More than any other season, autumn is steeped in tradition. Perhaps that’s because it’s an amalgam of all the other seasons.
There are the end of summer clearance sales, the back-to-school sales, the Labor Day sales, and the pre-season ski sales. There are a plethora of baseball games, football games, sports tournaments, and Rafa Nadal.
Autumn has a rhythm all its own, but fall officially arrives on the first day back to school. The date on the calendar is irrelevant, really. When children with sun-bleached hair and feet that are summer-barefoot brown dawn a backpack and new clothes…it is autumn.
Something changes. Everything changes. The air seems crisp, regardless of the dictates of the thermometer. And the refrigerator is still colonized with its late-summer picnic remnants, as red and gold delicious apples encroach upon the territory.
Taking our kids, and now our grandkids, to their new classrooms to meet their new teachers is an autumnal rite of passage. But it never gets easier. I wonder why. There is an air of excitement, but there’s also a tug at the heart. The annual ritual, with its smells of pencils, chalk, blackboards and books should go off without a hiccup after all these years of “first days.”
And it does…for the most part. The kids do just fine. It’s me. I get the hiccups. I don’t understand why, as I say good-bye and walk away, relinquishing custody to their new teacher, why they suddenly seem taller, a little older, bigger, somehow, than they were just the day before at our final picnic of the summer. But this is as it should be. Life has a certain ebb and flow that imposes appropriate order.
Time passes in increments so small they’re barely noticeable…until they accumulate and cluster around my heart when school starts. Seats that seemed to swallow the child just a year ago have lost some of their large. I like to think they’re making furniture smaller these days. It’s the ultimate down-sizing.
I wouldn’t change things, even if I could. I’d just slow it down long enough for the hiccups to pass.
Labor Day is the true harbinger of autumn…and the Christmas season. Holiday catalogs with pictures of angels on the front, herald the glad tidings that there are only four more months until the Big Day arrives, and I’d better get crackin’ because I’m already behind in rackin’ up my over-indulgence credit card debt so crucial to capturing the “true meaning of Christmas.” I wonder how Mary and Joseph ever had time for birth and taxes when there was so much to do to prepare for the holidays.
Apparently Nieman Marcus didn’t get the memo about the current recession. Boy Howdy! Buy a couple of items from that little establishment, and I could single-handedly cause the DOW to leap a couple of points.
By Labor Day, Halloween-themed items that have been on display since the Pioneer Day Parade must be moved aside to make room for the Christmas decorations. So much for the old adage that “to everything there is a season.”
But by far my favorite Labor Day tradition is the International Sheep Dog Championship. This is the competition in which border collies and their handlers work as two people with a single brain to pen a group of incredibly unpredictable ( not to mention dumb) range sheep off the mountain, through a series of upright panels, over the river and through the woods and into an 8X9 pen. Not as easy as it sounds, because shouting obscenities is not allowed. The border collie cannot excite the sheep, but must control them with just his presence…and intense gaze. This technique is known as “the eye.” The dogs seem to hypnotize the sheep into following their demands. A skilled border collie can deliver the herd within the allotted time without having to touch or confront a single ewe.
With a series of tweets and whistles, the handler, never leaving his post, communicates the commands necessary for the dog to drive the animals through the course successfully. The handlers rarely use audibles, but one woman had a voice like a Wagnerian bull horn. When she hollered, “LIE DOWN!”, all six thousand spectators hit the ground!
Well, needless to say, I was inspired. So much so that I thought it would be a good idea to set up a similar communication system for me and Dennis. That way I wouldn’t have to nag and plead with a constant hum and drone as annoying as the vuvuzelas at the World Cup Soccer games. Brilliant!
So here is my simple tweet command system to ensure efficiency and harmony in our household:
1. Whee-Who: pick up your towels.
2. Whee-Wheee-o: pick up your towels…or die.
3. One Prolonged Whistle Blast (compound signal - command with implied threat): pick up the towels – there’s a sale at Nordstrom, I have your credit card, and I know how to use it!
4. Whee-Whee: PUT THE TOILET LID DOWN!
I’ve been working on “the eye,” but my technique needs practice. I must be doing something wrong – the only one I seemed to hypnotize was myself. I spent the entire morning picking up towels and closing toilet lids.
Maybe it’s because autumn is a time of nostalgia. Maybe it’s because so many birthdays are clustered in September – a natural biological consequence of cold winters. But I tried once more, and failed miserably, to throw away my baby swing.
Every fall I am seized by primordial instinct to clean out closets and discard old and obsolete items – to make room for more stuff that I will clean out next September, because they, too, will be old and obsolete.
And every year I am determined to dispose of the swing that we used to lull our daughters to sleep when they were babies. The gentle rocking and swaying would calm and compose them. It was a sweet receptacle that enticed fussy babies to slumber.
Obviously, it’s been decades since I nestled their diapered nether regions into that seat. The swing has occupied a corner of our storage room forever, and gathers dust for months until I make time for its quarterly cleaning.
But things that no longer have a purpose should be disposed of. It’s the law of practical consequence. Besides, I need the room. So I asked Dennis to remove it from its place in the corner, haul it down the stairs, and place it in the trash bin. Soon it would be garbage day. (I’d have done it myself, but I had just washed my hair.)
Each day thereafter, I looked at that swing with its little toys tied across the front, peering forlornly out of the garbage can. But I was resolute. Forget the memories. I would not be deterred. I simply could not justify the expenditure of space simply to house sentiment. It had to go. End of discussion.
Well, Tuesday finally arrived. Dennis lugged the can to the curb for the weekly pick-up. And then we waited. Earlier than usual, we heard the roar and the belch of the garbage truck, with its distinctive beep and squeal.
Dennis and I looked at each other. With an understanding that exceeded the communication between border collie and handler, we sprinted to the street in a sentimental smack-down, just in time to rescue the swing with its baby toys on the string, guide it through the upright panels, and return it safely to the 8X9 pen,…in its accustomed corner of the storage room. And we sighed in relief.
Some things whose primary purpose has expired, are still of great worth. I just hope everyone remembers that when I’m really old.
I’ll clean out the storage room next year.
Autumn is hidden within every leaf – even when they first bud in the spring. It’s Nature’s disguise – like the arboretist’s witness protection program. Not so many hummingbirds at the nectar feeders these days. But that’s OK. There isn’t much time for bird watching right now. I’ve got Christmas shopping to do!
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
Colonoscopies and Twinkies
Prepping for a colonoscopy is an exercise in the surreal. What other medical procedure requires you to starve, guzzle industrial-strength laxatives and drink colorless, tasteless, slightly disgusting liquids in order to purge the system to the point of dessication?
