THE MATRIARCH

Due to deference, default, death, or just plain sucky circumstances, I am a Matriarch.  No, not A matriarch – THE MATRIARCH. 

Now, mind you, this is not a position I sought after or campaigned for.  No.  No.  This triumphant metamorphosis was thrust upon me unbidden.  I am reluctantly perched atop this peak.  I am the dominant clan member, the titular head of the family, the woman of veneration to the posse, the Apex Enforcer to those in a direct line of descent.

I am glaringly unqualified.  One must matriculate before ascending this summit. One can assume the mantle only under the most rigorous of specific pre-conditions.  I reiterate.  I am lacking in credentials.

These conditions include but are not limited to the following:

1.       Maturity.  One must be ripe with mellow warmth, sweetness and a soft, squishy center – like a pear haloed in fruit flies, just before it’s consigned to the trash can.

2.       The very word, “matriarch,” conjures visions of rounded shoulders,  ladies distinguished as dowdy, frumpy, slightly disheveled, and sportin’ radioactive temple breath.

3.       When I think of Matriarch, I think of Queen Elizabeth, the Monarch of Great Britain, a staid and grand lady, slightly bent and forever carrying a purse.  Or Dame Maggie Smith, the Dowager Emeritus of Downton Abbey, who spits so many rapid-fire put-downs in ever-so proper English, she nearly busts her tightly-corseted bustier and saturates the atmosphere with cryptic and cutting candor.  There is nothing like a dame!

4.       Finally, a matriarch must be set in her ways, unyielding in her preferences, bellicose, like a gargoyle from every pinnacle of the mansion.

Not me.  That’s simply not me.

However, I passed a mirror.  That brought a flood of unattractive and shabby reflections.  The more I thought about it, the more I realized maybe, just maybe, I am rather set in my ways.  I do have preferences that, when violated, I take offense. I can be provoked into spontaneous combustion and have been known to emit warning sounds reminiscent of the Madagascar hissing cockroach.

So I made a list of things I like and things I don’t like.  Sure enough…my age is betrayed by carbon dating.  I am stubborn.  I am set in my ways.  But they are the only true and living ways, so I stick by them without apology.

Pronouncement:  All leaders, in order to be truly great, should have ovaries.  It’s better to endure hot flashes than nuclear melt-down.

So here is my catalogue, my personal inventory, the laundry list of things that could trigger carpet bombing necessitating first-responders should anyone risk death by stupidity for perpetuating my displeasure.

Things I don’t like:

Halloween, haunted houses, hash tags, Arnold Schwarzenegger.

I like: 

Gangnam, old movies, harvest time, Rafa Nadal.

Don’t like:

TV Awards programs, reality shows, prune juice.

Like:

Bubble gum, platinum blond hair, wedding dresses, soccer games when I have DNA playing on the team.

Don’t like:

Naked royals, cannibals, Geico ads, politics.

Like:

Ethics, Lincoln, Coke Zero, Rafa Nadal.

Don’t like:

Prune juice, TV ads for products with animated characters of mucus, constipation, or toenail fungus, shots, politics, Kardashians, and mean people.

Like:

Good books, Henry IV Part I, nice people, more Coke Zero (It’s now been de-criminalized.)

Absolutely Hate:

Cancer.

I suppose I have come to terms with my new identity.  I am qualified.  I am set in my ways.

Ovaries, Unite!  Matriarchs should rule the world.  It’s the most efficient use of leadership. It is the way the universe was designed.

Advice to those who would appease the Apex Matriarch:  Adhere to the Stockholm Syndrome – identify with the beast, and no one gets hurt.

 

Why Can't Vaccines be Pointless?

OK.  So.  I got my flu shot.  No.  Correction.  Not JUST my flu shot.  I also got a pneumococcal polysaccharide vaccine (for pneumonia and multiple sugars), a diphtheria and pertussis vaccine (so I don’t spontaneously break out in mindless whooping and hollering), and a tetanus booster (so lockjaw does not inhibit my incessant stream of consciousness).

It was an ordeal.

I entered the facility with foreboding.  In the parking lot outside was a flatbed whose cargo was comprised of syringes the size of the Alaskan pipe line. It was every needle-phobiac’s worst nightmare.  The anticipation filled me with dread and trembling.

