ANNIVERSARIES, HERNIAS AND RAFA NADAL

Hello, Dear Clotters,

I apologize for the blog delay, but we have been in Palm Springs, basking in the sunshine (Yes, Virginia, there is a sun) absorbing and re-directing vitamin D to regions of our bodies where the sun don’t shine. The temperatures were so hot we feared spontaneous combustion.

I can see why T. S. Eliot calls April a cruel month. April in Salt Lake is most assuredly not the same as April in Palm Springs.

Our annual anniversary trek to the land of surgical enhancement and conspicuous self-absorption went off without a hitch…depending on what you mean by “hitch.”

Palm Springs has a personality as peculiar to itself as most regions around the world. (Hello, I’m from Utah.) For instance, in South Carolina, life moves at a noticeably slower pace. The people there even jog with a drawl.

In Palm Springs, some people use golf carts to walk their exquisitely coiffed dogs, just prior to their standing appointments with the personal puppy masseuse. Now I’m not suffering from indulgence envy, but I am unclear on the concept. We had a dog, Bert, that the girls considered the favored younger brother. That was an exaggeration, although he passed away before he was named sole heir to the estate. However, he was clearly a canine savant, whose personal integrity would have prevented us from hitching him to a golf cart or enrolling him in a doggy day spa.

Ah, but I digress. It is almost a funner spectator sport watching the people than watching the tennis. There were men bearing such blatant biceps, one suspected they might have been surgically installed. Of course, upon self-examination, I was able to identify if not
“biceps,” at least a majestic “unicep.” (My “ceps” reserves are seriously depleted.) I also realized upon closer inspection, that I had manifestly exceeded the legal chin limit of Palm Springs, as defined by the local population. I wondered if there is a specific diet for chin reduction…without resorting to the final “shrink wrap” resolution. However, with the current focus on being prepared for any disaster, I have found myself actually hoarding surplus neck tissue. Our family could survive any catastrophic event on my supply alone.

We are quite impressed with the Palm Springs road works project. They had the foresight to paint wavy lines to compensate for the ubiquitous cell phone lane wobble.

Brodi suggested we petition the Palm Springs city council to change the pedestrian street crossing signs from “Walk/Don’t Walk” to “Strut/Pose.”

Time is measured in “celebrity years,” which seem to pass without significantly impacting local body contour. The plastic surgeons in this region are obviously quite gifted, for they do give the impression of time standing still. But we did see a few botched exceptions where it would be in everyone’s best interest to call a mulligan and move on.

There seems to be no size restrictions in this community. There were enhancements so bounteous, they could have kept the Titanic afloat. We saw skin pulled so tight that it could deflect any missile launched by alien invaders. Obviously, in Palm Springs, sag is a drag, and I distinguished myself as being manifestly “perky-less.” So be it.

Speaking of celebrities, a tennis icon joined us unexpectedly at our table where we were toasting our anniversary with diet colas and jelly bellies. None other than Bud Collins emerged from the multitude pretty in pink...the color of romance. I like pink. In fact, I, myself, was looking rather adorable in my own saucy pink hat. It’s just that Bud was so consumed with the laying on of pink, that he will forever remain in our memories as the placebo for a bottle of Pepto Bismol.

Bud was quite tanned, which was in stark contrast to the “Utah fish bellies.” Talk about a lighter shade of pale. There is a skin tone specific to Palm Springs residents. Our particular personal pigmentation pallor just screamed, “tourist,” “non-resident,” “Utah transplant,” “Mug me, please!”

But all the celebrity dazzle aside, the tennis was remarkable. I am including Brodi’s chronicle of the tournament, because her version is more entertaining than mine. She rocks!

BRODI

Mood: I gotta say, I'm feeling rather complete.

Mood: Totally Rocks.

Mood: Satisfied.

Reason for Mood: You all know, right?

