CLIMB EVERY MOUNTAIN

I recently saw a poster with the word STUPIDITY at the top. And below it was written:
“Quitters Never Win, Winners Never Quit, But Those Who Never Win And Never Quit Are IDIOTS!”

I begin this blog with those words of wisdom, because we just arrived home after taking our whole family…the entire Dirty Dozen…to Colorado for a final vacation before the start of school. Now don’t get me wrong…it was probably one of the best trips we have ever had…notably successful because we did not find it necessary to strike our names from our children’s birth certificates, and the sons-in-law did not cry “unnecessary roughness” as we all collected for the fifth time around the old gruel pot.

Family vacations are nature’s ultimate reality endurance contest…to test if these bonds can survive a week in close proximity at an altitude of 12,003 feet without the hope of a full pardon. As you know, at those dizzying heights, oxygen is thin, and the brain becomes deprived of cognition before it has sufficient time to acclimate.

Funny, woeful things happen on the first day of the absence of thought processes on a family outing. And although “height doesn’t make bright,” I learned so much about the “nature of things,” most notably the bodily functions of my six adorable and gifted grandchildren.

Here are my personal observations:

Grandkids’ bowels are equipped with sensor systems specifically programmed to detect when we have reached the furthest point from the last comfort stop, inducing the all-too-familiar sphincter-compromised strut, with the kid walking like an exaggerated apostrophe. They rock and walk like a loose tooth. This is the ultimate body language. Any mother can decode the clues with ease. One cannot over-“awfulize” this particular circumstance.
Grandchildren are created particularly adorable to compensate for their fallacious idea that it is their sworn duty to ensure that Grandma does not potty without an audience and sparkling conversation. The Mother of all rationale-defying thinking: Chanting in unison “Are You Done Yet?” like an incantation from behind closed doors will expedite any order of business being conducted.
Dizzy and confused is not always a condition of altitude. Utter lack of privacy is a contributing factor.
Grandkids are under the delusion that there are absolutely no age or physical limitations to grandparents’ capabilities. Consequently, you accomplish everything they think you can.
While riding in the car one day, I asked Abram what one thing he would change about himself if he could. He considered for a moment, and then replied, “Nothing. I like me just the way I am.”
Priceless!
If you scare the “bejeebers” out of the grandkids, they are reluctant to engage in extreme cage fighting on long rides in the car.

I am including Brodi’s account of our visit to the Stanley Hotel, where “The Shining” was filmed, to justify my inclusion of Observation #6.

BRODI

Creepy Hotel Status:

Yesterday, we went to the Stanley Hotel, the site where Stephen King was inspired to write “The Shining.” He stayed in room 217, and thought up one of the creepiest stories of our time.

You should’ve heard my Mom telling the grandkids about the story.

Mom: “There was once a man who stayed in this hotel, and went crazy and killed his entire family. So their ghosts haunt the hotel. Then, there’s this writer, who takes his wife and son up to the same hotel to stay during the winter.

Well, he goes crazy, typing stupid sentences over and over on a typewriter, confessing to a bartender, who is really a ghost, and stuff. He kills a guy with an axe, and then he tries to kill his wife and son, before he is frozen in the maze. Any questions?”

Grandkid: “What the heck is a typewriter?”


In spite of it all, we were ultimately a family, seeking amusement among ourselves, away from a world of technology and a glut of intrusive, impoverished, suffocating media sensation we are exposed to on a daily basis with woeful fatigue, and we often endure with passive neutrality. But it has a way of making us disappear into identity debasement. This can ultimately diminish one’s discernment.

We returned exhausted, but strangely refreshed and vitalized by such family excursions. And we celebrate all our flaws and imperfections. What an enormously fun and dysfunctional clan we are.

Today was the first day of school, and the annual ritual of taking pictures and the rite of passage to new classrooms with shiny blackboards were observed once more. Dennis and I were there with cameras, embraces, and tender hearts as second-generational participants. No question, we are crazy for our little clot, but there is a certain splendid idiocy in being grandparents. No enticement could induce us to surrender our “bragging license.”


Love to all,

The Clot

THE UNKINDEST CUT OF ALL

Dear Clotters,

I am determined to blog the events of the past week before I get out of this anesthetic Oz altogether, and the details become blurred, and my memory returns to the vast uninhabitable landscape I fondly refer to as my comfort zone.