I miss Dennis.  He would take me to unpleasant procedures such as this and assure me I would neither puke nor projectile faint.  He had the power of suggestion, and I always believed him.  Consequently, I did neither.  However, he often neglected to remind me not to swear, which I did prolifically, frequently inventing new sequences for old obscenities with each injection.  For some reason, Dennis never appeared chagrined or humiliated.  In fact, he seemed amused at my gift for articulating the profane. It pleased me to make him proud.  In the whole anatomy of life, he made me feel buxom.

Prior to that long, lonesome drive to purgatory, I concentrated on hydrating myself.  I don’t know why exactly.  It just seemed like a good idea at the time.  It was only as I was strapped into the procedure chair with no visible means of escape, that I realized what a really bad idea hydration was.  So many prayers of late pivot around remaining continent.

Allison, the tech, detected my apprehension.  Perhaps it was the bulging cartoon eyes protruding from a face contorted into an African war mask.  Penetrating feloniously spasmodic muscle layers with her pitiless needle appeared doubtful under the circumstances.  Her efforts to distract me from impending doom were counterintuitive and purely ornamental.  I was sure we were at an impasse.

I’m a little embarrassed in hind sight.  It’s strange how one’s perception of oneself is at odds with actuality.  I was determined to approach this ordeal like a Tibetan Warrior Monk, a veritable cinder-block fortress of disembodied heroism, simmering with power and unlimited possibility, a welterweight werewolf under a full moon, with the talons of a bird of prey, lean, spare, and coiled…stupid with human endurance.  I.  AM.   WOMAN.

Ah, despite the resolution, the flesh was weak.

But then Allison performed a brilliant tactical maneuver.  It was simple really.  She merely mentioned  she’d read Brodi’s book, and could I tell her more about the characters and on whom they were based. 

Well, it was a game-changer.  I began to talk, confessing things I swore never to reveal in a shameless expose.  I told every confidence except where they hid Jimmy Hoffa’s remains.  As I rambled on, I could feel the tension go out of my neck.  My entire torso morphed into post-Dennis flab, drooping and sagging down the side of the chair like pulsating glacial slag until it puddled in a shiny mound of pink gelatinous petroleum jelly at my feet…like Mick Jagger’s lips melted in a bunson burner.

Allison was then able to puncture my ceps (I was unable to determine if they were “bi” or “tri,”) and inject the magic fluid to my entire bodily regions.  And it was done.  Mission accomplished.  I was inoculated!

At the conclusion, I wanted to celebrate with relief.  I felt like I’d just been liberated from my emotional long winter woollies.  I wanted to boing around like I was in a moon bounce.

In my euphoria, I suggested some sort of closing ceremony was warranted…perhaps with arm splints and the Purple Heart. Allison felt strongly that four Scooby Do boo-boo strips and an Angry Bird sticker was reasonable.  I conceded.

Best of all, throughout the whole ordeal, I never uttered a single vulgarity – not even one.  Boo Yah!

So bring on the planet, with its pertussises, polysaccharides and conjugations.  I’m ready.

I think Dennis would be proud.

Masters Degree

Sometimes healing involves chasing phantoms.  Memories and emotions haunt and can enslave the psyche with after-images on the retina.  Other times, recollections are a calming presence that quiets the mind with the understanding that I am fine…that it’s OK to forget about things for a while.  And so I do.

I am very nearly always OK.

I have heard it said that if you want to be good at something, you find a master.  Shakespeare said, “Everyone can master a grief but he that has it.”

Shakespeare never met Carter.

Well, I could live in a nest of wizards and wise men and never arrive at the intrinsic nature of the human experience so well as having a sleep-over with our grandson, Carter.  He is a creator and a wordsmith.  His brilliance always dispels my dullness.

I can be a tangled ganglion of dualities, complexes and contradictions.  I can pound my bulk down the pavement, battling fear and anxiety, searching for a small measure of deranged tranquility.  And then Carter arrives with his imaginative universe, re-organizes my cranium and conducts me into the brave new world of my own mind.

And we play.

Carter entertains me with his kinetic talking.  His mind is a network of psychic energy…a lightning rod for the paranormal.  It’s the Tao of Carter.

We begin every adventure with timed trials in competitive eating, which is our privilege as apex predators of fast food and pizza home delivery.  “Pop-top thumb” is a natural consequence  of opening copious cans of root beer to guzzle throughout the course of the evening.  As soon as our basic survival needs are met… and exceeded…the fun begins.