So, first day of the tournament, I took my seat over at Stadium 1 for 15 minutes of one match: Rafa against... ummm... some poor soul. My seats were in the stratosphere, and I could barely see him. But at least I could see him, as in, there was only air between us.

This was my view. Rafa is the "dot" on the right.

I considered paying some exorbitant price for closer seats, but the tix would have cost like 200 dollars. I love Rafa, but my love apparently has limits of the monetary sort.

So, I could leave, saying I saw him in person. Technically.

THE DAY THAT CHANGED EVERYTHING
Then, the schedule for Tuesday came out. It showed Rafa would play his singles match in the gigantor stadium... and then... he would play his doubles match in Stadium 2! Which, is general seating! Which means, if you get there early enough, you could have front row!

So I told my parents, we WILL see Rafa. Up close. Personal. Splash zone for his sweat.

I was determined to beat everyone to the front row. We woke up early the next morning, and I felt like it was Disneyland, wrapped up in a package of Christmas, with a bow of Heaven, or something.

My mom told me it was my turn to say grace on our food, and my brain wasn't quite up to the task, so it went something like this:

(Words in italics represent what I was actually thinking, but trying desperately not to say out loud, because I take my blessings seriously).

"Ummm... bless the food (that it will give us the strength to sit through 5 matches in the blazing heat) umm... bless those (poor suckers) we left behind ... umm... bless our health (that I may wear black, and still withstand the scorching sun, because black is my fave)... and so forth."

By the time I finished, my dad was nearly in tears, laughing at my sincere effort. I told him, if he's laughing, he's not eating, and therefore he's wasting precious minutes.

After all my hard work, we got second row. We were so close to the players! Now I just had to sit through 5 or 6 matches.

What does it say about me that this guy had the same idea?



And the matches were stellar.

The annoying guy behind me would say things about the women like "Boy, she's got some caboose on her. That's a Serena caboose." And I would turn around and give him the elite tennis stare- the one that says "Stop being such a butt-munch, and have you seen your own gut? and tennis fans are supposed to be polite!" with my eyes only.

The hardest part was teaching my eyes to say "butt-munch".

The caboose guy marveled at my courage in wearing black on such a hot sunny day. Or really, he mocked me for my stupidity.

me: "Rafa's playing tonight. And black is my signature color."

caboose guy: "It absorbs the heat."

me: "Rafa doesn't care about that!"

guy: "There's no way Rafa's coming tonight."

me: "Take it back!"

But he didn't. Because, you see, nobody thought Rafa was going to show. He already had a singles match, and everyone knows that singles players don't care about doubles, so if they have two matches in a day, they will default on the doubles.

I just shook my head. "If I have to park my butt on this metal bench until it melts, he will come."

guy: "Is that like some sort of twisted take on that Field of Dreams movie?"

me (resembling a growl) : "Yes."

And then, as much as I was enjoying the matches before Rafa, they kept getting longer. and longer. This added to the speculation that Rafa would withdraw.

I started yelling things like: "Will somebody please just dominate and get off the court!"

But there were 3-setters galore. Nobody wanted to take one for the team. And by that, I mean, nobody wanted to default so I could see Rafa sooner. Nobody wanted to succomb to the heat. Bah!

By the time the match before Rafa's started, I had been in my seat for ten hours straight. Then, the ladies in front of me gave up, and donated their front row seats to the cause! Hooray!

And still, everyone was all, "You're delusional, little Chica. The scorching sun on your black shirt has made you crazy. He's not coming."

And I was all, "Whatev's"


Finally, after 12 hours in my seat, he showed.



He came. He played. And it was beautiful.






He wore his signature white long shorts, and he picked his snuggies (aka "wedgies") multiple times. (Because Rafa is so good, he doesn't care that he has to pick his snuggies between every point. His tight shorts ride up, and he wants to be comfortable, no matter what people think. How cool is that? Makes me want to pick mine.)

