.

"Perfect" is the very word Tangie used to describe the results when she phoned us.

That's what we want to hear. Perfect.

Job Possibility, Part II

2009-02-03T22:39:00.003-05:00

I had another interview for the camp position today. Administrative Coordinator. Today I met with the camp's Executive Director and the youth team member who handles clients and sales. I think they're laboring under some misconceptions about how much the childcare business paid. There was a comment made about being concerned I would love the job, hate the money and move on. The Youth Director told me yesterday that it is down to myself and another candidate. I don't know the other candidate and I do know that almost anyone has more qualifying experience than me. But I'm still convinced this job and I are a perfect match.

PET/CT Day, Part II

2009-02-02T19:39:00.009-05:00

Kevin's souvenir of the day; a card warning of his potential radioactive status. Seems there's concern that PET patients might set off the radioactivity sensors some airports and government buildings now use.

The card is supposed to make him--and everyone nearby--feel secure in the event of a beeping, bell ringing alarm sounding as he goes in to buy stamps at the local post office.

We live in one of those small towns with a simple sense of justice. I'm pretty sure they shoot radioactive folks around here. I can't see the local sheriff being willing to touch the card from the radioactive guy, much less dial the number on the back to check it out. And who wants to sit next to the guy who set off the radioactivity sensor at Cincinnati's airport?

"But he has a card!"

That'll make everyone feel better. You know they're not going to blame a flock of birds if that plane goes down in the Ohio.

"Well, we found no evidence of feathers in the recovered engines, but we did find this card....."

PET/CT Day

2009-02-02T05:17:00.004-05:00

Kevin has a PET/CT today, part of the ongoing observation. Used to be 5 years total, now it's 5. somethingorother before he's considered "cured."

Our cancer center doesn't have dedicated PET/CT facilities (but it's likely getting one soon) so the mobile truck is brought in twice a week. Used to be once a week--the increase means the cancer center is becoming recognized as a good place for treatment. And, sadly, that cancer continues to increase it's presence among us.

The injection Kevin receives is called FDG-18; it's a sugar and a radioactive element. The sugar bonds with the active metabolic processes in Kev's body (cancer cells are outrageously metabolically active and will show up as 'hot spots', especially when other metabolic processes are slowed down through fasting and resting) and the radionuclide gives off gamma rays which are detected by the PET machine.

You got all that, right? It's the only cool thing that comes with cancer. I get to use words like "radionuclide" in a sentence.

So PET measures chemistry in his body while the CT side of the scan measures anatomical structure. Put together and we get a 3-D view inside his body that differentiates between structure like scar tissue from surgery or radiation and metabolically active cells which may indicate new cancer growth.

It's very cool technology and pretty definitive in terms of telling us what's going on with his body. We should get the results in a week or so. Or experience has been that bad news comes in faster on these things than good news so we're in no hurry to get a phone call.