The whole process must have been devised in the deranged mind of someone raised on a strict diet of Twinkies seeking to reek revenge on the whole of humanity, because he could not extract every ounce of cream filling from within the confines of that spongy, cylindrical, tubular, rubbery non-cake.
For the uninitiated, or those who have not yet reached the half-century mark – that golden age of the wazoo watch – the ultimate goal of the prep is “no caca left behind.” This is accomplished by a protocol of three brutal steps resulting in a slightly disgusting rectal smack-down.
1. total food deprivation
2. laxatives
3. more laxatives
Regarding starvation, no solids are permitted thirty-six hours prior to procedure. You may drink clear liquids, however. According to the butt Nazis, clear liquids are defined as anything you can see through. I inquired if that included pureed buffalo burger. I was sure I could liquefy it to total transparency. The tech pooh-poohed the suggestion, so to speak, declaring that if it once roamed the great American prairie and deposited cow pies in the wilderness, it could not qualify as a clear liquid. The same goes for French fries, chocolate cake, popcorn and salsa. Dang. They really take the fun out of a cleanse.
But they did say that tea and coffee without cream were just fine. Being Mormon, albeit weak and very prone to sin, this was problematic. Although the hungrier I got, the more appealing the “Born-again Bacchanalian Church” became.
However, mainlining Mountain Dew passed the smell test, and was proclaimed acceptable.
I don’t know why I always seem to begin a fast when the rest of the civilized world is either grilling steaks or baking bread. Slobbering and salivating until there was a perpetual foam pillowed around my lips all day made people tend to regard me as appearing somewhat genetically challenged.
At noon, I was to take four (count ‘em – FOUR!) Dulcolax pills – caplets so tiny they could sit on the head of a pin, and yet so powerful, they could elicit a spill that would make the BP oil disaster look like an insignificant leak.
I downed those bad boys like it was a 7-course banquet, they being the only solid thing I’d swallowed for days. At first I wondered just how much effect such itsy-bitsy medication would have. I only had to wonder 37 ½ seconds.
At 5:00 p.m., the next step in the sequence from Hades was to mix the entire 238 (two freakin’ hundred thirty-eight!) gram bottle of MiraLax with 64 ounces of Gatorade. WOW! What a cocktail! I was to swill the entire tanker while muttering a benediction over the entire Salt Lake sewer system. The potion was the equivalent of 14 doses of laxative – at once…in an entire sitting…within one hour.
Not being used to taking laxatives, I began to understand the power of the purge. Suffice it to say, I came clean.
Memo to self: DO NOT schedule an appointment with the hairdresser directly after imbibing 14 doses of MiraLax!
The directions advised going to bed at my usual time. Hmmmm. Let’s just say that laxatives and Mr. Sandman make strange bedfellows.
So many times I had been sorely tempted to fudge on the cleanse. I almost unlawfully broke my fast with, of all things, a red bubble gum ball. But no matter how deeply I looked, I simply could not see through it. My entire body was liquefied. Even my nose was runny.
But I was glad I resisted the temptation. The colon does not lie. It has to be a total colon cleanse: a semi-colon won’t do;
The morning of the procedure, I arrived at the hospital one hour early, bedraggled, parched and despondent, clawing my way on to the gurney. Colonoscopies give new meaning to the term, “advance to the rear,” – which is exactly what Dr. Daly did. She came into the procedure room looking laudably perky and adorably coiffed. In any other venue, I would have been jealous. She and I are friends (it’s wise to be on good terms with one’s proctologist!) We chatted amiably. She was noticeably more cogent than I was at that point. I was reduced to muttering unintelligibly.
Then she began preparing the equipment as I was administered some kind of “I don’t care” drug. The last thing I remember seeing was a hose the diameter of the Alaskan Pipe Line, but I didn’t care. Dr. Daly made reference to where the sun didn’t shine, and then, mercifully, everything faded to black.
Apparently, all was fine because, by mutual agreement, I won’t be returning for another 5 years. But I awoke with an insatiable craving for Twinkies.
Laxatives are harsh but effective for what they are designed to do. However, a general review of the conditions of colon cancer is enough to scare the crap out of you. Given the alternative, MiraLax wasn’t so bad after all.
The whole process must have been devised in the deranged mind of someone raised on a strict diet of Twinkies seeking to reek revenge on the whole of humanity, because he could not extract every ounce of cream filling from within the confines of that spongy, cylindrical, tubular, rubbery non-cake.
For the uninitiated, or those who have not yet reached the half-century mark – that golden age of the wazoo watch – the ultimate goal of the prep is “no caca left behind.” This is accomplished by a protocol of three brutal steps resulting in a slightly disgusting rectal smack-down.
1. total food deprivation
2. laxatives
3. more laxatives
Regarding starvation, no solids are permitted thirty-six hours prior to procedure. You may drink clear liquids, however. According to the butt Nazis, clear liquids are defined as anything you can see through. I inquired if that included pureed buffalo burger. I was sure I could liquefy it to total transparency. The tech pooh-poohed the suggestion, so to speak, declaring that if it once roamed the great American prairie and deposited cow pies in the wilderness, it could not qualify as a clear liquid. The same goes for French fries, chocolate cake, popcorn and salsa. Dang. They really take the fun out of a cleanse.
But they did say that tea and coffee without cream were just fine. Being Mormon, albeit weak and very prone to sin, this was problematic. Although the hungrier I got, the more appealing the “Born-again Bacchanalian Church” became.
However, mainlining Mountain Dew passed the smell test, and was proclaimed acceptable.
I don’t know why I always seem to begin a fast when the rest of the civilized world is either grilling steaks or baking bread. Slobbering and salivating until there was a perpetual foam pillowed around my lips all day made people tend to regard me as appearing somewhat genetically challenged.
At noon, I was to take four (count ‘em – FOUR!) Dulcolax pills – caplets so tiny they could sit on the head of a pin, and yet so powerful, they could elicit a spill that would make the BP oil disaster look like an insignificant leak.
I downed those bad boys like it was a 7-course banquet, they being the only solid thing I’d swallowed for days. At first I wondered just how much effect such itsy-bitsy medication would have. I only had to wonder 37 ½ seconds.
At 5:00 p.m., the next step in the sequence from Hades was to mix the entire 238 (two freakin’ hundred thirty-eight!) gram bottle of MiraLax with 64 ounces of Gatorade. WOW! What a cocktail! I was to swill the entire tanker while muttering a benediction over the entire Salt Lake sewer system. The potion was the equivalent of 14 doses of laxative – at once…in an entire sitting…within one hour.
