Well, Christmas is crushing in upon us, and we are on our annual collision course with St. Nick. The impact should just about obliterate the jolly old elf…and our bank account. Oh, the carnage! We are maxed out with merriment, partying, The Twelve (hundred) Days of Christmas, silver bells, tinsel, and gluttony. I’ve sung more carols than is constitutionally legal. I’m emotionally lobotomized. My eyes are more glazed than the cakes I’ve consumed, and the bags underneath the eyes are bigger than Santa’s. I’ve long ago lost my capacity for abstract thought, and I can’t look one more sugar plum in the face. I am a member emeritus of the glucose-induced, dazed and vacuous.
And speaking of sugarplums, I haven’t been near the kitchen since Thanksgiving to bake the little concoctions to dance in the kids’ heads. I’m wondering if animated M&M’s with cartoon faces would work just as well. As I walk by the oven door and gaze at the carbonized remains still evident from “turkeys past,” I just can’t make myself fire up the old stove again.
I hate when my inner “Ebeneezer” over-rides my “Tiny Tim,” but this year we may have to make Christmas happen with holiday heartburn and synchronized belching alone. And that’s OK. Personally, I find choreographed little sucrose fruits somewhat suspect. Just what are sugar plums anyway? Does anybody know? Does anybody care? I refuse to commit culinary suicide reproducing a confection straight out of a book whose central plot involves a living nutcracker in obscenely revealing tights doing battle with a rodent king of primitive intelligence and his army of creepy, plague-infested rat colonies. Where’s my Physician’s Desk Reference?! Humbug! (Boy Howdy! That was cathartic!)
Besides, December is bloated with bills, obligations, taxes, and doctors’ appointments. We recently went to the dentist for our 6-month check-up, and he set about the routine exam with the maniacal enthusiasm of a mad archaeologist excavating for relics from the Ming Dynasty. Unfortunately for Dennis, several were discovered, and he is undergoing the jackhammer as we speak.
One of the privileges of being really old is that there is perpetually diminishing tooth surface to even attract a cavity. It’s all been drilled, filled, extracted, bridged, re-rooted, re-routed or implanted years ago. So I regard Dennis’ cavity as a badge of orifice prowess, a justifiable excuse for oral hubris. But, I do not envy him. Our dentist is Dennis’ brother, Ron. He knows the “drill,” so to speak. Through the years, he has learned to slap the nitrous oxide over my nose as soon as I pull into the parking lot. He’s even been known to attach the tubing to my exhaust pipe for especially extensive work.
Ron never exceeds the bounds of propriety by asking personal questions when I’m in my altered state of consciousness…at least, not that I remember. Besides, unbridled tongue/lip coordination regurges more sensitive information than is ethically advisable when I’m fully conscious.
I’m not an easy patient, and Ron has been known to take a few whiffs of the coping gas just to endure the ordeal. We both dread the 6-month expiration date that will compel me to return and insert my body into the recliner of horrors. And no one cheers louder than the staff of dental assistants and mental health volunteers when Ron proclaims, “No Cavities!” and I can drive home without Angelina Jolie lips.
But this is the time of year when we take great pains to produce a Christmas worthy of Norman Rockwell. Dennis snaps a plethora of pictures to capture the moments that will all too soon be memories. We got back the copies of the ones he took from Thanksgiving, and I was aghast. Utter fatigue and sleep deprivation united in an unholy alliance to make me look like Lady Gaga…in drag…and Betty Boop on lash-enhancing drugs. Not to mention my hair. The re-growth alone qualified me as Cruella DeVille’s evil twin.
I issued an immediate and irrevocable edict that there were to be no more pictures of me without prior written consent. Anyone flashing me without said consent would be penalized…with me flashing them. (Think about it.) No kidding! Some of my photos could stop Santa in the flue.
Our grandkids, the Ashton “6-pack,” are out of control – trying to impress the Jolly One with petitions and character references. A couple of them will require a full pardon before Santa agrees to hazard the chimney soot on their behalf.
However, Asher, our “rebel without a clue,” is a particular favorite of the North Pole. He has been granted “favored kid” status, and may be awarded a congressional waiver for past naughties. The remainder of the half-dozen bear perpetual witness to having been good to the point of sainthood. (Of course, that depends on what the meaning of “good” is.)
However, I have it on the best authority that Santa plans to drop his load down Grandma’s chimney this year in a most generous and humanitarian gesture of forbearance and forgiveness…and Grandma may have to be committed to rehab for debt addiction.
Since it is the season for making lists, I decided to include an inventory of the best rock ‘n roll classics to listen to while dashing to shopping malls. When feeling “drive-impaired,” these selections are like musical caffeine, and it is possible to frenetically accelerate from sale to sale sans coke, open windows, or exiting on the “Drowsy Drivers” off-ramp.
This music, however, demands French fries. French fries are affirmation from heaven that man was indeed meant to have joy. Best places? Hires and Spin Café in Heber.
Anyway, here they are, in no particular order.