We invent worlds without end and universes without rationale or reason, populated by inhabitants with alien protoplasm, melon-heads, and human growth hormones.  Of course, there is always a measure of foul slime waiting to suck us into its depths.

Carter considers me a kindred spirit with a degree of competency.  He is generous.  I work hard not to disillusion him.  But I do acknowledge his ingenuity is often as ungraspable as a Zen Master’s riddles.

One day, he seemed to be talking in tongues.  It was akin to a medieval language.  His fantasy universe centered on pawns, minions, peasants, beasts, shields, dragon-slayers and lairs. There are a lot of “forsooths,” “quoth he’s,” and “over yonders.”  We even got out the marbles and played “Bowling for Serfs.”   Well, I got so caught up in it all, I began to quote Chaucer in my best middle English:        

 

Whan that Aprill with his shoures soote

The droghte of March hath perced to the roote,

And bathed every veyne in swich licour

Of which vertu engendred is the flour;

Carter was duly impressed and asked which video game I got that from.  I told him it was called “The University of Utah Master’s Program.”  He just smiled.

We are inventive in creating our empire.  We have the “Pillow of Death,” the dragon-slaying bobbie pins, the cottonball of mercy and the Q-tip of justice.  Things that might appear commonplace to the uninspired. 

Our mission is a holy crusade to vanquish evil, avenge the despicable, and eradicate fiends, demons and adversaries. 

Above all, Carter admonished me never to be “strongless.”

Hmmmm.  Strongless, you say?

Yes, strongless.  If you are strongless, you are in danger of becoming “courageless” and  “weakful.”  It diffuses your power.
I thought about that for a long time.  I do not want to be strongless, courageless, or weakful.  I cannot afford to have my power diffused.  I concluded I would harness Carter’s philosophy and go out into the world bold and confident as I face my demons and dragons.  I will NOT go over to the Dark Side.

The other day, my son-in-law advised that I need to get shots for flu, whooping cough, pneumonia and tetanus.  Really??!!!  Are you sure???  CRAP!  Deep in the private chambers of my soul, I dread the whole idea.  It makes me whine and use obscenities. But I have learned to be intrepid and gritty from the Master of Valor, and I will not disappoint.  Tomorrow morning I will use my powder puff of Might and my blush of Right. I will clean my teeth with the dental floss of Truth.  And then, like Don Quixote, I will run where the brave dare not go, face my fears, and conquer the malevolent Superbugs of the Universe.  I will not shrink from my appointed rounds.  I will enter Dave’s clinic, confront his nurse, and with a robust voice of beefy determination proclaim, “HIT ME WITH YOUR BEST SHOT!”  And then I will leave the exam room, trailing streams of glory like smoky vapor on the horizon. 

Crap.  I just hope I remain continent.

Becoming master of one’s self is a daunting task.  But I am determined to prevail.  I owe it to my young Yoda, Carter.  However, due to scheduling conflicts and prior commitments on my day-planner, eradicating fiends, demons and adversaries is extremely inconvenient at the moment.  I may postpone becoming my own Master until next week, when Dave’s nurse is on vacation. 

 

 

 

Prune Juice and Equilibrium

Autumn is singular.  It is the only time of the year with a name and an “aka.”  You can always predict the exact moment autumn arrives.  We do not ease into this season as with the others.  It accosts the world precisely at 8:00 a.m. on the first day of school.  It is abrupt and unmistakable and startling. 

Its entrance is heralded annually by a homogenous collection of children sporting new clothes, new backpacks, new braces, and new teeth – all under a canopy of sun-streaked hair and bronzed faces.  In attendance are mothers sporting tears and relief.

Summer careened by with cold-blooded speed, leaving my catalog of well-intentioned adventures woefully undischarged.

I do not sleep well the night prior to the beginning of school.  Never did.  I’m preoccupied perfecting my saber-rattling and flapping my excessive arm flab to ward off bad karma regarding my tribe.  I once saw a warning posted on a trail we were hiking in Washington.  It read:  “BEWARE!  There are new elk calves all along the Hoh River trail.  You may be perceived as a predator.  If you are chased by the mother, run until she stops chasing you…and then a little further.”  The same can be said about grandmas.  Personally, I’d rather hazard an encounter with a whole herd of mother elk than confront one protective matriarch.