Anyway, many fans lost faith. And I like to think they lost sleep over their decision to give up on Rafa.

And now, dear readers, I will focus on something else in my blogs. I promise.

By the way- Rafa loved the black. Did I mention that?

As you can see, Brodi added a lot to our anniversary trip…extreme fanny fatigue mainly. Dennis did return to Salt Lake with a souvenir…a hernia. Yes, a hernia. We have named it Rafa. We’re not sure exactly how it happened. It might have been a natural consequence of sitting on hard backless bleachers for 14 straight hours in 90 degree solar rays so our youngest adored offspring could sit within sweat-flicking range of Rafa Nadal. In addition, Dennis had to go to the dermatologist for a suspicious freckle that Dr. Reese disintegrated with a cocktail of liquid kryptonite, acid, and carefully preserved extract of “essence of Rafa sweat.” He will be scaring babies and puppies for at least a week before it heals.

And Dennis, indeed, must have an operation on his hernia. But this will be done laprascopically. Apparently laprascopy is a fairly routine process by which a tiny computerized scope is inserted into Dennis’ lap, and the entire hernia is extracted through his belly button. I’m constantly amazed at what medical technology can do!

We spend the greater part of each day counting our blessings, and the greater part of each night in prayers of thanksgiving. It’s almost lilac time. The sun is shining. Happy Easter. He is Risen. It is all good.

Love,

The Clot

THE CHAOS OF TRIBAL ORDER

Hello, Clotters,

It is interesting how various families establish and perpetuate their own exquisite tribal order. Ours is currently based on and maintained by the bathroom scale. This will cease to be the case once Dennis reaches his original weight of 150. As we speak, he is a robust 128! We are rejoicing. Now that does not exactly rank him among the morbidly obese, or even slightly overweight. But it is funny how the gain of a few extra pounds manifests itself. For instance, we notice a profound difference in Dennis’s armpits. They are no longer the deep, cavernous, crater-like, eviscerated under-arm depressions that no amount of hair re-growth can fill in. There is no residual “echo chamber” effect when we converse while he applies deodorant, which, by the way, is required in every-greater quantities, of late.

It used to be that from the neck down, there were skeletal depressions that rivaled the naked archaeologist’s excavation site. But since he has broken and exceeded the 125 pound barrier, his pits have pudge. It’s like cellulite in over-drive.

Now, I realize that the metamorphosis of one’s underarms is not exactly an engine of re-birth, but it is an indicator of a robust change in features. Don’t misunderstand, Dennis is not about to don a loin cloth and moonlight as a sumo wrestler to supplement the family income. But he is noticeably bumping and nudging his way up the scale. We expect that if the trend continues, he will soon become Limbaugh-esque. (The image makes reason stare.) We consider that as our personal stimulus package!

The dark side of excessive self-absorption is junk-blogging. So, hang on. Here goes.

This weekend we will observe our anniversary. It falls on the Ides of March. Years ago, to commemorate the assassination of Caesar and the efficacy of soothsayers, we got married. I won’t divulge the number of Ides we have passed in matrimony, (No, we were NOT contemporaries of Caesar) because it does not mathematically coincide with my professed age. I could be busted by carbon-dating.

For those who are higher-math impaired, a simple abacus would verify that my marriage took place several years prior to my birth. But I have no remorse, and I do not suffer from arithmetic envy. I simply subscribe to the Bernie Madoff accounting system, whose numbers substantiate the preposterously impossible. I really don’t see a problem.

However, in spite of my age, or perhaps because of it, I have been asked to be a surrogate. Yes, surrogate…grandma, that is. Apparently I have all the necessary qualifications to make me a viable candidate…correct number of wrinkles, appropriate sagging, disproportionate thigh size to cleavage, varicose veins that rival the Blue Danube, hot flashes that are a major contributor to global warming, and incontinence. Dennis’ ear and nasal fur, along with the vast expanse of gray in the beard, have made him the front-runner to be “grandpa by proxy.” Our selection as “fake grandparents” was ratified unanimously (eat your heart out, Tom Daschle!), and we will, no doubt, present quite a family tableau. We are honored!