Here’s the story.
Last week, Dennis was scheduled for a colonoscopy, and we were busily preparing for that awesomely unlovely procedure. That is to say, we each had our assigned tasks. I washed, ironed, cleaned, vacuumed, mowed the lawn, ran errands…well you get the idea. Dennis, on the other hand, popped Dulcolax pills like theater popcorn. He popped and pooped! With each little white pill he popped, his tether to home base became shorter and shorter, until he was caught like a fly in a web. Then, just as an additional precautionary measure that all “went smoothly,” so to speak, he was instructed to imbibe a tanker of “liquid enema” mixed in Gatorade, to make it more palatable.

The prep protocol did, however, allow him to consume any clear liquid of his choice, as long as it was repulsive and non bio-hazardous. This he did with great patience and charm. In an effort to avoid TMI, let’s just say that “liquidating” someone is not necessarily a term originating with the Mafia. The cocktail had a kick, and would seem to be far more effective than waterboarding as an interrogation technique. Personally, I’d confess to anything.

On the designated morning of said colonoscopy, as we were leaving for our appointment with the plumber, I was stricken with pain, nausea, and general ickiness that prevented me from being able to unwrap myself from around the porcelain bowl that had been my constant companion the night before.

Not many options here. It was our “enema dilemma.”

However, Brodi came to the rescue, and got her Dad safely into harbor, and then returned to take me to the hospital for some serious gut-checking. The plan began with a CT scan of my lower right quadrant. Now, the pre-CT scan protocol involves drinking a libation called “contrast.”

“Contrast.” Sounds innocuous enough, right? In actuality, it is a diabolical concoction consisting of 9 parts powdered chalk mixed with one part swamp scum, raw egg whites to ensure viscosity, liquid fur ball from an angora feline (thus the term, “cat” scan), and yak urine. The demon drink is then flavored with the oozing body fluids of a really brown banana. Believe me, it could power rockets into outer space, or bring terrorist nations to their knees. An oil drum of the stuff is then placed before you, complete with hose, and you are told to siphon it in its entirety within ½ an hour …the scheduled time for the CT scan. The good news? The second oil drum was berry flavored!

By “contrast”, Dennis’ prep “martini” was nectar of the gods! Having accomplished the improbable, I have concluded that “contrast” is the love child of dish water and acid rain, the taking of which constituted an act of unfathomable villainy upon my person, transforming my entire bodily circumference into one contorted bloated goat bladder!

The nice technician then injected iodine into my system that was so warm, by the time it reached my nether regions, I was pleading for some Depends. I felt all radioactive, and was worried about leaking into the atmosphere. I was afraid I could blow any minute, and end up as little Joni floaties on the sea of life, like the shark in “Jaws.” But, thank goodness, I had not lost control of my bladder and moistened my tutu. At least I was spared that particular humiliation! Cold comfort.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, Brodi managed to get Dennis home to sleep off the effects of anesthesia, stool softeners, and a whole lot of dehydration. Are you with me so far?

The results of the CT scan revealed “a hot appee.” At first I thought the radiologist was hitting on me, but apparently my appendix was severely inflamed…and leaking. Code Red surgery alert! I told Dr. Lunt I hoped they could get me on their surgical schedule at their earliest appointment. Dr. Lunt said, “Girlfriend, you’ll be in surgery in 15 minutes!”

How could this be happening?
I was sure I was being held hostage in a Stephen King novel. But in some ways, I was very relieved. Over the course of the past few weeks, I can understand how one could become seduced into joining the corps of the chronically anesthetized. I have experienced prolonged pain of such severity, that I feared an alien life form would suddenly burst forth from my rib cage, leaving me mere quivering gray matter on the dinner table. Forget the movies…there is no such thing as “sick-cute.”

Meanwhile, Dennis shook off the shackles of stupor, and managed to drive himself back down to the hospital, and we all clotted up. For the record, the results of the colonoscopy showed perfectly normal bowel tissue. No red flags. HOORAY! That was enough to float our fleet.

While conferring with the anesthetist, he assured me that narcolepsy greatly enhances the effects of the anesthesia. I was comforted. And my only request was that he not inject anything to put me under that might be found in Michael Jackson’s medicine cabinet. We bound the oath with our pinkies, and I was ready for action. I recall saying, “Cover me…I’m going in!” So they pulled up my blanket…there were some disembodied voices…and a merciful fade to black.