Anyway, Monday morning, as per tradition, I arose at an insomniacally imbecilic hour and prepared for this annual rite of passage.  I successfully fogged a mirror without cracking it, so I felt confident enough about my personal body mass to proceed.  I dressed quickly and hurried to meet my grandkids for the tri-generational migration to school. 

All week I’d rehearsed my taut, maternal “everything’s-going-to-be-all-right/aren’t-we-having-fun?” smile, but only succeeded in looking like an over-caffeinated Cheshire cat.

Upon seeing each child safely into class, I loitered outside the rooms, my heart a little bruised.  This year is the same as all years prior…but not quite.

And then I went home to try to dislodge the smile that spasmodic muscles held unrelentingly frozen.

And re-gain my equilibrium.

I’m unclear just how to re-gain one’s equilibrium.  It’s so easily lost, but not found.

So I asked Auntie Fern, my darling 96-year-old aunt whom I adore, what her secret is.  How does she stay healthy, centered, balanced, harmonious?  She is the Dorrity Family Yoda.  Surely, she has THE ANSWER.

Without a moment’s hesitation, she replied, “Prune juice.”

Not sure I had heard correctly, I asked incredulously, “Prune juice?”

She reiterated with enthusiastic accentuation, “PRUNE. JUICE.”

Then she launched into an infomercial endorsement of this magical elixir, this nectar of the gods, with unrestrained rapture, making claims of health benefits worthy of Sham Wow testimonials!

Well, who am I to take issue with someone who once changed my diapers?  She has always been my  mentor, my consultant, my tutor.  Why, once she explained the technique of wringing the neck of a chicken with such vivid, graphic clarity, complete with appropriate hand gestures, sound effects, and chicken-face miming, that my nerves were left in tatters, and I went clammy. I threatened to go vegen.  “Colonel Sanders” is now the anti-foul, and “chicken tenders” a vulgarity.

Auntie Fern assured me that my life would not only have harmony, but regularity.  And harmony and regularity constitute equilibrium.

Well, I was convinced.  I became a believer.  It all sounded so simple, and never at any time of my life do I need harmony and regularity more than I do now.  I became a juice-totin’, hand-clapping, hallelujah-singing convert of “The Potion.”

I sipped from the grail. 

At first, nothing happened.  I began to suspect that I’d been a casualty of gullibility and a delusional aunt.

But then – Harmony hit Regularity with a vengeance.  I couldn’t leave the house for three days.  Auntie Fern was right.  I have never been healthier.  Being quarantined, I wasn’t exposed to a germ – or another human being – for nearly a week.  Ergo, I never contracted a cold, West Nile virus, or the plague.

“The Cure,” however, can be isolating and solitary, and I am a reluctant recluse.  So I now sing the praises of the prune with diminished vigor.

That’s powerful stuff.  You can’t control it.  You can only adjust.

So I think from now on I will seek equilibrium from alternative sources than from juice that could blister paint.

Recently, I saw a card with a wise man sitting atop a mountain.  He says, “Life is simple.  We are born.  We have birthdays.  We shrink.” 

Shrink, heck.  I shrivel.  I am beginning to resemble a prune.

But I’ve also heard it said that the wrinklier the prune, the sweeter the fruit.  I will own that.

 I will search for equilibrium in other places.  I am tired.  I will sit in the autumn sun, let my mind wander, and listen to my thoughts, should any materialize.  I will procrastinate.  I will pursue coherency and see if I can establish a new pattern.  And claim my own space.

I will contemplate the efficacy of a diet of chicken and prune juice.  And I will trust that autumn will bring renewed balance, solace and equilibrium in all things familiar.

 

Per Stirpes

Everything comes at its appointed time.  The strongest barriers break down in sorrow.  Emotions are mangled and wrenched from their hinges.  Rebuilding leaves me witless, but instills some degree of stamina and a certain tranquility.

It’s a gift.

I refuse to be a casualty of grief.  I am learning to cope.

Recently, while stuporously affixing my name to documents that had neither meaning nor clarity, I came across the term “per stirpes.” 

Through sheer Sherlockian deductive reasoning, I concluded it was a type-o…although “per stripes” seemed equally absurd.

However, my adviser explained that “per stirpes” (pronounced “stirpes”) actually comes from a Latin term meaning “from the loins.”

Wow!  What a powerful concept.  Apparently all my biological offspring are my “stirpes.’”