Not being used to taking laxatives, I began to understand the power of the purge. Suffice it to say, I came clean.
Memo to self: DO NOT schedule an appointment with the hairdresser directly after imbibing 14 doses of MiraLax!
The directions advised going to bed at my usual time. Hmmmm. Let’s just say that laxatives and Mr. Sandman make strange bedfellows.
So many times I had been sorely tempted to fudge on the cleanse. I almost unlawfully broke my fast with, of all things, a red bubble gum ball. But no matter how deeply I looked, I simply could not see through it. My entire body was liquefied. Even my nose was runny.
But I was glad I resisted the temptation. The colon does not lie. It has to be a total colon cleanse: a semi-colon won’t do;
The morning of the procedure, I arrived at the hospital one hour early, bedraggled, parched and despondent, clawing my way on to the gurney. Colonoscopies give new meaning to the term, “advance to the rear,” – which is exactly what Dr. Daly did. She came into the procedure room looking laudably perky and adorably coiffed. In any other venue, I would have been jealous. She and I are friends (it’s wise to be on good terms with one’s proctologist!) We chatted amiably. She was noticeably more cogent than I was at that point. I was reduced to muttering unintelligibly.
Then she began preparing the equipment as I was administered some kind of “I don’t care” drug. The last thing I remember seeing was a hose the diameter of the Alaskan Pipe Line, but I didn’t care. Dr. Daly made reference to where the sun didn’t shine, and then, mercifully, everything faded to black.
Apparently, all was fine because, by mutual agreement, I won’t be returning for another 5 years. But I awoke with an insatiable craving for Twinkies.
Laxatives are harsh but effective for what they are designed to do. However, a general review of the conditions of colon cancer is enough to scare the crap out of you. Given the alternative, MiraLax wasn’t so bad after all.
Thursday, July 29, 2010
FIFA with a chance of Meatballs
I confess I haven’t always understood nor appreciated soccer. The game can be confusing and convoluted to the novice.
It is the athletic equivalent of River Dancing – rapid-fire lower appendage agility that defies the eye’s ability to track the action, while the upper body is supposed to NOT touch the ball, nor the opponent, nor the officials. But, when the camera shows a clip in slow motion, there seems to be a lot of extreme cage-fighting going on under those shin guards. This isn’t exactly a non-contact sport.
The rules are not very clear, like they are in, say, football or basketball. In those contests, it doesn’t require much IQ to spot the flagrant foul…that’s because the foulee usually requires hospitalization and an orthopedic surgeon. And the perpetrator is awarded his own reality show.
And just what is “off sides?” Many people have offered explanations, but I have better success understanding Einstein’s string theory and parallel universes.
Exactly what infractions prompt yellow cards? Whenever a ref flashes one, six guys hold up their hands in a collective gesture of innocence and claim they never laid a glove of da guy. But a review of the action in slo-mo confirms the foulee will be lucky to walk upright. These are all-out aerial assaults. The offenders could be charged with felonious cleat impalement.
The logic of any pastime is suspect when the players must line up in front of a drooling pack of Philistines, hands over crotches, while some Goliath prepares to launch a penalty kick into the net located just behind them. It’s preposterous!
And what’s with those horns??? The incessant drone is enough to warrant involuntary institutionalization of every fan in the stadium. These weapons of total ear drum annihilation are called vuvuzelas…VUVUZELAS! Honkers owe a big apology to the honkees.
Erin gets soccer…which in itself makes us question her genetic integrity. She speaks names like Kyle Beckerman, Nick Rimando, Javier Morales and Jamison Olave in hallowed tones of reverence and awe. She does not take “Spain” in vain. I sometimes wonder if her judgment isn’t a little impaired from inhaling too much second-hand jock sweat.
She shouts to her sons to, ”Mark up”! and “Beat him to the ball!” Except for the decibels, she could be the FIFA whisperer.
But then we went to Abram’s recent soccer tournament. He is almost 12, and he gets the game. In the second half, with the score 0-0, against a team of carnivorous apex predators, Abram eyed the goal, sized up his opponent, lined up his right foot, and with the precision timing of a Swiss watch, and all the planets in the galaxy in perfect alignment, he bent that ball squarely into the center of the net. VICTORY!
I went berserk! I cheered louder than all the vuvuzelas on the entire African continent. I got a red card from the ref for excessive decibels in the end zone. Suuhhhweet!!
I GET SOCCER!
On an entirely different note, I have decided that it is bad karma to by-pass any lemonade stand on a summer morning. Our family considers that tradition inviolable. Besides, there is nothing more pleasant than to raise a cup of semi-cool refreshment (I like my lemonade weak and warm) and discuss the sour economy mano a mano with these diminutive CEO’s of citrus.
There is no end of opportunities to quench the solar thirst. Every corner of every street of every neighborhood bears a lemonade stand…a fact not lost on our grandson, Carter. Being an astute observer that the prevailing market was saturated, so to speak, Carter chose to diversify. Exercising his entrepreneurial options, he decided HIS lemonade stand would sell – what else – meatballs!
Now, there are several advantages to selling meatballs. First of all, a glaring lack of competition. It’s the only game in town. Second, meatballs can be eaten by themselves OR with lemonade. I don’t know how many times I’ve been sipping the sour nectar and found myself craving meatballs.
I purchased six of these little delicacies. They were so spicy, that it required a multi-chambered stomach just to digest them. Thankfully, I’m well endowed.
Phenomenal success has fueled Carter’s plans to expand the enterprise. Tomorrow he plans to sell steaks! I’ll be first in line.
Besides goals and meatballs, we got even more good news last week. Dennis’ lab draws came back showing his tumor markers to be normal. We rejoice.
So our plans for the remainder of the summer include sitting on the deck sipping lemonade till my lips fold themselves into a perpetual pucker, eating spicy meatballs, tooting my vuvuzela, periodically shouting “Mark up!” to no one in particular…and hoping my neighbors don’t yellow card me for being disturbed.
I Love Summer.
It is the athletic equivalent of River Dancing – rapid-fire lower appendage agility that defies the eye’s ability to track the action, while the upper body is supposed to NOT touch the ball, nor the opponent, nor the officials. But, when the camera shows a clip in slow motion, there seems to be a lot of extreme cage-fighting going on under those shin guards. This isn’t exactly a non-contact sport.
The rules are not very clear, like they are in, say, football or basketball. In those contests, it doesn’t require much IQ to spot the flagrant foul…that’s because the foulee usually requires hospitalization and an orthopedic surgeon. And the perpetrator is awarded his own reality show.