Apparently the operation went well, and, happily, the only thing Dr. Voorhees harvested was a very hot appendix. No need for Ripley this time. We christened the little bugger “Osama” nonetheless.

Regaining consciousness is such an adventure. My tongue was not just coated, it was wrapped in a body bag encased in cement...no doubt a mafia contract hit by a disgruntled carpo.

Dennis was able to be there every minute. We had a room with a view…of the on-going road construction. And at present, we are home recuperating from our excellent adventure, and doing well. We both walk funny, and we try not to get each other laughing…there are some serious repercussions, as you might imagine. We count our blessings each day and each night.

Our love to all,
The Clot

Laproscopy Revisited

It seems whenever I think things are going to slow down…things fast up. On a recent day that will live in infamy, the world mourned the loss of Michael Jackson, Farrah Fawcett, Ed McMahon…and Dennis’ hernia. The entire population of the planet is entrenched in nostalgia, recalling the immortal words, “Heeeeere’s Johnny!” and the lyrics of “Thriller,” and THE poster of Farrah in a red bathing-suit, and Dennis’ proclamation, “Hernia alert! Call the doctor! We’re gonna’ need more chicken wire!”

I know. I know. It’s only been a few weeks since the first hernia surgery…the prequel. But in the interest of fair and equal invasive procedures, his left side found out what his right side had done…and demanded equal time.

His entire lower abdomen looks like a Rorschach inkblot, with perfectly matching incision scars. Dr. Frankengroin is a term of endearment, and I only use it when he’s still under the influence of anesthetic and unable to inflict bodily harm.

But he is sporting a certain symmetry now…a sort of abdominal feng shui, that he didn’t have when his left side looked like freshly fallen snow where no footprint left an impression.

I had considered tracing the trails blazed by previous surgeons with indelible ink to see if it was similar to the Appalachian Trail. But Dennis, in spite of anesthetic numb-tongue, managed to describe consequences of such graphic distinction, that I thought better of it, and surrendered custody of my magic marker. (Ooooh, someone woke up on the wrong side of the laprascope!)

Dr. Glasgow placed a great wall of chicken wire internally that extends to all his quadrants, so should he try to pop another hernia, it will have to emerge from his nostrils. This was reassuring…except Dennis is still very careful when he blows his nose.

He doesn’t exactly walk upright as yet, but he still has two opposing thumbs which identify him as one of Darwin’s more advanced evolutionary creatures.

While Thursday was a peculiar day when perhaps the universe seemed somewhat out of alignment – Jupiter and Mars were horoscopically at odds – the rest of June was a month of celebrations. And the girls pulled out all the stops for Father’s Day. Words fail me to describe the tribute, so the following is Brodi’s chronicle of the events of that occasion.

BRODI:

Totally Lame Father’s Day Presents:

What do you get the guy who gave you life, sacrificed so much to provide for you, threw you countless pop-ups in the backyard, gave you away at your wedding, provided medical care for your children, and battled Pancreatic Cancer in a war of epic proportions?

I’ll tell you. You get him the love child of a toilet scrubber and a feather duster. And you tell him it’s a backscratcher!

Now, before you all throw stones in my general direction, let me just explain one thing. Ummm…it’s my sister’s fault. (Just kidding, Erin.)

Really, though, we bought my Dad David Copperfield tickets about a month ago for Father’s Day. Even so, there’s nothing more embarrassing than the three Dads in our family showing off their presents on the actual day. Sam and Dave with their cordless power drills, my Dad with his…backscratcher.

My sister bought it from a traveling salesman, who, I’m sure, walked away from her house thinking to himself, “I can’t believe she bought it. I’ve had that in my truck for twenty years. I wonder if she’ll go for the dust bunnies in the back of my truck next time.”

After my Dad opened the gift, my sister leaned over to me and said, “You owe me three dollars!”

JOAN:

You can see why words failed me! So many memories can be made with such little activity in the old brainbox.

Life, like oceans, has a rhythm and order. It is June. June is a time for celebrations and reunions.

Our annual high school ladies’ luncheon was held at our house (talk about memories made with little activity in the old brainbox!) This year we included the men. I feared that “luncheon acumen” was not related to the Y chromosome. I was wrong, and it proved to be a very wise decision.