1. Eli’s Comin’ – Three Dog Night
2. Mrs. Robinson – Simon and Garfunkel
3. Satisfaction – Rolling Stones
4. I Heard It Through the Grapevine – Marvin Gaye
5. What A Day For A Daydream – Lovin’ Spoonful
6. Honkey Cat – Elton John
7. And When I Die – Blood, Sweat and Tears
8. That’s What You Get For Lovin’ Me – Peter, Paul and Mary
9. I Wanna Hold Your Hand – Beatles
10. Blackbird – Beatles
Blessed sensory overload!
The Christmas holidays are most efficient for accomplishing Obama’s 3-fold defense plan in Afghanistan – Disrupt, Dismantle, and Defeat! I am happy to report, however, that at this point in the “Axis of Merriment,” I’m disrupted and dismantled, but not defeated. I am bloodied, but not bowed. I shop on, in spite of vows of restraint.
And speaking of blood, we are looking forward to Thursday’s appointment with Dennis’ phlebotomist without the least degree of glee.
But as the current weather whisks away all traces of body heat, we cocoon ourselves in our mummy bags and make lists of those who continually bless our lives. We’ll be in these bags counting for quite a long while.
Love,
The Clot
Thursday, December 17, 2009
Thursday, December 3, 2009
Going Rouge
We’ve been counting our blessings this Thanksgiving weekend, and we’ve come up with some pretty significant numbers. Now, you know how much I detest the numbers game – it’s such a racket. Most things in the world can be proven or disproven by mathematical manipulation.
Numbers are so capricious. For instance, the Y beat the U in football by 3 teeny weeny little points…nothing more than your basic field goal…yeah, like anyone even remembered that score 5 minutes after the game ended. Obama defeated McCain by a few measly votes…as if THAT’S going to change history.
No, what I’m talkin’ about here are radical numbers that will profoundly resonate through the universe. ARE YOU ALL READY FOR THIS???!!! Dennis gained two (2) pounds!!! WAY! And what’s more, he’s owned all 32 ounces for over two (2) weeks now. They are permanently grafted onto his body. Each little molecule of fat has joined the family and found a permanent relationship with all who enter our home. We find ourselves looking for excuses to “hug up” simply for the sheer pleasure of proximity to the new heft.
I can actually see and identify them. They reside just beneath the midsection in between his Whipple grin and the hernia repair scar on the right side. He is no longer the masterpiece of faulty construction. He now has form and function.
Oh, the joy in Clotville! We have all been dancing and singing, “Hey! Wall-a – Wall-a – Wall-a! Boopita! Boopita! Boopita!” Our enthusiasm alone warrants an invitation to the next White House State Function.
Now we realize this doesn’t exactly qualify as a fair dinkum “hunka.” But his enlarged chest dimension is more than a moussed-up comb-over of the hair on his sternum. Yessssssirreee. The chub is adhered to his torso like hair sticks to Vaseline. Those pounds there are a conspicuous, massive accumulation of arrogant, hubristic bloat…rosey, pink quivering flesh the color of Sarah Palin’s rouge.
I wish I could credit this stunning metamorphosis to my holiday culinary prowess. As you know, this is the season of my annual transformation into the “turkey mumbler,” reciting ancient incantations to channel my inner Butterball in an effort to persuade the little gobbler to cook to golden perfection. It’s a bit tricky to bake a turkey correctly. It must be long enough that in a fit of reckless negligence, friends and family aren’t stricken with E-coli, but not so long it becomes vulcanized rubber. I have a dread fear of toxic shock, and have been known to immolate the bird to the point of vaporization. There have been years when we prayed the turkey would rise from the ashes like some kind of stuffed phoenix.
As hostess, I have to own that bird, and my reputation as the baster master lives or dies on my giblets.
But with all due modesty, this year I SCORED! The turkey was tender and juicy…convection perfection…browned, but not seared. And all the guests stripped the entire carcass in a hedonistic feeding frenzy…and then collapsed in a tryptophan stupor, light-headed and disoriented, barely able to consume the last bite of the third piece of pumpkin pie. Talk about gut glut! And no one had to be rushed to the ER. It was a consummate triumph, though not necessarily a picture out of Currier and Ives.
We can hardly wait to see if this latest event of conspicuous consumption will yield another few ounces on the scale. We are optimistic and hoping HE – COULD – GO- ALL - THE – WAY…to 135. We’ve all got our heads in the game, but I’m content for the moment just to hoard the bulk currently volumizing Dennis’ torso. We must not become greedy.
No holiday would be complete without some entertainment. And we certainly had our share. Dave, our son-in-law and father of 4 of the 6 most adorable grandchildren ever conceived, decided Thanksgiving Day would be a perfect time to toilet train Asher. We’re talkin’ ASHER…AAAASSSSHHHHEEEERRRR! And, the man had a game plan. Sooooo, Dave removed Asher’s diaper and issued simple instructions to inform him when he had to go potty. (The boy can barely pronounce “potty.”)