And just what is “off sides?” Many people have offered explanations, but I have better success understanding Einstein’s string theory and parallel universes.
Exactly what infractions prompt yellow cards? Whenever a ref flashes one, six guys hold up their hands in a collective gesture of innocence and claim they never laid a glove of da guy. But a review of the action in slo-mo confirms the foulee will be lucky to walk upright. These are all-out aerial assaults. The offenders could be charged with felonious cleat impalement.
The logic of any pastime is suspect when the players must line up in front of a drooling pack of Philistines, hands over crotches, while some Goliath prepares to launch a penalty kick into the net located just behind them. It’s preposterous!
And what’s with those horns??? The incessant drone is enough to warrant involuntary institutionalization of every fan in the stadium. These weapons of total ear drum annihilation are called vuvuzelas…VUVUZELAS! Honkers owe a big apology to the honkees.
Erin gets soccer…which in itself makes us question her genetic integrity. She speaks names like Kyle Beckerman, Nick Rimando, Javier Morales and Jamison Olave in hallowed tones of reverence and awe. She does not take “Spain” in vain. I sometimes wonder if her judgment isn’t a little impaired from inhaling too much second-hand jock sweat.
She shouts to her sons to, ”Mark up”! and “Beat him to the ball!” Except for the decibels, she could be the FIFA whisperer.
But then we went to Abram’s recent soccer tournament. He is almost 12, and he gets the game. In the second half, with the score 0-0, against a team of carnivorous apex predators, Abram eyed the goal, sized up his opponent, lined up his right foot, and with the precision timing of a Swiss watch, and all the planets in the galaxy in perfect alignment, he bent that ball squarely into the center of the net. VICTORY!
I went berserk! I cheered louder than all the vuvuzelas on the entire African continent. I got a red card from the ref for excessive decibels in the end zone. Suuhhhweet!!
I GET SOCCER!
On an entirely different note, I have decided that it is bad karma to by-pass any lemonade stand on a summer morning. Our family considers that tradition inviolable. Besides, there is nothing more pleasant than to raise a cup of semi-cool refreshment (I like my lemonade weak and warm) and discuss the sour economy mano a mano with these diminutive CEO’s of citrus.
There is no end of opportunities to quench the solar thirst. Every corner of every street of every neighborhood bears a lemonade stand…a fact not lost on our grandson, Carter. Being an astute observer that the prevailing market was saturated, so to speak, Carter chose to diversify. Exercising his entrepreneurial options, he decided HIS lemonade stand would sell – what else – meatballs!
Now, there are several advantages to selling meatballs. First of all, a glaring lack of competition. It’s the only game in town. Second, meatballs can be eaten by themselves OR with lemonade. I don’t know how many times I’ve been sipping the sour nectar and found myself craving meatballs.
I purchased six of these little delicacies. They were so spicy, that it required a multi-chambered stomach just to digest them. Thankfully, I’m well endowed.
Phenomenal success has fueled Carter’s plans to expand the enterprise. Tomorrow he plans to sell steaks! I’ll be first in line.
Besides goals and meatballs, we got even more good news last week. Dennis’ lab draws came back showing his tumor markers to be normal. We rejoice.
So our plans for the remainder of the summer include sitting on the deck sipping lemonade till my lips fold themselves into a perpetual pucker, eating spicy meatballs, tooting my vuvuzela, periodically shouting “Mark up!” to no one in particular…and hoping my neighbors don’t yellow card me for being disturbed.
I Love Summer.
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
The Good Ole Summer Time
There is a certain enchantment about summer. Nostalgia makes us all misty-eyed for the good old days. The season has its own unique rituals and traditions that demand strict observance.
Perhaps it’s the Mark Twain/Huck Finn phenomenon that plants memories in our recollections of going bare-foot to the swimming hole every afternoon. Or maybe it’s just the rosy retro lenses of youth that make the reminiscence of seasons past so pleasant.
In “To Kill A Mockingbird,” Harper Lee describes days so hot that ladies “by nightfall were like soft teacakes with frostings of sweat and sweet talcum.” I don’t recall feeling like a frosted tea cake exactly. It was definitely sticky, but the summer heat seemed to be a gentler warm then.
I remember lazy days, going to bed late and sleeping late. And we always woke up brown and sun-bleached and freckled – the prettiness of youth.
We did a lot of bike riding, swimming, and picnics in those days before Wii games and the web. Bruises, cuts and skinned knees were healed with band aids and the dreaded ointment, merthiolate.
Summer has a taste. It’s primarily potato salad, hot dogs, roasted marshmallows and snow cones so cold, you get brain freeze just choosing a flavor.
We really didn’t have tire swings in trees or Boo Radley living down the lane, although I have grafted some of those memories onto my own collection. But I remember being scared witless by campfire stories – like “Click Shah” – that chilled our spines and give me the “wubba wubbas” even now.
And, of course, there was Lagoon. An excursion to that amusement island lasted the whole day and into the night. There were three main attractions that guaranteed thrills, spills and instant nausea…the hammer, the roloplane, and the infamous roller coaster. You couldn’t wait to get on that coaster, and when you finally did, you could re-ride as many times as your stomach would permit. Some genetically-challenged guys would ride all day long in the last car, prompting their IQ to drop several points during the course of the marathon.
I didn’t much care for the laughing ladies in the house of mirrors. They still creep me out. Nor did I like the terror ride. My particular contraption of self-abasement was the Tilt-A-Whirl. It would whirl and twirl, and I would hurl. Funny, it doesn’t sound nearly as fun now as I recall. I never seemed to remember to eat my cotton candy AFTER going on the ride.
Like Christmas, summer has its own distinct music. Just hearing the sounds and back beat, one is instantly transported into July. Besides the patriotic Seussa marches by the marching bands in the many parades, there are the Beach Boys, James Taylor, and Credence Clearwater Revival. Those old songs start playing, and I am prompted to grease myself into an oil slick and lay out on tin foil in the back yard. Of course, that was before ultra-violet rays were invented, and skin cancer was so rare, only old people got it.
Unfortunately, summer ain’t what it used to be. So far, our day-planner is smeared with appointments for surgery, dental check-ups, skin cancer screening (from too much sun bathing on tin foil in youth, I’m told) prostate exams, and a colonoscopy. Our road trips are primarily to see the next doctor. Not exactly the lazy, hazy, crazy days of summer.
Summer reading consists of instruction sheets for the latest prescription meds, privacy agreements and co-pays. And our freckles are actually pre-cancerous actinic keritosis liver spots.