There is so much to savor and celebrate…enlarged armpits, anniversaries, soothsayers, surrogates, and…Barbie turned 50! She and I have a lot in common, with the notable exception of age and physical proportions. Other than that, we’re indistinguishable!

We rejoice in the countless ways our lives are blessed. And we are grateful for dear friends and sweet companions.

All our love,

The Clot

SWEETHEART'S DEAL HAPPY VALENTINES DAY!

Happy Valentine’s Day, Dear Ones.

What a season for celebration. It’s the bicentennial anniversary of the birth of the Great Emancipator, Mr. Lincoln, and the Great Evolver, Mr. Darwin. And how best to celebrate a bicentennial than to kill the fatted bicen!

And if that weren’t enough holiday glut, we just saw Punxatani Phil, the official ground hog weather prognosticator, who forecast six more weeks of winter. WooHoo!

And who could forget the International Year of Astronomy. I’m not sure if there is some official revelry protocol to note the occasion that could rival the collision of orbiting space thingees that contributed greatly to our cosmic junk stock pile, which will continue to orbit the earth upon a trail of radioactive debris until it decides to flame out in an atmospheric Big Bang, and plunge to earth at astronomical velocity causing cataclysmic demolition and KILLING US ALL!!! Did I mention it is also the Year of the Paranoid?

But in our house, we are anticipating the arrival of Mardi Gras – that erratic and paganistic orgy of self-indulgence, unrestrained conspicuous consumption and regal hubristic bloat that is inserted so tightly between Christmas and Easter as if it were an atomic wedgie.

Mind you, we are not planning a parade of the usual bizarre assortment of genetically mutated characters. (For us, that would be just another routine day.) But Mardi Gras means “Fat Tuesday,” and coincidentally, Dennis’ weight has mushroomed to a colossal 127 pounds over the past week (Sound the trumpets!) I mean, the guy’s got heft. He has an appetite like a lumberjack…a very little lumberjack. So, we salute Mardi Tuesday, Mardi Wednesday, Mardi Thursday…well, you get the idea.

I know that Lent is also fast approaching, but we’re just not that into self-denial or penitence. We are somewhat selective about what calendar events we observe. It’s all about convenience and feelin’ good.

However, Valentine’s Day we pulled out all the stops in a renewal of romance. First of all, we went for our routine 5:00 a.m. “walk of the voyeurs.” Because of the snow and extreme cold, we donned so many layers, we resembled woolly mammoths engaged in some prehistoric stroll of the mastadons. But the air was so clean and crisp and un-particulated that we felt safe to breathe deeply…and there is nothing as endearingly pleasant as oxygenating one’s blood cells with someone you really like.

Later on in the day, Dennis took me to a Jazz game. Well, actually, it was a Jr. Jazz game…of 8-year olds…where dribbling is optional, but only if the ball handler really wants to interrupt his spring to the basket by releasing custody of the ball at regulated intervals. Our grandson, Josh, was laudably disciplined, and only averaged a dozen steps per dribble. We cheered him with wild abandon. The final score was 20-8 for our team. The opponents kept having trouble with turnovers, because when they dribbled, our guys stole the ball. I think the NBA is just a mite too regimented on the traveling calls.

And, of course, in the evening, we turned up the romance-o’-meter by watching 4 marathon hours of Bull Riders Only. Bones, Sir Patrick, VooDoo Child, Troubadour, and Chicken on a Chain are bovine rock stars on the tour. Now, I’m not exactly a groupie for these particular athletes, but they are two tons or rank, murderous horns and hide, and 8 seconds on their backs is an eternity. I’ve always thought in my next life, I plan to join the PBR. Dennis always says that for once the bull would be full of me. Hmmm.