But Asher knows his alphabet. So Dave explained that when he felt the urge, he was to just say, “I-P-P.” Sounds reasonable, huh?
Well, Asher tore through the house as if on intravenous feedings of pure caffeine, sans diaper and half naked, sitting on the laps of every guest at every table in the entire neighborhood. And after he had moistened territory on all three stories of the house, he announced with glee, “I-P-P!”
I suggested to Dave that perhaps he should first explain to Asher the difference between present and PAST tense BEFORE removing the loin cloth. Of course, at that point, the horses had stampeded out the barn door long ago.
Then Beckham saw the joy and freedom of the Full Monty, and promptly removed the lower half of his clothing. The two little boys were like colts – matching halves of a stark naked Rorschach ink blot gone berserk. It gave new meaning to the term “pissing contest.”
However, working in teams, we were finally able to take down the tiny felons and swaddle their nether regions with the speed and agility of steer wrestlers at a rodeo event, and restore some degree of order. We all breathed easier knowing we got ‘em covered. Besides, since the day our first grandchild was born, we have had Utah Disaster Clean-Up on speed dial.
When all the guests departed, Dennis and I got out the carpet cleaner and a multitude of large, absorbent towels, and began counting our blessings as we removed yellow territorial puddles. And this time the numbers were in our favor…there were more blessings than spots! Sometimes numbers are a good thing – did I mention Dennis gained two (2) pounds?
Love to all,
The Clot
Numbers are so capricious. For instance, the Y beat the U in football by 3 teeny weeny little points…nothing more than your basic field goal…yeah, like anyone even remembered that score 5 minutes after the game ended. Obama defeated McCain by a few measly votes…as if THAT’S going to change history.
No, what I’m talkin’ about here are radical numbers that will profoundly resonate through the universe. ARE YOU ALL READY FOR THIS???!!! Dennis gained two (2) pounds!!! WAY! And what’s more, he’s owned all 32 ounces for over two (2) weeks now. They are permanently grafted onto his body. Each little molecule of fat has joined the family and found a permanent relationship with all who enter our home. We find ourselves looking for excuses to “hug up” simply for the sheer pleasure of proximity to the new heft.
I can actually see and identify them. They reside just beneath the midsection in between his Whipple grin and the hernia repair scar on the right side. He is no longer the masterpiece of faulty construction. He now has form and function.
Oh, the joy in Clotville! We have all been dancing and singing, “Hey! Wall-a – Wall-a – Wall-a! Boopita! Boopita! Boopita!” Our enthusiasm alone warrants an invitation to the next White House State Function.
Now we realize this doesn’t exactly qualify as a fair dinkum “hunka.” But his enlarged chest dimension is more than a moussed-up comb-over of the hair on his sternum. Yessssssirreee. The chub is adhered to his torso like hair sticks to Vaseline. Those pounds there are a conspicuous, massive accumulation of arrogant, hubristic bloat…rosey, pink quivering flesh the color of Sarah Palin’s rouge.
I wish I could credit this stunning metamorphosis to my holiday culinary prowess. As you know, this is the season of my annual transformation into the “turkey mumbler,” reciting ancient incantations to channel my inner Butterball in an effort to persuade the little gobbler to cook to golden perfection. It’s a bit tricky to bake a turkey correctly. It must be long enough that in a fit of reckless negligence, friends and family aren’t stricken with E-coli, but not so long it becomes vulcanized rubber. I have a dread fear of toxic shock, and have been known to immolate the bird to the point of vaporization. There have been years when we prayed the turkey would rise from the ashes like some kind of stuffed phoenix.
As hostess, I have to own that bird, and my reputation as the baster master lives or dies on my giblets.
But with all due modesty, this year I SCORED! The turkey was tender and juicy…convection perfection…browned, but not seared. And all the guests stripped the entire carcass in a hedonistic feeding frenzy…and then collapsed in a tryptophan stupor, light-headed and disoriented, barely able to consume the last bite of the third piece of pumpkin pie. Talk about gut glut! And no one had to be rushed to the ER. It was a consummate triumph, though not necessarily a picture out of Currier and Ives.
We can hardly wait to see if this latest event of conspicuous consumption will yield another few ounces on the scale. We are optimistic and hoping HE – COULD – GO- ALL - THE – WAY…to 135. We’ve all got our heads in the game, but I’m content for the moment just to hoard the bulk currently volumizing Dennis’ torso. We must not become greedy.
No holiday would be complete without some entertainment. And we certainly had our share. Dave, our son-in-law and father of 4 of the 6 most adorable grandchildren ever conceived, decided Thanksgiving Day would be a perfect time to toilet train Asher. We’re talkin’ ASHER…AAAASSSSHHHHEEEERRRR! And, the man had a game plan. Sooooo, Dave removed Asher’s diaper and issued simple instructions to inform him when he had to go potty. (The boy can barely pronounce “potty.”)
But Asher knows his alphabet. So Dave explained that when he felt the urge, he was to just say, “I-P-P.” Sounds reasonable, huh?