Stirpes are fundamental and essential to resisting the urge to dwell among the garishly demented.  Over-coming obstacles to conquering sorrow involves a whole tribe of stirpes.

And so, we have sleep-overs.

Sleep-overs are therapeutic.  Sleep-overs are reparative.  Sleep-overs lessen the lateral g-forces of bereavement at work.  Sleep-overs are the panacea to all the world’s tribulation. 

On pre-designated evenings, one little stirpe gets to spend the night. For some reason, each kid equates that to standing alone atop the gold-medal podium while the national anthem is played.  It must have something to do with Bacchanalian indulgence in root beer and chocolate milk by a doting grandmother. 

I know there will come a day when a sleep-over with Grandma is not all that.  But right now it is.  I’ll take it.

As members of polite society, I have made a list of manners and civilized behavior to be observed at all times and under all circumstances, especially sleep-overs.  After all, society would self-implode without regulations. Just look at Rome.

Sleep-over protocol;:

1.        PDA mandatory.

2.       No “wubba-wubba” tales after 8:00 p.m.  That includes any late-breaking stories on the news.

3.       There are age restrictions for scary stories.  “Click-Shhhaaaawwww” cannot be related to anyone under 5…or over 50.  (This is the Granny Preservation Policy)

4.       Continence is imperative – especially for Grandma.  Specifically, no runs, no drips, no errors.  And no Wikki-leaks in Grandma’s big brass bed.  One must never confuse one’s toilet with one’s bed.

5.       NPO essential.  That’s a medical abbreviation for “nothing of nutritive value is to be taken by mouth after parents leave.”

6.       There is to be no spitting, slobbering, drooling or reciting the Gettysburg Address in a single sustained belch. 

7.       And finally, absolutely NO surface- to- air missiles under any circumstances.  When one controls one’s sphincter, one controls the world!

Of course, I do have a “special needs” stirpe.  His name is Duke.  He is a dog.  He has full rights as a grandchild.  Ergo, he has sleep-overs.

I haven’t the heart to tell Duke he isn’t an official stirpe.  In fact, his pedigree is somewhat suspect.  I’m not sure whose loins actually produced him.  He doesn’t seem to notice that he’s a quadraped without thumbs.  It’s glaringly obvious that we’re not an exact genetic match.  Heck, we’re not even on the same periodic table!  But I’ve always been a sucker for a furry fact, so he plans to inherit.

However, Duke has his own specific set of behavioral expectations, slightly amended from his siblings:

1.        No soft food after 4:00 p.m. that might produce sphincter napalm, nocturnal flatulence, or vapor trails.

2.       No tongues. No drool. No panting.

3.       Do not indulge in any behavior that might bring shame, humiliation or endangerment to the family.

4.       Do not chase your tail – or anyone else’s for that matter.

Duke is truly the Anti-Lassie.  And he’s not exactly sportin’ the highest intellectual wattage.  Cute dog, but dumb.

The other morning right after Duke got up and generously anointed his territory – (he now owns the greater portion of Mount Springs Road) we started on our walk.

As luck would have it, we encountered a pair of pitbulls who looked like two sides of a Rorschach ink blot, prowling, paranormal, malevolent cronies of the night.   They were like Siamese twins conjoined at the mandibles, Cerberus without the third head, Cujo and Baskerville, the Jaws brothers.

Well, being as I had left home without mace or tranquilizer dart, I tried to urge Duke into the safety of our neighbor’s porch without alerting the Hounds from Hades of our presence. 

Duke, the pathetically inept, jowl- deprived, adorable, looking like he’d just been groomed by Shirley Temple, his ears endearingly coiffed into ringlets and his armpit hairs meticulously curled with a curling iron, began to bark.  It was akin to chumming the waters during Shark Week.

The beasts turned in unison, perfect synchronization worthy of an Olympic event, and pondered the gauntlet that had just been thrown down by an opponent devoid of brains.

They snarled in James Earl Jones/Darth Vader tones, deep and menacing with malice, sucking air rhythmically in and out.  It was the perfect storm.

In order to preserve this canine stirpe from becoming a Happy Meal, I picked Duke up and put him under my shirt, like some kind of mutant marsupial, to shield him from certain carnage.

We stood on the porch of strangers, like hanging chads in a Florida election.