The Boo Radleys in our neighborhood are wars, oil spills, terrorist threats and celebrity infidelities – definitely not the benign recluses who leave pleasant surprises in tree knotholes.
The scariest campfire stories are the headlines.
Last week I bought Necie her first pair of rose-colored glasses. She’d been asking for a pair like mine. At seven years old, they are a sparkly fashion accessory – not yet the mandatory eye-wear for adult-onset bloodshot. Sometimes she lets me borrow them. I can see clearly now.
I have decided, in spite of everything, that one can celebrate the “spirit” of summer, if not the reality. It anchors us to the integrity of the season.
It should always be 10:00 on a morning in July.
Perhaps it’s the Mark Twain/Huck Finn phenomenon that plants memories in our recollections of going bare-foot to the swimming hole every afternoon. Or maybe it’s just the rosy retro lenses of youth that make the reminiscence of seasons past so pleasant.
In “To Kill A Mockingbird,” Harper Lee describes days so hot that ladies “by nightfall were like soft teacakes with frostings of sweat and sweet talcum.” I don’t recall feeling like a frosted tea cake exactly. It was definitely sticky, but the summer heat seemed to be a gentler warm then.
I remember lazy days, going to bed late and sleeping late. And we always woke up brown and sun-bleached and freckled – the prettiness of youth.
We did a lot of bike riding, swimming, and picnics in those days before Wii games and the web. Bruises, cuts and skinned knees were healed with band aids and the dreaded ointment, merthiolate.
Summer has a taste. It’s primarily potato salad, hot dogs, roasted marshmallows and snow cones so cold, you get brain freeze just choosing a flavor.
We really didn’t have tire swings in trees or Boo Radley living down the lane, although I have grafted some of those memories onto my own collection. But I remember being scared witless by campfire stories – like “Click Shah” – that chilled our spines and give me the “wubba wubbas” even now.
And, of course, there was Lagoon. An excursion to that amusement island lasted the whole day and into the night. There were three main attractions that guaranteed thrills, spills and instant nausea…the hammer, the roloplane, and the infamous roller coaster. You couldn’t wait to get on that coaster, and when you finally did, you could re-ride as many times as your stomach would permit. Some genetically-challenged guys would ride all day long in the last car, prompting their IQ to drop several points during the course of the marathon.
I didn’t much care for the laughing ladies in the house of mirrors. They still creep me out. Nor did I like the terror ride. My particular contraption of self-abasement was the Tilt-A-Whirl. It would whirl and twirl, and I would hurl. Funny, it doesn’t sound nearly as fun now as I recall. I never seemed to remember to eat my cotton candy AFTER going on the ride.
Like Christmas, summer has its own distinct music. Just hearing the sounds and back beat, one is instantly transported into July. Besides the patriotic Seussa marches by the marching bands in the many parades, there are the Beach Boys, James Taylor, and Credence Clearwater Revival. Those old songs start playing, and I am prompted to grease myself into an oil slick and lay out on tin foil in the back yard. Of course, that was before ultra-violet rays were invented, and skin cancer was so rare, only old people got it.
Unfortunately, summer ain’t what it used to be. So far, our day-planner is smeared with appointments for surgery, dental check-ups, skin cancer screening (from too much sun bathing on tin foil in youth, I’m told) prostate exams, and a colonoscopy. Our road trips are primarily to see the next doctor. Not exactly the lazy, hazy, crazy days of summer.
Summer reading consists of instruction sheets for the latest prescription meds, privacy agreements and co-pays. And our freckles are actually pre-cancerous actinic keritosis liver spots.
The Boo Radleys in our neighborhood are wars, oil spills, terrorist threats and celebrity infidelities – definitely not the benign recluses who leave pleasant surprises in tree knotholes.
The scariest campfire stories are the headlines.
Last week I bought Necie her first pair of rose-colored glasses. She’d been asking for a pair like mine. At seven years old, they are a sparkly fashion accessory – not yet the mandatory eye-wear for adult-onset bloodshot. Sometimes she lets me borrow them. I can see clearly now.
I have decided, in spite of everything, that one can celebrate the “spirit” of summer, if not the reality. It anchors us to the integrity of the season.
It should always be 10:00 on a morning in July.
Thursday, July 1, 2010
The Family Vacation
They say the journey of a thousand miles begins with the first step. But that’s assuming the traveler is upright to begin with.
In a state of delirium, I thought it plausible to have my throat slit just prior to embarking on our “Annual Family Vacation.” As the doctor removed the stitches, he regaled my fragile psyche with graphic descriptions of this most recent surgical escapade. I went deaf right after he made reference to a roto-rooter and the Black and Decker.
As further evidence that I should be involuntarily institutionalized, I deemed it a splendid idea to visit every physician and have every annual procedure known to man done simultaneously in order not to have to worry about it upon our return. So I went to the dermatologist, the gynecologist and the surgeon.
I began the trip with an inflated pustule on my forehead so large it looked like a third eye. I had bandages reminiscent of the Boris Karloff mummy, with my eyes half closed from an anesthetic hangover making me look detached and semi-inebriated. Also, I walked just as funny as the mummy because a physician had been excavating with a tanker of Vaseline and a backhoe. I now have a new respect for oil slicks in the gulf. I caused little children to shriek and run away in terror. Unfortunately, they were my grandkids.
Thus, I hobbled to the “thousand mile” starting line in an altered state, – hallucinatory and muttering incoherent platitudes.
We commence every odyssey with the highest expectations…optimism for the possibility of perfection. Our proposed travel menu would center on low-fat, densely-packed nutrition, healthy snacks, and organic fruits. We were vegan pilgrims ready for adventure.
Fifteen minutes into the merriment, we morphed into sugar fiends, craving whisky tarts and voraciously pounding down the junk food in a feeding orgy of gummi bears, Cheetos, Little Debbies, and petrified sandwiches on concrete crusts of bread spread with stale peanut butter and primordial ooze. Our gut-glut needle went right off the gauge.
In the classic “kid need food” phenomenon, we ate succulent little snacks that could cumulatively cut off one’s air passages and strangle one’s bowel…and left a curious and vulgar aftertaste. We eventually degenerated into the culinary equivalent of licking lard out of a can…like a banquet for the depraved.
In total, there were twelve of us – The Dirty Dozen – and we were a quorum. Things went pretty smoothly, considering the general dynamics.
We attempted to structure the experience by regulating laws for the common good. Operating under the dictum that 12 clocks cannot strike at precisely the same time, certain truths became self-evident, and therefore, policies and priorities were established.
1. The fullest bladder with the least amount of control determined the next rest stop. Curiously, I ruled. The boys, however, profaned the entire rain forest as a pristine toilet that they never had to flush.