Well, Asher tore through the house as if on intravenous feedings of pure caffeine, sans diaper and half naked, sitting on the laps of every guest at every table in the entire neighborhood. And after he had moistened territory on all three stories of the house, he announced with glee, “I-P-P!”
I suggested to Dave that perhaps he should first explain to Asher the difference between present and PAST tense BEFORE removing the loin cloth. Of course, at that point, the horses had stampeded out the barn door long ago.
Then Beckham saw the joy and freedom of the Full Monty, and promptly removed the lower half of his clothing. The two little boys were like colts – matching halves of a stark naked Rorschach ink blot gone berserk. It gave new meaning to the term “pissing contest.”
However, working in teams, we were finally able to take down the tiny felons and swaddle their nether regions with the speed and agility of steer wrestlers at a rodeo event, and restore some degree of order. We all breathed easier knowing we got ‘em covered. Besides, since the day our first grandchild was born, we have had Utah Disaster Clean-Up on speed dial.
When all the guests departed, Dennis and I got out the carpet cleaner and a multitude of large, absorbent towels, and began counting our blessings as we removed yellow territorial puddles. And this time the numbers were in our favor…there were more blessings than spots! Sometimes numbers are a good thing – did I mention Dennis gained two (2) pounds?
Love to all,
The Clot
Thursday, November 12, 2009
Picture Perfect... and This Too Shall Pass
Every weekend since the dawn of creation our family has persistently declared its intention to get Family Photos taken…and every weekend we have been inundated with aggressive opposition. We have all been mugged by chronic Life Interruption.
Our mission is to capture our particular Nikon moments for posterity, but so far, posterity has been SOL.
How does life become so congested it is nearly impossible to assemble in one place at one time a dozen of the finest people I know?
Where do I begin?
Here is a comprehensive inventory of all the distractions that have thwarted our attempts on behalf of said posterity:
1. Soccer games
2. More soccer games.
3. Weight – either too much or too little.
4. Cleavage – either too much or too little.
5. A preponderance of root re-growth and insufficient platinum to cover.
6. Tantrums – by tired children.
7. More tantrums – by tired adults.
8. Post-menopausal facial hair growth.
9. Pre-menopausal pimples.
10. Diapers loaded with primeval muck.
11. Nasal glut resembling Metazoic ooze.
12. Recreational appendectomy.
13. Multiple hernia repairs.
14. Utah’s 3-season weather: it’s either just been too cold, or it’s going to be too cold, or it is too cold.
15. Inability to get on plastic surgeon’s schedule in spite of tantrum (see # 7) after years of full-throttle uglying up.
But Saturday, in spite of adversarial efforts by the Dark Side, The Twelve assembled at Grandma’s house. And so began the process of preserving the moments that will all too soon become memories.
With dangerous simple-mindedness, I am ashamed to admit we stooped to bribing the children with chocolate and candy to remove fingers from nostrils and sit still until the shutter clicked. We wondered if we would regret letting them out of their cages. Behind our smiles, pleas and empty threats were mumbled out the side of our mouths through clenched teeth.
Meanwhile, the adults were desperately mainlining caffeinated beverages through central venous catheters in an heroic effort to survive the exasperation of kids clashing with cameras. (The punctured-air clicks of opening Coke cans were nearly as rapid-fire as the staccato clicks of the photographer.) Eventually, inevitably, the sugar and the caffeine collided, with moments so hysterical, they were snort-cola-out-your-nose funny.
Beckham and Asher, however, soon became clear on the concept, and began to mug and pose for their close-ups like tiny divas. We could almost hear them singing “…if you want my body, and you think I’m sexy…”
But with yellow roses blooming in November, leaves drifting through the air like balsa wood gliders, and backlighting from the early morning autumn sun, we actually captured those elusive moments…in spite of diversions and distractions.
Time slips so easily into the past…and the future.
Posterity, whoever that eventually entails, will be given the photographic evidence of one brief shining exquisite hour on an early Saturday morning in autumn, when a dozen of the finest people I know gathered together at Grandma’s house for Family Photos.
It is November, the month of Thanksgiving and counting blessings for harvests and abundance. But did you know that November is also Pancreatic Cancer Awareness month? Of course, for the past two years, there has never been a moment when we were NOT aware of pancreas cancer. But perhaps this is a good time to profile the little fellow whose existence is so unobtrusive, and yet can create such havoc.
The pancreas is a pear-shaped gland located between the stomach and spine. When functioning properly, it is programmed to secrete digestive enzymes and make insulin and other hormones that regulate metabolism. And, if not trifled with, nobody gets hurt.
Its very efficiency causes us to take it for granted.
However, the pancreas lies hidden behind other organs, and doctors cannot see or feel any tumors or irregularities during routine exams. Thus, this cancer is particularly deadly because early detection is difficult. There are no reliable screening tests, such as a colonoscopy, to indicate the presence of cancer before symptoms are manifest.
The symptoms themselves can be deceiving, because they are subtle and routinely misdiagnosed. Abdominal pain, fatigue, and weight loss are associated with many other maladies, and do not necessarily indicate specific problems in the pancreas.