And then it dawned on me that I could be disemboweled at any moment by a pack of salivating werewolves trying to get to their prey, in an attempt to protect  a dog with delusions of grandeur.  Definitely not smart.  .

This in turn triggered the harsh language mechanism I try to keep concealed just behind my uvula, and I stood swearing, shaking, and incontinent at the doorstep of complete strangers.  Duke looked at me like, “Cute Grandma, but dumb.”

The fiends, however, merely regarded us with the contempt of the supercilious and continued their stroll down the road.  In relief, I took Duke back home amid threats of dismemberment, and fed him a plateful of soft food.  He licked my face, nuzzled my cheek, and promptly broke Rule #1.  But we hugged it out.

Like I say, Duke’s cute.  And cute always trumps smart.

I am trying to keep my ducks in a row.  But there are times when the entire gaggle is in panicked disarray, quacking hysterically all over the pond.

It is said that every house suits the needs of its owner. I get it. There are so many reminders of Dennis in every corner of our home.  I’m OK with that.  He and I have memories longer than the road that stretches out ahead.  I ponder them in the chambers of my heart somewhere between the entry and exit wounds of Excaliber. 

But as we continue the healing process, I say to all my darling Stirpes, “Let there be SLEEP-OVERS!”

The Eyes Have It

Mourning is nuanced with complex delicacy.  It teaches us the wisdom of remaining patient, open, loving and vulnerable. 

Reflection and remembering are requisite to mourning, which is painful because when one remembers, one must also revisit.  No easy task when one’s heart has been harpooned.

But the subtleties of sorrow allow one to sense the light when it is still dark.  I am often sad and joyful simultaneously. 

Relationships are living entities that death does not impact.  That brings peace and empowerment. 

I am learning.  I used to not know a lot of things.  I have learned so much of late.  But then knowledge without understanding is impotent.  Sometimes I wish I didn’t know now what I didn’t know then.

I do know it is possible to function and foster healing even though maimed. 

I am taking my time.  I can see more clearly if I pace myself.

Of course, having clarity of sight doesn’t always translate to clarity of thought.  Oh no.  So I rely on routine to impose order on chaos.

Every morning I arise at an hour populated by insomniacs, the carelessly disturbed and the severely foolish.  I ingest a handful of medications which include vitamin supplements, sugar pills, placebos, and any candy remnants stuck to the floor from the soles of the grandchildren’s flip-flops.

On several occasions, I have been sorely tempted to toss back a few buckyballs to jumpstart my center of gravity and realign my internal magnetic field.  But then I feared it might impair my ability to move in any direction but due north.  So I abandoned the idea.

Then, if I’m not arrested for wanton vagrancy, I return to the nest to digest the latest headlines.  I think I’ve developed dyslexia, however, because I have noticed that lately I’ve become alphabetically incorrect.

For instance, in order to seem current on breaking news, I told the girls I thought the sanctions imposed on Penn State by the NAACP were just and proper.  In unison, they said, “Uh, you mean NCAA.” 

Well, isn’t that what I just said?  They assured me no. 

I decided to change the subject and talk about the GOP and the up-coming RNA convention.

With barely concealed mirth, they exchanged their “Mom’s-becoming-preposterous” looks and amended the letters to RNC.  Hmmmm.  Apparently RNA and DNA do not refer to the genetic make-up of the Republican and Democratic parties.  Oh, such a babble of voices.  Talk about politically challenged!

In festering and futile frustration, I hurled empty and vacuous threats to call NCIS, the NBA, PETA and the UVULA to report them for flagrant nuisancy and elder-mocking…a sin if not a crime. 

I chuckled to see them flummoxed by UVULA.  It was a source of immense gratification to know that if my son-in-law, a doctor, had not given a brief lesson in anatomy, they’d have still thought UVULA was a university in Los Angeles!

Recently, our family received a letter from the Moran Eye Center informing us that because of Dennis’ donation, two people who were previously blind, now had the gift of sight.  They thanked us for our generosity.

We wept with gratitude.

I personally wanted to find out just who it was that that received this gift and could now see.  I simply wanted to know.  And maybe look into his eyes again.

Of course, I understand that would be a breach of medical protocol and a violation of the HIPPA policy.  I get that.

But I reconsidered.  I don’t need names.  I don’t need specifics.  I know Dennis’ eyes so well, I could pick them out of a crowd of strangers.