2. Incontinence trumps everything. Again, I dominated.
3. “Hurling” pre-empts even incontinence. Beckham has a familiar pattern of “burp…burp…urp!” We must always remain no more than one “burp” shy of a receptacle. This law was ratified in a small room at the Wagon Wheel Motel in Baker, Idaho.
4. Viscous nasal contents are subordinate to more pressing bodily demands. That particular territory can be secured on sleeves and tree trunks.
5. Anyone who grumbles, bleats or prevaricates shall be abandoned at the nearest rest stop and condemned to eternal exile. In a humanitarian gesture, we decided to define “prevaricate” for the kids or they’d all still be at the rest stop in Rupert, Idaho!
6. Whoever has an inkling how to get where we’re going…leads.
Maximum motion on minimal sleep rendered us witless. Gradually we all went into light-trance mode, often looking like a collection of bobble heads just off the Tilt-a-Whirl.
I realized after looking at our most recent photos, there were whole episodes of this vacation I missed. I lurked blurrily at the edges of cognizance. Dang the Propofol! Trying to maintain a neutral expression, I casually asked Dennis what happened in my “absence.” He assured me that yes, we had a good time; no, I didn’t streak the field; and my “dance of the seven veils” was a particular hit with our fellow ferry passengers. I was gratified.
One incident I will never forget. It was the day the U.S. played its scheduled World Cup soccer match. Because of the very early hour, we all got up and gathered around the TV, unshowered, teeth unbrushed, and disheveled…on this trip we were never “sheveled!” We huddled companionably in a potent tribal stink and cheered for our team. It was our finest moment.
Family vacations are singularly encapsulated, compact moments that engender a riotous expenditure of energy, panic, exhaustion, infinitesimal lapses of sanity, and deep solidarity…small pleasures, perfect moments intersected with zany comic book mania. This was no country for old men…or women. But I’ve discovered youth is a renewable resource…I was definitely “youth”anized on this trip. In point of fact, last week it was my birthday. I turned 18 once more.
In April we’ll do it all over again.
In a state of delirium, I thought it plausible to have my throat slit just prior to embarking on our “Annual Family Vacation.” As the doctor removed the stitches, he regaled my fragile psyche with graphic descriptions of this most recent surgical escapade. I went deaf right after he made reference to a roto-rooter and the Black and Decker.
As further evidence that I should be involuntarily institutionalized, I deemed it a splendid idea to visit every physician and have every annual procedure known to man done simultaneously in order not to have to worry about it upon our return. So I went to the dermatologist, the gynecologist and the surgeon.
I began the trip with an inflated pustule on my forehead so large it looked like a third eye. I had bandages reminiscent of the Boris Karloff mummy, with my eyes half closed from an anesthetic hangover making me look detached and semi-inebriated. Also, I walked just as funny as the mummy because a physician had been excavating with a tanker of Vaseline and a backhoe. I now have a new respect for oil slicks in the gulf. I caused little children to shriek and run away in terror. Unfortunately, they were my grandkids.
Thus, I hobbled to the “thousand mile” starting line in an altered state, – hallucinatory and muttering incoherent platitudes.
We commence every odyssey with the highest expectations…optimism for the possibility of perfection. Our proposed travel menu would center on low-fat, densely-packed nutrition, healthy snacks, and organic fruits. We were vegan pilgrims ready for adventure.
Fifteen minutes into the merriment, we morphed into sugar fiends, craving whisky tarts and voraciously pounding down the junk food in a feeding orgy of gummi bears, Cheetos, Little Debbies, and petrified sandwiches on concrete crusts of bread spread with stale peanut butter and primordial ooze. Our gut-glut needle went right off the gauge.
In the classic “kid need food” phenomenon, we ate succulent little snacks that could cumulatively cut off one’s air passages and strangle one’s bowel…and left a curious and vulgar aftertaste. We eventually degenerated into the culinary equivalent of licking lard out of a can…like a banquet for the depraved.
In total, there were twelve of us – The Dirty Dozen – and we were a quorum. Things went pretty smoothly, considering the general dynamics.
We attempted to structure the experience by regulating laws for the common good. Operating under the dictum that 12 clocks cannot strike at precisely the same time, certain truths became self-evident, and therefore, policies and priorities were established.
1. The fullest bladder with the least amount of control determined the next rest stop. Curiously, I ruled. The boys, however, profaned the entire rain forest as a pristine toilet that they never had to flush.
2. Incontinence trumps everything. Again, I dominated.
3. “Hurling” pre-empts even incontinence. Beckham has a familiar pattern of “burp…burp…urp!” We must always remain no more than one “burp” shy of a receptacle. This law was ratified in a small room at the Wagon Wheel Motel in Baker, Idaho.
4. Viscous nasal contents are subordinate to more pressing bodily demands. That particular territory can be secured on sleeves and tree trunks.
5. Anyone who grumbles, bleats or prevaricates shall be abandoned at the nearest rest stop and condemned to eternal exile. In a humanitarian gesture, we decided to define “prevaricate” for the kids or they’d all still be at the rest stop in Rupert, Idaho!
6. Whoever has an inkling how to get where we’re going…leads.
Maximum motion on minimal sleep rendered us witless. Gradually we all went into light-trance mode, often looking like a collection of bobble heads just off the Tilt-a-Whirl.
I realized after looking at our most recent photos, there were whole episodes of this vacation I missed. I lurked blurrily at the edges of cognizance. Dang the Propofol! Trying to maintain a neutral expression, I casually asked Dennis what happened in my “absence.” He assured me that yes, we had a good time; no, I didn’t streak the field; and my “dance of the seven veils” was a particular hit with our fellow ferry passengers. I was gratified.
One incident I will never forget. It was the day the U.S. played its scheduled World Cup soccer match. Because of the very early hour, we all got up and gathered around the TV, unshowered, teeth unbrushed, and disheveled…on this trip we were never “sheveled!” We huddled companionably in a potent tribal stink and cheered for our team. It was our finest moment.
Family vacations are singularly encapsulated, compact moments that engender a riotous expenditure of energy, panic, exhaustion, infinitesimal lapses of sanity, and deep solidarity…small pleasures, perfect moments intersected with zany comic book mania. This was no country for old men…or women. But I’ve discovered youth is a renewable resource…I was definitely “youth”anized on this trip. In point of fact, last week it was my birthday. I turned 18 once more.
In April we’ll do it all over again.
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
Butterflies and Guillotines
In an effort to maintain a perfect record of never allowing a year to lapse without at least one surgery, I went in for a parathyroidectomy last Thursday. I am recording the incident under an anesthetic fog, but it is true and accurate, nonetheless.