Before classmates began arriving, I wondered where everyone would be on the rigor mortes spectrum, assessed the size of burqa required to obscure my dreaded “dermatological crepe,” and pondered the appropriate amount of mortician’s putty necessary to make myself presentable.

But then, I decided to secure the zone with a no judge/no grudge policy, declare myself, “the people’s geezer,” provide proof of vaccination, and embrace the “no excuses” reunion.

When everyone came, the years, pounds and sag evaporated, and we all became born-again adolescents…you know, like when the term “senior” meant we were about to graduate high school…not life.

We partied into the wee hours…that’s about 7:00 p.m. OFST. (Old Fart Standard Time), and we actually remembered things from ancient history…ours! Some things, mercifully, dementia has allowed us to forget.

I so appreciated Dennis taking pictures of that auspicious afternoon. And I only made one request: that he try to get photos of me when I’m not eating, talking or blinking. He failed miserably. We’ll have a lot of cutting and pasting to do before we scrapbook those suckers.

Time tempers all things – and nostalgia is exactly what it used to be. This reunion is evidence of that. And in the spirit of rose-colored hindsight, I fully expect to be ID’d the next time I try to sneak into an R-rated movie!

Our love to all,

The Clot

MONSOON JUNE

Greetings, Dear Clotters,

Just one question: What’s with all the rain??!!! Where’s the swelter?

Well, it’s June, and 2009 is middle-aged already. I figure that the new baby with the ’09 sash that appeared on New Year’s Eve in January, has passed through zit-infested puberty and is para-menopausal, raging hot flashes, mega-irritability and all. By the time the first symptoms of dementia become apparent, we will be heading toward October. And at full-blown alzheimers, I will be full of the Christmas Spirit and anxiously awaiting the arrival of a new child with 2010 tattooed on his (her?) bosom.

Where does the time go? We have another generation leaving carbon (not to mention muddy) footprints on our floors and hearts that just a breath ago were merely good ideas.

I am suffering deep blogger’s remorse because I have been so derelict in my up-dates. It seems that no matter how elaborately I prepare for my best-laid plans, time flies, life happens, scuttles my to-do list, and hijacks my day. However, chaos often imposes a higher order, so I go along for the ride, knowing that the difference between an ordeal and an adventure is attitude.

It’s summer. That means those lazy, crazy, hazy days of…dental check-ups, mammograms, and colonoscopies. Oh, the indignities of being really old. Remember the days when colons were merely sentence punctuations, checked by English teachers…not procedures checked by a doctor, which begin by pounding down a tanker of Fleet’s and conclude with an entire garden hose up the wazoo?

And this was the week for our quarterly check-up with Dr. Mulvihill and Dr. Jones. Dennis is on regular surveillance since his chemo treatments concluded in August of ’08.

It is an interesting transitional phase to go from active cancer-fighting protocol to being a survivor – a little like straddling the Grand Canyon while balancing a stack of anvils. One hopes for strength to keep a toehold on both rims, but prays to locate the rip-cord in time should the grip slip. One foot-pound of pressure per second per second off in one’s timing, and you’re toe-tagged for identification by family.

Dennis went in for lab work on Wednesday so his results would be available for the doctors on Friday. It is a little like waiting for the verdict of a jury who is deliberating your fate behind closed doors. You anticipate and dread the decision.

But Dr. Jones called us Thursday night prior to our appointment, with the glorious news that Dennis’ tumor markers were 26. NORMAL! She thought she would spare us another night of anxiety. That was not just thoughtful. She deserves the Congressional Medal of Honor for compassion. NORMAL! We slept with a peace that we hadn’t known for a while. Rest made us giddy, and a little dizzy. This was a new experience for Dennis. It’s a perpetual state of being for me.

Both doctors examined his surgical site and mid-section, and found his liver to be smooth. (I’ve never been partial to bumpy livers.) His body is strong, but just a little on the lean side.

But...DENNIS HAS ANOTHER HERNIA! I tried to pass it off as just another ripple in his ab collection. The doctors, however, seemed to conclude that since this ripple’s linear direction was vertical instead of horizontal, it was most likely a hernia, not an ab protrusion that had fallen over.

Boy Howdy! We were afraid we’d have to go several months without an operation! But at least it doesn’t involve Fleets and hoses. So his belly button takes another shot with the laparascope, they insert chicken wire to hold in his guts, and we’re on the road again.