Over the years, you learn what works and what doesn’t work, Cupidly speaking. It’s a little like choosing between Lincoln and Darwin in one’s approach to romance. For instance, if Dennis brought me flowers, candy, perfume, or jewelry on Valentine’s Day, I would suspect him of deep-seated guilt, put him on the witness stand, and interrogate him relentlessly, until he confessed to crimes and misdemeanors he didn’t even commit. (I know how to waterboard.) Those are gifts one gives his wife on ordinary days, nothing days, regular, undistinguished days not high-lighted on the calendar by the media blitz of the greeting card cartel.

In Darwinian terms, there is a sub-species category known as “homo-patheticus.” It requires more than opposing thumbs and standing upright to be an enlightened romantic in the noblest tradition. Sometimes it only takes seven pounds and a lot of bull.

Some of our most splendid jubilation is reserved for Supreme Court Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg. She was recently diagnosed with pancreas cancer, and underwent surgery to resect the tumor. She expects to be back to work by the end of the month.

We rejoice in her victory. If each man’s grief is my own, it stands to reason that so is each man’s triumph.

When we look back at our circumstances of a year ago, we delight in the sudden flashes of insight that have so changed our lives and provide opportunity to appreciate extra flesh, rampaging bovines, and the art of the heart.

Much love to all,

The Clot

BRODI'S TAKE ON THE WHIPPLE-VERSARY

Everyone has their own perspective on the one year anniversary of The Whipple. Click here to read my daughter Brodi's interpretation of the procedure. Very funny!

A YEAR OF LIVING DANGEROUSLY

Today is the first-year anniversary of Dennis’ Whipple. It was on this day in ’08, that Dr. Mulvihill performed a most complex, dangerous, and exquisitely precise surgical procedure that ultimately gave Dennis a fighting chance in his battle with pancreas cancer. This particular cancer has a well-deserved reputation for viciousness.

It is a remarkable day, but sobering. We weren’t sure just how we would mark the event. But we did have an appointment for a three-month check-up with Dr. Mulvihill, so we figured that would be a good place to begin the commemoration.

And we got some wonderful news. Dennis has finally crossed the weight threshold and joined the ranks of those tipping the scales at 125 and above. He is no longer plagued with “cellulite envy.” We are now considering the many options we have due to the increased weight gain…the possibilities of poundage. It must be a concentrated energy source that we could invest in some sort of physical activity. We’re considering aggressive reconnoitering, but we’re not exactly certain just what that is. (I’m pretty sure extreme cage fighting is not on the short list of possibilities.)

In addition, his blood pressure has risen to 126 over 58, (he usually registers at “semi-conscious.”) All of these numbers brought smiles to the faces of those who know what all of those numbers mean, so there was a lot of celebratory fist-bumping ala Obama. But the best news of all, the results we await with great anticipation and dread, are his tumor markers. And the labs showed them to be 23, well within the brackets of normal. I love that word, “normal”…and “survivor”…and “benign”…and “cure”…and “23.”

Dr. Mulvihill informed us that the curve of recurrence falls off every year, and that he is planning on long-term follow-up. In fact, he was so pleased with Dennis’ progress, that he suggested a four-month interim for his next appointment. (More fist-bumps.)

Our appointments with Dr. Mulvihill are pleasant because we are able to discuss not only the physical aspects of our experience, but the ramifications of that experience. And he is particularly intuitive to our needs and emotions. We anticipate his personal observations and wisdom in addition to his medical expertise. He said that he has always had great expectations from us. He advised us to live a normal life, and try not to think too much about the cancer. When we asked him how to do that, we all laughed.

Finally, Dr. Mulvihill reiterated that we were all in this together, and he was glad to be a part of our lives. Hmmmm. Part of our lives. I think the surgeon who spent ten hours on a broken leg to ressect a mass that was threatening Dennis’ life, would probably qualify to be considered a part of our lives.