So here is an inventory of symptoms and signs to take seriously:
1. Jaundice, with or without itching, dark urine, light stool.
2. General symptoms: back pain, fatigue or weakness.
3. Other illnesses: pancreatitis, diabetes.
4. Digestive problems: unexplained weight loss, loss of appetite, malnutrition, nausea or vomiting, abdominal pain.
Cancer is a soulless demon, and a diagnosis disrupts the choreography of our lives, altering the body, the mind, the universe.
But there is so much that can be done to treat this plague. Dr. Mulvihill and the people at the Huntsman Center are leading a crusade to obliterate the obscenity that is cancer. And we have been inducted in the army who battle this disease. We are committed in the quest to eradicate this black evil.
Recently, Dennis and I were walking along the Jordan River Parkway, in companionable silence, when we looked up and saw a little piece of serendipity in the form of a 300-pound biker barreling straight at us – NO helmet, NO hands on the handlebars, pedaling DOWNHILL with the sun directly in his eyes, iPod in his ears, TXTNG! NO KIDDING!
There was absolutely no way to avoid blunt force trauma should his bike veer the width of a single hair in our direction. It reminded us of Indiana Jones and that infamous rolling boulder looking for road kill.
Through immense good fortune and a protective magic amulet, colossal catastrophe was averted. It would have required “jaws of death” just to extricate our mangled bodies from his bike.
But that biker was a literal vision of how adversity can strike with stealth and silence. It seems when you least fathom a crisis, that’s when it occurs. Be aware and prepare. This is a good thing.
November is a glorious season for family photos, awareness, and gratitude. I heard Christmas carols on the radio this morning…it is not too soon at all.
Happy Thanksgiving and love to all,
The Clot
Our mission is to capture our particular Nikon moments for posterity, but so far, posterity has been SOL.
How does life become so congested it is nearly impossible to assemble in one place at one time a dozen of the finest people I know?
Where do I begin?
Here is a comprehensive inventory of all the distractions that have thwarted our attempts on behalf of said posterity:
1. Soccer games
2. More soccer games.
3. Weight – either too much or too little.
4. Cleavage – either too much or too little.
5. A preponderance of root re-growth and insufficient platinum to cover.
6. Tantrums – by tired children.
7. More tantrums – by tired adults.
8. Post-menopausal facial hair growth.
9. Pre-menopausal pimples.
10. Diapers loaded with primeval muck.
11. Nasal glut resembling Metazoic ooze.
12. Recreational appendectomy.
13. Multiple hernia repairs.
14. Utah’s 3-season weather: it’s either just been too cold, or it’s going to be too cold, or it is too cold.
15. Inability to get on plastic surgeon’s schedule in spite of tantrum (see # 7) after years of full-throttle uglying up.
But Saturday, in spite of adversarial efforts by the Dark Side, The Twelve assembled at Grandma’s house. And so began the process of preserving the moments that will all too soon become memories.
With dangerous simple-mindedness, I am ashamed to admit we stooped to bribing the children with chocolate and candy to remove fingers from nostrils and sit still until the shutter clicked. We wondered if we would regret letting them out of their cages. Behind our smiles, pleas and empty threats were mumbled out the side of our mouths through clenched teeth.
Meanwhile, the adults were desperately mainlining caffeinated beverages through central venous catheters in an heroic effort to survive the exasperation of kids clashing with cameras. (The punctured-air clicks of opening Coke cans were nearly as rapid-fire as the staccato clicks of the photographer.) Eventually, inevitably, the sugar and the caffeine collided, with moments so hysterical, they were snort-cola-out-your-nose funny.
Beckham and Asher, however, soon became clear on the concept, and began to mug and pose for their close-ups like tiny divas. We could almost hear them singing “…if you want my body, and you think I’m sexy…”
But with yellow roses blooming in November, leaves drifting through the air like balsa wood gliders, and backlighting from the early morning autumn sun, we actually captured those elusive moments…in spite of diversions and distractions. Time slips so easily into the past…and the future.
Posterity, whoever that eventually entails, will be given the photographic evidence of one brief shining exquisite hour on an early Saturday morning in autumn, when a dozen of the finest people I know gathered together at Grandma’s house for Family Photos.
It is November, the month of Thanksgiving and counting blessings for harvests and abundance. But did you know that November is also Pancreatic Cancer Awareness month? Of course, for the past two years, there has never been a moment when we were NOT aware of pancreas cancer. But perhaps this is a good time to profile the little fellow whose existence is so unobtrusive, and yet can create such havoc.
The pancreas is a pear-shaped gland located between the stomach and spine. When functioning properly, it is programmed to secrete digestive enzymes and make insulin and other hormones that regulate metabolism. And, if not trifled with, nobody gets hurt.
Its very efficiency causes us to take it for granted.