They see with such clarity. They don’t just look at things, they see through them.  They are blue and full of knowledge as well as faith.  They have the gift of Second Sight.  No blurry vision.

They are kind, patient, wise, courageous and loving.  They witness the world with wonder and reverence.  They savor beauty with fascination, but do not flinch at adversity.  They will not blink when staring down the unspeakable.

But the true litmus test will come when I relate to a total stranger the fact that I just told our daughters UVULA was a university in Los Angeles.  If the eyes crinkle up in glee, identification is confirmed.

Thornton Wilder says that “What is essential does not die, but clarifies.”

Oh yeah.  I’ll know those eyes when I see them again.

Questions and Answers

I knew this would happen. I KNEW it! My favorite – not to mention my only – firing neuron flamed out! Like a shooting star that lights the evening sky and then disappears, a super-nova that dazzles astronomers, never to be seen again.



I know exactly what caused this catastrophic phenomenon that permanently altered the flow of mental lava in my brain, and cooled into an entirely unrecognizable landscape. It’s decision fatigue. Choice depletion. Option oblivion. I made one too many universe-altering adjudications, and in an instant, it overloaded the system, short circuited the connection, and blew a fuse. Any residual thoughts became casualties of cellular breakdown, festering into abscesses floating in warm pools of confusion. (Boy Howdy! That was profound.)


My mind had become devoid of any distinguishing thoughts, because this past week was dedicated to going to every manner of doctor imaginable. Apparently, over the course of the last few months, I had neglected certain yearly exams touted by ads laden with scare tactics that finally got my attention.


So I began with the dermatologist. Locked and loaded with a Q tip, a Styrofoam cup of nitrous glycerin, a hedonistic glaze to his eye, and a maniacal laugh, he stood his ground and scatter-shot my entire dermis with his cotton-tip harpoon, until, pustuled and welted, I retreated to my home in humiliation, and decided to sequester and conceal myself behind heavy curtains so as not to spook the young and impressionable…sort of like Boo Radley.


My next appointment involved a dentist, a drill, and a whole lot of nitrous oxide, for both of us. He drilled so long and so deep that plumes of smoke arose from the excavation site like the mushroom clouds at the Nevada testing site. Really. He requested the Haz-Mat clean-up crew and a new drill when we were done. I requested caffeine.


And then there are the questions. Always the questions. Like:


1. What’s your social security number?
2. Do you want to roll this over to a roth IRA? (What the ---- is a roth IRA?)
3. Do you want to roll over and D-I-E?
4. How many dimples on a golf ball?
5. What’s your maiden name?
6. What’s your husband’s maiden name?
7. How many fingers am I holding up? Eleven? Close enough.
8. Who’s Yo Daddy?


I literally hemorrhaged answers.


So in order to keep my mind from losing its suppleness, Brodi and I went to lunch. I needed time out to re-charge my mental agility.


Soon the waiter took my order. He asked me if I wanted Thousand Island or Ranch on my salad. Well, I just looked at him and cowered in the corner. I finally answered, “You choose and surprise me.”


Despondent and bewildered, I whined to Brodi that the whole cosmos could be sucked down the black hole that had just taken up residence where my mind once was. (Hyperbolic exaggeration has always been my strong suit.) My ability to reason had been reduced to emitting unintelligible guttural sounds to no one in particular. My linear deductive skills evaporated. What a world! What a world!


There seems to be a moment in everyone’s life when the child becomes the parent. It’s called “role reversal.” In an instant, Brodi and I exchanged roles. Her voice was hushed and soothing, and she said, “I know. I know. You can’t Brain today. You’ve got the Dumb.”


It was like the light went on. It was an “Aha!” moment. That’s it! I’VE. GOT. THE. DUMB!


She further suggested that from now on, whenever someone asks a question, no matter what it is, just reply, “I’ll have Ranch.” If they should look perplexed, simply explain, “I can’t brain today. I’ve got the dumb.” She assured me that there is no question that could be posed in this universe, or the next, either by doctors or Social Security, that couldn’t be answered by one of those two responses.


It made perfect sense.


I felt empowered. I felt emancipated. I came out from behind my curtains, donned my stilletoes, and applied three layers of Kardashian Elephantine-Lash mascara. Oh yeah! Bring it on!

Am I ready to face the world???? Is Boo Radley ready to come out from behind the curtain????


I’LL. HAVE. RANCH!!!!