We left the Huntsman exhilarated and humbled, and tried to think how best to observe the passage of this vital anniversary, the first year of the rest of our lives.

Somehow, a commemoration seemed most appropriate, a simple noting of incidents that have profoundly transformed our existence. We have opted for some quiet, reflective time – private pondering in solitude.

On the wall of our exam room hangs a plaque with a quote from Jack London.

“I would rather be ashes than dust!
I would rather be a super meteor, every atom of me in magnificent glow, than a sleepy
permanent planet.
The proper function of man is to live, not just exist.
I shall not waste my days trying to prolong them.
I shall use my time.”

And so, at this juncture in time, we will mark a date on our calendar and “use our time.” It is ’09, and tomorrow is February. Perhaps the over-riding rationale and noblest tradition of our mortal probation can be distilled down to this basic simplicity: We are all a part of one another’s lives, and we are all in this together.

Love to all,
The Clot

MOLECULAR IMAGING, OR WHO STOLE MY IDENTITY

Let the joyous news be spread. Dennis’ weight has increased with a staggering ascent.

Yes, way!

For the past week, he has held steady at a buxom 124!! (and knocking at the door of 125!) It is only a matter of time before the door is opened, and he is embraced in the bosom of the obese.

We waited to confirm this announcement for fear it might be a false positive, an optical delusion, a figment of our fevered desire for the warm reassurance of observable, palpable pudge.

But one cannot deny the evidence. Dennis’ landscape is definitely more vast, the expanse of his terrain more sprawling. He has 48 newly-acquired, fleshy ounces that mitigate his linear alignment. He did not shrink, but he most decidedly broadened. ( We refer to this as horizontal enhancement.)

He has shed the visage of the nutritionally deprived, and has features that have morphed from specter to spectacular. Cue the herald angels!

OK, my intention is not to stretch the bounds of credulity to exclaim our rapture, but we have spent a year where the central feature of our existence is to continue to exist, and that fact of life seems to be predicated upon the accumulation of enough molecular cells to sustain life. So every precious fat cell collected swaddles his bones, and advances our cause. Ergo, we celebrate with comic-book faces of levity, and greatly anticipate the time when Dennis puts on an outfit and asks, “Does this make me look fat?”

Andre Agassi served as pitchman for some product with the slogan, “Image is everything.” I’m not sure of the veracity of that observation. Images can be deceiving, and self-images can be down-right distorted.

For instance, I have liked to think of myself as a fortress of conviction, a battleship of stoicism, an impenetrable force to be reckoned with.

I have no doubt I am capable of field-dressing some hapless creature unfortunate enough to get caught in the cross-hairs of my Physician’s Desk Reference. (See prior blog for clarification.)

I am vulnerable to “turf-toe,” the bane of all Sherpas, because my feet are on such a precipitous descent, they are jammed into the front of my single-cleat, power stilletoes designed to simultaneously impale and aerate as I stride the boundless wilderness murmuring audible projectiles.

My awesome presence emits the pheromones of the extreme cage-fighter, stealthy and lethal.

I am a vortex of energy. A carnivore. And my lipstick – “Vlad, The Impaler” red.

However, circumstance recently forced me into a cataclysmic confrontation with the perception/perceived differential which drew me off my delusional center, and made me realize I was operating from a distortion quotient of zero sum intelligence – a single mind without a single verifiable thought.

It all began last week when Ben Ballou phoned me at 7:30 a.m. in mid-sentence. If you know Ben, you know this wouldn’t exactly qualify as unusual behavior. What is unusual is that it doesn’t occur more frequently!

Ah, but I digress.

Apparently, Ben had just read an account posted on Brodi’s blog of an incident that took place several years ago. Now, Ben was actually designated to be Brodi’s brother, but serendipitously got re-routed in transit to the Ballou Family. So we always cut him some slack and give him a free pass via the insane/savant treaty between our two families.