However, the pancreas lies hidden behind other organs, and doctors cannot see or feel any tumors or irregularities during routine exams. Thus, this cancer is particularly deadly because early detection is difficult. There are no reliable screening tests, such as a colonoscopy, to indicate the presence of cancer before symptoms are manifest.
The symptoms themselves can be deceiving, because they are subtle and routinely misdiagnosed. Abdominal pain, fatigue, and weight loss are associated with many other maladies, and do not necessarily indicate specific problems in the pancreas.
So here is an inventory of symptoms and signs to take seriously:
1. Jaundice, with or without itching, dark urine, light stool.
2. General symptoms: back pain, fatigue or weakness.
3. Other illnesses: pancreatitis, diabetes.
4. Digestive problems: unexplained weight loss, loss of appetite, malnutrition, nausea or vomiting, abdominal pain.
Cancer is a soulless demon, and a diagnosis disrupts the choreography of our lives, altering the body, the mind, the universe.
But there is so much that can be done to treat this plague. Dr. Mulvihill and the people at the Huntsman Center are leading a crusade to obliterate the obscenity that is cancer. And we have been inducted in the army who battle this disease. We are committed in the quest to eradicate this black evil.
Recently, Dennis and I were walking along the Jordan River Parkway, in companionable silence, when we looked up and saw a little piece of serendipity in the form of a 300-pound biker barreling straight at us – NO helmet, NO hands on the handlebars, pedaling DOWNHILL with the sun directly in his eyes, iPod in his ears, TXTNG! NO KIDDING!
There was absolutely no way to avoid blunt force trauma should his bike veer the width of a single hair in our direction. It reminded us of Indiana Jones and that infamous rolling boulder looking for road kill.
Through immense good fortune and a protective magic amulet, colossal catastrophe was averted. It would have required “jaws of death” just to extricate our mangled bodies from his bike.
But that biker was a literal vision of how adversity can strike with stealth and silence. It seems when you least fathom a crisis, that’s when it occurs. Be aware and prepare. This is a good thing.
November is a glorious season for family photos, awareness, and gratitude. I heard Christmas carols on the radio this morning…it is not too soon at all.
Happy Thanksgiving and love to all,
The Clot
Monday, November 2, 2009
Thanksgiving and Giving Thanks
Dear Clotters,
We have excellent news. After three weeks of WAITING, Dennis’ blood was drawn again. This time, the labs showed the tumor markers that had been elevated, are back down to normal. NORMAL! Once again – NORRRRMMMMMAAAAALLLL. Can you believe it? We are euphoric, and a little dazed – as if we’d just taken a tranquilizer dart to the brain. We can hardly wrap our minds around the concept that there does not appear to be an upward trend that would indicate a possible recurrence.
I am trying to spark my consciousness out of its bewilderment, resume minimal brain function, and reclaim some semblance of perky competence. So far, I’ve only succeeded in appearing cuckoo, and inviting ridicule.
I am overwhelmed by monumental concepts, and lost in small thoughts. But our family is reveling in uncontained mirth. Mental fitness will come later.
Cancer is eerily unpredictable. And there are times when it seems doing anything is better than doing nothing. But Dr. Mulvihill said wait. And so we waited.
There is an art to the “wait.” I “wait” ugly. I am definitely a candidate for “wait” management training.
While we WAITED, we went to Disneyland, where we indulged our hedonistic behavior receptors by riding on Indiana Jones 3 (count ‘em…3!) times in succession, ate dinner after 8:00 p.m., and stayed up past 11:00. Pure depravity. Don’t tell me we don’t know how to PAARRR-TAY!
Disneyland really is the magic kingdom. It’s the only place on the planet where menopausal, varicose-veined, crepey-skinned women with pendulous…arm flaps can wear full Tinker Bell regalia and not be ticketed for impersonating a fairy. No one did so much as a double-take.
We saw a whole coven of Tinkers (do fairies travel in covens?) moving through the streets of Disney as if they were 9 minds without an abstract thought.
They were an eclectic consortium, ranging in age from perhaps 3 to barely ambulatory. This, of course, is an approximation, since it would have been rude to stop the procession to count cellulite thigh rings in order to get an exact carbon date. They were a hybrid of the fantasy of childhood and the inevitability of age. But the point is, they were all sharing a joyous time, and for that reason, I found it endearing. In fact, I wanted to apply for citizenship in the land of the Tinker “Belles.”
I suggested discarding my witch’s hat in favor of Tinker Bell wings. But Dennis said he’s grown accustomed to my wart, and changing characters mid-Halloween could lead to a serious identity crisis. But I think multiple personalities should be stored in everyone’s closet in case of shortage. Besides, fairies and witches, in reality, are just opposite sides of the same Rorschach.
It has been hard to GET MY HEAD IN THE GAME while I’m WAITING. Sometimes the air I’m attempting to breathe seems liquid, and I’m laboring to schnuck it into my lungs. I try to be patient, but that lacks long-term sustainability. Patience are not me!
Practicing my “wait” technique is sort of like trying to ignore a canker. No matter what you do, you are never not aware it is there. Whatever I’m involved in, I am always conscious that I’m WAITING.