The doctors have been advising me that my parathyroid is “out of whack.” That’s a medical term indicating impending surgery. Well, I was not too happy about the thoughts of this procedure. Anesthesia always makes me loopy. But apparently, the parathyroid is a winged little thingee near the thyroid, and its removal conjured up images of the surgeon running barefoot in slow motion with a butterfly net through a field of daisies on a summer morning.
Well, in a burst of irrational optimistic positivity, I thought, why not? I’d get it done now so we could go on our family vacation to Washington without having it hanging over my head. In and out. Slick.
Things went quite well at first. My anesthesiologist was amiable, and said my veins were quite impressive. I was sure he was hitting on me. I was demur. I refrained from bragging, but I’ve always considered them some of my finest assets. And they’ve never been surgically enhanced. Modesty kept me from flaunting them.
We chatted for a while, until I noticed the OR begin to rotate. I became alarmed and asked him if he felt as dizzy as I looked. He assured me he was. I told him to cover me-I was goin’ in. Then I disappeared.
I don’t recall anything after that. But upon regaining consciousness, I felt a little like Anne Bolyn, the morning after…and rather nauseous. I requested some anti-hurl…STAT!
That’s when I first met Nurse Vlad, my post-op care-taker. She heaved me onto my side with the agility of a sumo wrestler, employing some moves she’d no doubt acquired as the head baton twirler of the Transylvania High School marching band. I tried to regain my equilibrium.
Suddenly, I heard the clattering of hooves on cobblestone, the swish of an Excaliber blade as it cut through the air, and the fierce cry of a Samarai warrior yelling, “Charge!” And then she impaled me!
This time I emitted a holler worthy of Wylie Coyote plummeting down a cliff.
A disembodied voice from outer darkness announced, “I love a skinny butt!” She put down her syringe, wiped her hands on her armor, mounted her trusty steed, said, “My work here is done,” and strode off into the sunset.
That’s the truth. At least, that’s how I remember it. Dennis’ version varies slightly. But it’s my stupor. Besides, he was on the OTHER end of that hypo!
I am recovering well, but it will be some time before I let anyone talk me into going to the meadow looking for butterflies.
The doctors have been advising me that my parathyroid is “out of whack.” That’s a medical term indicating impending surgery. Well, I was not too happy about the thoughts of this procedure. Anesthesia always makes me loopy. But apparently, the parathyroid is a winged little thingee near the thyroid, and its removal conjured up images of the surgeon running barefoot in slow motion with a butterfly net through a field of daisies on a summer morning.
Well, in a burst of irrational optimistic positivity, I thought, why not? I’d get it done now so we could go on our family vacation to Washington without having it hanging over my head. In and out. Slick.
Things went quite well at first. My anesthesiologist was amiable, and said my veins were quite impressive. I was sure he was hitting on me. I was demur. I refrained from bragging, but I’ve always considered them some of my finest assets. And they’ve never been surgically enhanced. Modesty kept me from flaunting them.
We chatted for a while, until I noticed the OR begin to rotate. I became alarmed and asked him if he felt as dizzy as I looked. He assured me he was. I told him to cover me-I was goin’ in. Then I disappeared.
I don’t recall anything after that. But upon regaining consciousness, I felt a little like Anne Bolyn, the morning after…and rather nauseous. I requested some anti-hurl…STAT!
That’s when I first met Nurse Vlad, my post-op care-taker. She heaved me onto my side with the agility of a sumo wrestler, employing some moves she’d no doubt acquired as the head baton twirler of the Transylvania High School marching band. I tried to regain my equilibrium.
Suddenly, I heard the clattering of hooves on cobblestone, the swish of an Excaliber blade as it cut through the air, and the fierce cry of a Samarai warrior yelling, “Charge!” And then she impaled me!
This time I emitted a holler worthy of Wylie Coyote plummeting down a cliff.
A disembodied voice from outer darkness announced, “I love a skinny butt!” She put down her syringe, wiped her hands on her armor, mounted her trusty steed, said, “My work here is done,” and strode off into the sunset.
That’s the truth. At least, that’s how I remember it. Dennis’ version varies slightly. But it’s my stupor. Besides, he was on the OTHER end of that hypo!
I am recovering well, but it will be some time before I let anyone talk me into going to the meadow looking for butterflies.
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
Leaking Gas
Why is it that the best things in life are so short-lived? Vacations, summer, lilacs, energy, money, general perkiness, youth, etc. And, of course, childhood. Especially childhood.
Those are Halcyon days. Kids get up in the morning with full diapers and empty sippees. The main task of the day is to empty the first and fill the second…and nobody gets hurt. Then it’s play, play, play until time for their 2:00 tantrum. What could be sweeter?
Children don’t fret over such trivial matters as heinous headlines, stock market gains and losses, gas prices, oil spills, elections, or celebrity drama. A jug of chocolate milk, a bag of chips, and they’re OK in their wilderness.
But childhood has a shelf life. Perhaps that’s why as adults we want to preserve, even prolong these days. We know that all too soon the time comes when we can no longer find our way back to the house at Pooh Corner.
And Time is a tyrant. Case in point. Recently we were given a giant congratulatory yellow inflated smiley-face Mylar balloon. That balloon was my alter ego. It made me happy. Its face was unalterably merry, looking as if it had been injected with too much botox by an over-zealous doctor.
It bobbed mindlessly through the rooms of our house, and smiled mockingly as the kids belted it to each other, unfazed by the mauling. I could identify.
But a few days passed, and the balloon began to lose some of its helium. The face started showing subtle signs of shriveling. The sunny countenance appeared to crease along the edges and fold into itself. The soft butter yellow took on a jaundiced look, as if its liver, if it had one, was not functioning properly. Its smile became derisive.
As if that weren’t enough, the balloon lost some of its “bob,” and would float down to the floor and linger there, inert and inconsolable. Finally, it drifted behind the TV, like Puff The Magic Dragon, going into its cave, seeking solitude and sanctuary.
We respected its privacy, hoping it would soon recapture its “perky” and rejoin us.
Suddenly, as we were watching the Lakers maul the Suns, the smiley face unexpectedly popped up from behind the TV as if it were some kind of freakish Jack-in-the-box, just like the shower scene in “Psycho!” I swear I heard discordant screeching violins at the same time. It actually startled us.
But now the happy face had changed dramatically. It appeared cavernous, with crevices, sags, and creping. It bobbed and weaved like a drunk geriatric boxer in slow motion. I swear it was a creepy perversion of “The Picture of Dorian Gray!”