Anyway, Ben was mortified that such an incident could have taken place. He was calling to verify. I verified. He was distraught, inconsolable, and quoted whole passages from the book I’d made him read, “The Hunter I Might Have Been.”

And when I inquired what had prompted this heinous historical re-visitation, he wailed, “Brodi’s blog!” From Ben’s perspective, it was definitely a “blog noire.”

Of course, my interest was piqued, and I instantly went to the designated blog. I was rather amused at Brodi’s chronicle. I laughed out loud at the “Bambi tale.” But I was also surprised at Brodi’s description of me. She all but insinuated that my lipstick repertoire consists only of varying shades of pastel.

Now it is true that I am emotionally ill-equipped to watch the entire animated version of Disney’s “Bambi.” I am rather vulnerable to computer-generated trauma. This may have impacted the whole doorstep-desiccation incident.

I was going to try to paraphrase Brodi’s telling of the infamous incident, but opted to include her blog account instead. You’ll see why she is our designated family griot. She is the keeper of our stories.


DEER LEGS (From Brodi)
Tuesday Dork Side status: First edition of the Dork Side (yesterday’s post) went better than expected. Only one person threw rotten fruit (I’m not naming names, Cam) But she redeemed herself when she mentioned deer legs in the snow.

What did she mean, you may ask?

Let me tell you a little story about Cam’s husband. His name’s Ben, and we practically grew up together. I was the little brother he never wanted. He was the bigger brother who used to engage in a grossly ritualistic and bloody rite of passage that most Utah boys (due to a lack of oxygen from the inversion, no doubt) have instilled in them from their day of birth.

Can anyone guess to what I am referring?

Let me preface the rest by telling you something about my mother. Insects have feelings. Fleas just want to be loved. Spiders are angels trapped in an eight-legged hairy body. The “least of these” have been did unto (does that make Biblical sense?) in my home.

Every little critter was given safe passage out onto our front porch. (Except for the random rat in our back yard. Those get squished by my Dad’s Physician’s Desk Reference, depending on the accuracy of his aim. But, I digress.)

Anyway, our little innocent Ashton Family woke up one snowy morning to find a most disturbing sight in our front yard. Four deer legs sticking out of a mound of snow. Yes, Bambi had been slaughtered on our doorstep! His body only half buried under snow, the four legs sticking straight up in the air.

After we revived my mother, we went out front to un-snow the little darling. Only, guess what. The four deer legs weren’t attached to anything! Bambi had been dismembered, and his legs had been stuck into the snow mound in our yard!

Curses, Ben Ballou! Curse your deer appendages! Now, if it had been anybody else, my mother never would have found the good graces to forgive. But this was Ben. Granted, he would soon find out he owed her a lifetime of servitude, but he was eventually forgiven. I never understood, until one day she told me she always wanted just two children: my sister, Erin, and a son!

That last sentence is a total fabrication, but the rest of Brodi’s account is fairly accurate, although that doesn’t exactly make me the “spider whisperer!” ( She did, however, fail to mention that there is a category of spider which is not extended “favored arachnid” status: crush and flush. If the sight of a spider causes the loss of sphincter control, he is extinguished in our own version of Gitmo waterboarding…he is crushed and flushed. Hey, it is what it is.

I guess it is good to see ourselves as others see us. It’s definitely sobering! But we are all connected by bonds of love and distortion, and while not one of us is an island, together, we’re a continent!
Love,

The Clot

WELCOME ’09!

Happy New Year, Loved Ones!

Well, the holidays have ended, but the year is just beginning. Hooray! The moisture of this past week has cleansed the air, eased the drought, and beautified the world. Looks like we’re going to have a white New Year.