Dr. Mulvihill is a wise sage. We never regret abiding by his counsel. Sometimes, though, he asks a lot of us.
And Boy Howdy! Are we ever going to need patience. Saturday we are having a family portrait taken. That alone strikes terror in the hearts of three generations.
We have instructed the photographer to snap the picture if at any time Asher is still. It doesn’t matter if the rest of the “Dirty Dozen” are in a collective blink.
That child is like a run-away train. He puts the “loco” in “locomotive.” Raising him to adulthood without debilitating brain damage will require “extreme cage patience”…and a whole lot of miracles. (Unconditional love is a constant.)
Saturday, we took care of our favorite gangster for 5 hours while Erin went somewhere or other. We made her swear a blood oath she would return before he hit puberty. We were not at all reassured. However, Asher actually fell asleep as we drove him through the streets singing lullabies. Asher sleeps cute. We realized that sleep is Nature’s way of persuading us not to eat our young.
We survived the Family Felon in O.T.
Last night we turned the clocks back and got an extra hour of rest. Sleep surplus could prove to be a dangerous thing to the severely sleep-deprived. But we have a sleep debt as large as the national deficit, and that extra 60 minutes didn’t even touch the interest!
But today is November 1st. There are mangled jack-o-lantern guts in the streets, as if the
The Great Pumpkin himself had been pummeled into orange, pulpy, grinning road kill by revelers high on sugar and mischief…silent reminders that Halloween is history.
For now, the only numbers that concern me are how many days until Christmas, and will Dennis always weigh in at 128? Forget the stock market, the temperature, the national war debt, and the number of cavities. I’ll let the dentist worry about all of the above.
It is the season of gratitude.
So here are the things I’m thankful for:
1. Asher (and all his cousins)
2. The number 38.
3. The word “normal.”
4. The Utes beat Wyoming.
5. An extra hour of sleep last night.
6. Patience.
7. Autumn leaves.
8. Loved ones who care.
Things I’m not thankful for:
1. The number 45.
2. A glut of Halloween candy mocking me on Fast Sunday.
Waiting is a daunting task…anticipating with hope and dread the phone call that will deliver crucial lab results that will critically impact our lives.
Halloween haunts have nothing up on the soulless demon that is the specter of cancer.
But we have emerged from a 3-week fetal contortion emotionally lobotomized. Our hearts are overwhelmed with gratitude. And our heads are back in the game.
Bring on Thanksgiving, turkeys, pilgrims…Asher, and Loved Ones.
Our lives are blessed and richly abundant because of your constant love and support.
We are so grateful.
Love to all,
The Clot
We have excellent news. After three weeks of WAITING, Dennis’ blood was drawn again. This time, the labs showed the tumor markers that had been elevated, are back down to normal. NORMAL! Once again – NORRRRMMMMMAAAAALLLL. Can you believe it? We are euphoric, and a little dazed – as if we’d just taken a tranquilizer dart to the brain. We can hardly wrap our minds around the concept that there does not appear to be an upward trend that would indicate a possible recurrence.
I am trying to spark my consciousness out of its bewilderment, resume minimal brain function, and reclaim some semblance of perky competence. So far, I’ve only succeeded in appearing cuckoo, and inviting ridicule.
I am overwhelmed by monumental concepts, and lost in small thoughts. But our family is reveling in uncontained mirth. Mental fitness will come later.
Cancer is eerily unpredictable. And there are times when it seems doing anything is better than doing nothing. But Dr. Mulvihill said wait. And so we waited.
There is an art to the “wait.” I “wait” ugly. I am definitely a candidate for “wait” management training.
While we WAITED, we went to Disneyland, where we indulged our hedonistic behavior receptors by riding on Indiana Jones 3 (count ‘em…3!) times in succession, ate dinner after 8:00 p.m., and stayed up past 11:00. Pure depravity. Don’t tell me we don’t know how to PAARRR-TAY!
Disneyland really is the magic kingdom. It’s the only place on the planet where menopausal, varicose-veined, crepey-skinned women with pendulous…arm flaps can wear full Tinker Bell regalia and not be ticketed for impersonating a fairy. No one did so much as a double-take.
We saw a whole coven of Tinkers (do fairies travel in covens?) moving through the streets of Disney as if they were 9 minds without an abstract thought.
They were an eclectic consortium, ranging in age from perhaps 3 to barely ambulatory. This, of course, is an approximation, since it would have been rude to stop the procession to count cellulite thigh rings in order to get an exact carbon date. They were a hybrid of the fantasy of childhood and the inevitability of age. But the point is, they were all sharing a joyous time, and for that reason, I found it endearing. In fact, I wanted to apply for citizenship in the land of the Tinker “Belles.”
I suggested discarding my witch’s hat in favor of Tinker Bell wings. But Dennis said he’s grown accustomed to my wart, and changing characters mid-Halloween could lead to a serious identity crisis. But I think multiple personalities should be stored in everyone’s closet in case of shortage. Besides, fairies and witches, in reality, are just opposite sides of the same Rorschach.