We are in the process of setting up an appointment to repair the damage, and this will be scheduled as soon as I can utter whole sentences whose entirety is not comprised of words consisting of only four letters. This may take a while.

But the good news is it’s not cancer-related. OK! We can do this. ok. But I can’t wait till all his hernias have been extracted and only his muscle-mass protrudes. This may also take a while.

Over the course of the past several weeks, I have been made aware once again how I loathe cancer. It is a merciless plague, and even as a survivor, there is always the vague, low-grade unease that the specter lurking in the darkest shadowy recesses may manifest itself once again to wreak its detested havoc.

At this juncture, I must blog responsibly and issue a viewer’s discretion warning. There is an ensuing tirade about to occur…in HD, no less. So, if your system is delicate and you’re prone to “the vapors,” leap-frog down the next few paragraphs…or fasten your seatbelts, and beware of whiplash.

That said, I am enthusiastically optimistic about the research being conducted and the advancements in treatment options currently available. There are so many trials and studies being conducted. Dr. Mulvihill and his team are trying to obtain a grant that will greatly assist further research. I am confident that will happen, because he is the most tenacious man I have ever met, Dennis being the only exception.

But the disease is ubiquitous, and strikes without discrimination, regardless of age, life-style, or circumstances. It is no longer a rare and isolated occurrence. And no one is off-limits. Its cruelty knows no bounds.

Oh, I do not doubt that this heinous affliction will be conquered. Our doctors are gladiatorial. I look forward to the day when “cancer” is an antiquated word whose reference is a mere historical footnote in medical books…like the black plague…only blacker.
OK. I’ve expended my vitriol. I feel better. You can open your eyes now.

Right after the next surgery, we are planning to do something equally fun. Although we don’t know right now just what that will be, we do know it won’t involve lifting.

Please come and visit us, and we will show you Dennis’ new incision. This could actually be a pleasant pastime. (And you thought we didn’t know how to have fun!)

Our love to all,

The Clot

MAY DAY! MAY DAY!

The dust is settling, and the pendulum is swinging back and forth from the overwhelming to the gloriously silly.

It always amazes me how many singular “non-events” comprise the component parts of our lives. We have been acutely aware that each component is either an adventure, an ordeal, a comedy, or a celebration. You know, you just can’t make this stuff up. Fabricating news is journalistic malpractice.

So here is an unvarnished account of our lives, including the Ides of March, the Ides of April, and the Ides of May. If you hadn’t already noticed, we are devout believers in an Ide for an Ide.

To begin with, Dennis underwent laparoscopic surgery for hernia repair. Although past experience has made us suspicious of surgery that does continue for days and result in profound poundage drop, this was actually a rather nifty procedure. (“Nifty.” Adj. meaning “cool.” Look that up in your Funk and Wagnall’s – circa 1960)

Dennis was so fatigued after trying to keep up with our 3-year-old grandson, Beckham, that I told the surgeon anesthetic was optional. He’d just fall into a deep, drooling slumber in the OR, and be out for the entire hour. Feel free to ressect any organ remnants, unidentifiable floaties, or random debris from previous operations. Dennis actually thought that was funny, but by then, he’d been give massive quantities of the “I don’t care what my wife says,” drug. The anesthesiologist assured us this would help him endure the surgery…and the marriage. We both begged for more.

After the operation, the doctor came out and informed me that they “harvested the hernia” and all went according to plan. I summarily avoided going to the accompanying visual imagery and remained seated biting my lower lip. I would have uttered an “audible” at voice prompt, but “kid fatigue” acted on me like the “I don’t give a ….” tonic. By the time he was wheeled out of the OR, Dennis and I were two minds without a single thought. This was good. This is why we plan to commemorate more “Ides” celebrations for years to come.

Taking care of a little boy reminds one that muscles do tend to flab-up over the years. I don’t mean that our bodies are in disrepair, exactly. We have heard of “muscle memory,” but ours have developed severe dementia and are entering the early stages of alzheimers.

It was hard to maintain the illusion of dignity when certain body parts (which shall remain anonymous) were sagging with a more acute downward trajectory than a loaded diaper. My random components used to be so adorably perky, happy to face the sunlight and greet every passer-by with a smile and a salute. Now these same little guys have become “cellulite noire,” seeking refuge and anonymity in the dark recesses of “slumpadinkas” that comprise my entire wardrobe. I’ve had days when it required a whole herd of sherpas just to haul my cookies into bed. Upon summiting, I fall instantly into an oxygen-depleted, neuron-numbing slumber, known only to novices not acclimated to high altitudes…and little boys.