Well, it was kind of funny. I laughed. Then I looked in the mirror. I cried. That smiley face was my evil twin. I was scarier than Norman Bates!
When did I lose my helium? How long have I been deflating? When did my gas begin to leak? And who wiped the grin off MY face?!
Our mirrors must be distorted! ALL mirrors are distorted!
Call the code blue plastic surgery triage unit!
Call Dr. Kevorkian!
I tried to retain my analytical reason. I hoped the unrestrained surge of stress hormones would not throw me out of orbit. I muttered vulgarisms incessantly.
Now, I’m not asking to slurp at the Fountain of Youth through a garden hose. I just want to return to the days when my butt was not oozing in concentric circles around my knees. Talk about hostile take-over! I thought I had that territory secured.
And while we’re at it, who splattered my hands with brown spots in the most unattractive geometric patterns…like I’d just painted the town taupe? When did all this take place, and where was I? How come I didn’t notice?
There is a certain bereavement at the passage of time. The clock is an apex predator!
I don’t know where to register my complaints, besides shouting blasphemes into the lightless void of outer darkness. (For the record, I got no response.)
However, since I have failed miserably to prevent my childhood from seeping away, I am focusing my efforts on my grandkids, before they pass their expiration date.
Spring is the season of recitals and rituals that signal the close of this recent school year. Talk about short-lived! Didn’t school just begin?
We have always encouraged our kids to be curious, to ask questions, to express themselves without fear or inhibition. So far, we’ve been wildly successful.
Our grandson, Carter the Curious, has been pleading with his parents for, of all things, an older brother. Brodi asked for my advice. I’m not touching this one, but I can’t wait to hear THAT explanation.
Over the Memorial Day holiday, Asher, our darling Asher, stomped in the windshield of Erin’s van…barefoot! Did I mention he’s three? We are all trying to stay on his good side until we can legally medicate him.
Most of our grandkids look like pipe cleaners. Asher looks like Sammy the Bull. It comes from daily workouts consisting of total annihilation.
It’s going to be a long summer.
But I plan to pass the sunshine season stuffing my jowls with picnics and peanut butter. I figure when autumn arrives, my face will be pumped and plumped and will once more resume the smooth contours of an inflated bladder. And I will smile because…I will have regained my helium!
Those are Halcyon days. Kids get up in the morning with full diapers and empty sippees. The main task of the day is to empty the first and fill the second…and nobody gets hurt. Then it’s play, play, play until time for their 2:00 tantrum. What could be sweeter?
Children don’t fret over such trivial matters as heinous headlines, stock market gains and losses, gas prices, oil spills, elections, or celebrity drama. A jug of chocolate milk, a bag of chips, and they’re OK in their wilderness.
But childhood has a shelf life. Perhaps that’s why as adults we want to preserve, even prolong these days. We know that all too soon the time comes when we can no longer find our way back to the house at Pooh Corner.
And Time is a tyrant. Case in point. Recently we were given a giant congratulatory yellow inflated smiley-face Mylar balloon. That balloon was my alter ego. It made me happy. Its face was unalterably merry, looking as if it had been injected with too much botox by an over-zealous doctor.
It bobbed mindlessly through the rooms of our house, and smiled mockingly as the kids belted it to each other, unfazed by the mauling. I could identify.
But a few days passed, and the balloon began to lose some of its helium. The face started showing subtle signs of shriveling. The sunny countenance appeared to crease along the edges and fold into itself. The soft butter yellow took on a jaundiced look, as if its liver, if it had one, was not functioning properly. Its smile became derisive.
As if that weren’t enough, the balloon lost some of its “bob,” and would float down to the floor and linger there, inert and inconsolable. Finally, it drifted behind the TV, like Puff The Magic Dragon, going into its cave, seeking solitude and sanctuary.
We respected its privacy, hoping it would soon recapture its “perky” and rejoin us.
Suddenly, as we were watching the Lakers maul the Suns, the smiley face unexpectedly popped up from behind the TV as if it were some kind of freakish Jack-in-the-box, just like the shower scene in “Psycho!” I swear I heard discordant screeching violins at the same time. It actually startled us.
But now the happy face had changed dramatically. It appeared cavernous, with crevices, sags, and creping. It bobbed and weaved like a drunk geriatric boxer in slow motion. I swear it was a creepy perversion of “The Picture of Dorian Gray!”
Well, it was kind of funny. I laughed. Then I looked in the mirror. I cried. That smiley face was my evil twin. I was scarier than Norman Bates!
When did I lose my helium? How long have I been deflating? When did my gas begin to leak? And who wiped the grin off MY face?!
Our mirrors must be distorted! ALL mirrors are distorted!
Call the code blue plastic surgery triage unit!
Call Dr. Kevorkian!
I tried to retain my analytical reason. I hoped the unrestrained surge of stress hormones would not throw me out of orbit. I muttered vulgarisms incessantly.
Now, I’m not asking to slurp at the Fountain of Youth through a garden hose. I just want to return to the days when my butt was not oozing in concentric circles around my knees. Talk about hostile take-over! I thought I had that territory secured.
And while we’re at it, who splattered my hands with brown spots in the most unattractive geometric patterns…like I’d just painted the town taupe? When did all this take place, and where was I? How come I didn’t notice?
There is a certain bereavement at the passage of time. The clock is an apex predator!
I don’t know where to register my complaints, besides shouting blasphemes into the lightless void of outer darkness. (For the record, I got no response.)
However, since I have failed miserably to prevent my childhood from seeping away, I am focusing my efforts on my grandkids, before they pass their expiration date.
Spring is the season of recitals and rituals that signal the close of this recent school year. Talk about short-lived! Didn’t school just begin?
We have always encouraged our kids to be curious, to ask questions, to express themselves without fear or inhibition. So far, we’ve been wildly successful.
Our grandson, Carter the Curious, has been pleading with his parents for, of all things, an older brother. Brodi asked for my advice. I’m not touching this one, but I can’t wait to hear THAT explanation.
Over the Memorial Day holiday, Asher, our darling Asher, stomped in the windshield of Erin’s van…barefoot! Did I mention he’s three? We are all trying to stay on his good side until we can legally medicate him.
Most of our grandkids look like pipe cleaners. Asher looks like Sammy the Bull. It comes from daily workouts consisting of total annihilation.
It’s going to be a long summer.
But I plan to pass the sunshine season stuffing my jowls with picnics and peanut butter. I figure when autumn arrives, my face will be pumped and plumped and will once more resume the smooth contours of an inflated bladder. And I will smile because…I will have regained my helium!
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