What a wonderful opportunity to move forward from the past year and celebrate renewal and a re-commitment to the lovely things of this life. 2009 is barely a week old, and I have already made – and brutally broken – numerous resolutions. (Oh, the carnage!) However, I take pride in the fact that I had monumental success in keeping the resolutions I made last year…there were actually 22 on my Top Ten list. I was able to not lose weight nor gain character traits that might hold me hostage for living an exemplary life. I vowed to lobotomize my inhibitions, indulge my bubble-gum addiction, and eat jelly bellies after 9:30 a.m. and p.m. I have even driven 40 m.p.h. on freeways in spite of numerous “birds of protest,” for driving my age. These accomplishments compensate for the fact that I have not yet earned my advanced degree in rocket science. All in good time, my Pretty.

We liked the holidays a little better this year than last. Time is a remarkable commodity. It mercifully shrinks our capacity to take in all the events of this last year, and yet it has expanded our conduit to the finer, more transcendent things of life. This is all good.

Christmas Day was the usual mixture of chaos and confusion. This lethal combination produces the anesthetizing properties equivalent to a tranquilizer dart…merciful and painless. It can actually be restorative to the adults who just pulled off the biggest felonious act of unconscionable, uncompromised, and unjustified indulgence of the holiday season.

The grandkids have made the dubious discovery that their behavior during the time prior to Christmas has absolutely no effect on the amount of plunder Santa stuffs down our chimney with such relish, in spite of oft-repeated and decibel-increasing empty threats to the contrary. We spent the greater part of the week between Christmas and New Year’s performing hazardous waste management clean-up, and vowing that this disgusting display of conspicuous consumption will never again in the annals of history be repeated…and then going to all the after-Christmas sales to pick up stocking stuffers for the ’09 heinous encore.

Our New Year’s Eve celebration consisted of just the two of us. This year was a whole different animal than last year. But, nevertheless, we adhered to the strict observance of the usual traditions as in times past. We celebrated our brains out…which mercifully, of late, doesn’t take too long. Then, we retired at midnight…New Zealand standard time. (That’s just about 6:00 p.m. in the Salt Lake time zone.) This is sooo OK.
In spite of, and, perhaps, because of, suffering from the affliction known as PTHSS(Post-Traumatic Holiday Stress Syndrome), we have decided to make a fraction of the resolutions we made last year. We had considered not making any resolutions, empty promises, or commandments we really do not intend to keep, but guilt is a relentless despot, so we go on record for posterity.

So, here goes:

1. Although it seems apparent that I must live life in every insane and logically defiant episode of “I Love Lucy,” I am committed to anticipating and trying to avoid as many gratuitous “Lucy and Ethel” moments as possible. I realize this might make life a little boring, but it will also severely reduce moments of great humiliation and chagrin.

2. I hereby swear to curb my swearing…in multiples. After realizing how clean and pristine a single obscenity properly pontificated can be, (thanks, Margaret) I understand that multiples are excesses that lack creative forethought, impact, and imagination…and can lead to verbal stagnation. (The concept that less is more.) Artistic expression should never be subordinated to spontaneous, uncontrolled regurgitations.

3. I promise not to go rogue. I will try to stay on message. And I will maintain my stilletoes and mascara as my main power cosmetics. (I also plan to throw my panty hose in the political ring in 2012.)

4. We vow to reject the proverbial “golden parachute,” but we’re sinking fast. So we have altered our financial expectations just enough to reject the iron anvil and hope for some sort of miraculous magical gas…similar to helium…that will keep us aloft, but not launch us into the stratosphere! We’re thinking of petitioning Congress (that great flatulent institution) to offer us a bail-out similar to the ones provided for the Chrysler and perhaps porn industries.

We rejoice beyond expression for Dennis’ health and continued progress. We are committed to living life from miracle to miracle, something we have learned through our experience of 08. And we are most thankful for each one of our family, friends, neighbors and dear ones, for blessing and enriching our lives, and being constantly by our sides. You are truly God’s sweetest angels.

Love,
The Clot