But, thankfully, Beckham did not know this. He assumed that all bodies are designed to contort with equal agility, and he perceived no endurance differential.

Why, I even morphed into a “foodie,” and we ate things that I’m certain were for external use only, and that could have warranted a call to the Poison Control Center. But Dennis figures what doesn’t kill us…usually only makes us sick.

So, we didn’t concern ourselves about consumption identification, swine flu, SARS, or the black plague. If it was eventually deposited in the diaper, then it obviously cleared the hurdles of the digestive track, and we were good to eat the next item of dubious origin.

I am a grandchild gypsy, and the thing I’ve learned from our wee folk is…many hands make light work…heavy. I love all the help, however, and with our little brooms, we are able to breeze through the daily chores in twice the time. Sometimes task completion is subordinate to a good time.

Ah, life with a 3-year-old. I have learned many important things from my constant companionship with Beckham.

He has taught me that:

1. There is never a bad time to bounce on the trampoline.
2. One must remember to secure one’s diaper, or one is likely to be bouncing in the buff. Actually, buff bouncing has it in spades.
3. No matter how long we bounce, we both exit the tramp, hair crackling with static electricity and looking like Gene Wilder in “Young Frankenstein” shrieking, “It’s alive!”
4. All wild and ferocious beast sounds are guttural, loud, and unexpectedly endearing.
5. It is possible to be smitten all over again by the sustained eye contact of a small person who really likes you.

Our time together was measured in “kid hours,” a special time zone that curiously doesn’t last very long. By the end of the day, we were both wanting a bottle.

It’s funny how you can wipe noses and change diapers whose contents resemble amorphous, gelatinous, self-replicating masses of goo capable of taking over the world, and think the kid is heaven’s gift for the salvation of mankind.

Beckham, unlike other grandchildren currently in the witness protection program, does not consider it his appointed mission in life to reduce the entire planet to rubble. But he has a plethora of cutes, and he knows how to use them. Did I mention I’m smitten?

After ten days of sustained, frenetic, aerobic activity living in a universe whose orbit is determined by the moisture content of a loin cloth, I feared this ubergrandma would have to be treated for reckless stupidity. But a short stay in the paranoid schizophrenic department of the psyche ward, and I’m back to normal.

I’ve been thinking about the most recent singing sensation, Susan Boyle. She has truly inspired me. I think I can do that. Apparently all you need is frump…and a phenomenal singing voice. I’m halfway there. And Dennis agrees. In fact, recently a friend told me of a sweet compliment her husband paid her. He said, “ Why would I go out for hamburger, when there’s prime rib at home!”

Dennis said he felt exactly the same way. “Why go out for French fries when there’s a couch potato at home.”

Hmmmm. Somehow it just didn’t seem to work the same, but he explained that’s because we’re vegetarians. OK. Good. I felt a lot better after that, and continued cooking the roast.

Anyway, inside this frumpy woman is an even frumpier woman who also can’t sing. Dennis said that in this economy, there doesn’t seem to be a big demand for “Alfalfa does Phantom.” He said something about “perhaps when pigs fly.” I guess he means when they find a cure for the swine flu. I can wait.

Meantime, it’s May, and the last blooms of the forsythia are giving way to lilacs and trees with blossoms. The world is drenched in fragrance and light. And I plan to purchase a supersize order of French fries, gather all the grandkids on the trampoline, and bounce till the collective static electricity in our hair can be used as an alternative energy resource.

Happy Mother’s Day!

We love you all,

The Clot

ANNIVERSARIES, HERNIAS AND RAFA NADAL

Hello, Dear Clotters,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

BRODI

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

Mood: Totally Rocks.

Mood: Satisfied.

Reason for Mood: You all know, right?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



And the matches were stellar.

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

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

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

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

caboose guy: "It absorbs the heat."

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

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

me: "Take it back!"

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

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

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

me (resembling a growl) : "Yes."

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

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

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

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

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

And I was all, "Whatev's"


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



He came. He played. And it was beautiful.






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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Love,

The Clot

THE CHAOS OF TRIBAL ORDER

Hello, Clotters,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

All our love,

The Clot