It has been hard to GET MY HEAD IN THE GAME while I’m WAITING. Sometimes the air I’m attempting to breathe seems liquid, and I’m laboring to schnuck it into my lungs. I try to be patient, but that lacks long-term sustainability. Patience are not me!
Practicing my “wait” technique is sort of like trying to ignore a canker. No matter what you do, you are never not aware it is there. Whatever I’m involved in, I am always conscious that I’m WAITING.
Dr. Mulvihill is a wise sage. We never regret abiding by his counsel. Sometimes, though, he asks a lot of us.
And Boy Howdy! Are we ever going to need patience. Saturday we are having a family portrait taken. That alone strikes terror in the hearts of three generations.
We have instructed the photographer to snap the picture if at any time Asher is still. It doesn’t matter if the rest of the “Dirty Dozen” are in a collective blink.
That child is like a run-away train. He puts the “loco” in “locomotive.” Raising him to adulthood without debilitating brain damage will require “extreme cage patience”…and a whole lot of miracles. (Unconditional love is a constant.)
Saturday, we took care of our favorite gangster for 5 hours while Erin went somewhere or other. We made her swear a blood oath she would return before he hit puberty. We were not at all reassured. However, Asher actually fell asleep as we drove him through the streets singing lullabies. Asher sleeps cute. We realized that sleep is Nature’s way of persuading us not to eat our young.
We survived the Family Felon in O.T.
Last night we turned the clocks back and got an extra hour of rest. Sleep surplus could prove to be a dangerous thing to the severely sleep-deprived. But we have a sleep debt as large as the national deficit, and that extra 60 minutes didn’t even touch the interest!
But today is November 1st. There are mangled jack-o-lantern guts in the streets, as if the
The Great Pumpkin himself had been pummeled into orange, pulpy, grinning road kill by revelers high on sugar and mischief…silent reminders that Halloween is history.
For now, the only numbers that concern me are how many days until Christmas, and will Dennis always weigh in at 128? Forget the stock market, the temperature, the national war debt, and the number of cavities. I’ll let the dentist worry about all of the above.
It is the season of gratitude.
So here are the things I’m thankful for:
1. Asher (and all his cousins)
2. The number 38.
3. The word “normal.”
4. The Utes beat Wyoming.
5. An extra hour of sleep last night.
6. Patience.
7. Autumn leaves.
8. Loved ones who care.
Things I’m not thankful for:
1. The number 45.
2. A glut of Halloween candy mocking me on Fast Sunday.
Waiting is a daunting task…anticipating with hope and dread the phone call that will deliver crucial lab results that will critically impact our lives.
Halloween haunts have nothing up on the soulless demon that is the specter of cancer.
But we have emerged from a 3-week fetal contortion emotionally lobotomized. Our hearts are overwhelmed with gratitude. And our heads are back in the game.
Bring on Thanksgiving, turkeys, pilgrims…Asher, and Loved Ones.
Our lives are blessed and richly abundant because of your constant love and support.
We are so grateful.
Love to all,
The Clot
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
NUMB3RS GAME
In keeping with established policy, we are posting the latest results from Dennis’ most recent quarterly check-up. The news is good, for the most part. His labs look very nice, with the exception of one…the tumor marker. It is slightly elevated. That particular result was a little disappointing because it has held steady for a while. Now, I refuse to live or die by the numbers. They’re flukey, and fluctuate randomly. Yeah, like I’m going to get upset about that!
However, I did suggest to Dr. Mulvihill, that I wanted him to give Dennis some of the Michael Jackson sleep elixir, tip him back right there in the exam chair, and perform a total gutectomy…STAT! I thought a complete surgical purge, with titanium prostheses was efficacious, including implants and transplants. (The implants are for me, of course.)
After all this time, Dr. Mulvihill knows me very well, and accords me the courtesy of listening to me solve every problem that arises with my brains and his surgical acuity. Bottom line: NIP IT!
When I had expended the entire contents of my gray matter, (which didn’t take long, by the way), he said my plan had a certain amount of credibility. However, as usual, he countered my suggestion with a more rational proposal. (He has a way of trumping credibility with rationality.)
His idea was to wait.
WAIT???!!! Are you freakin’kiddin’me???!!! WAIT???!!! As in be patient, wait? Stay calm, wait? What kind of solution is that? Where’s the scalpel in “wait?”
Dr. Mulvihill explained that lab results are notoriously inaccurate. In fact, he said we could dismiss the numbers and re-draw them on our next quarterly exam. They are not necessarily “cancer specific,” and should not cause undue concern. We should make decisions based on reason. Yeah, like pouting isn’t a viable decision-maker?
Well, I confess I was persuaded by common sense. It’s just that an unexpected elevation in that particular number diminished my capacity for abstract thought. (or stract thought, for that matter.)
“Oh-Kay-ay! We’ll Way-ay-ay-it!” I replied in my most petulant whine…a technique I learned from my pre-pubescent daughters. ( But sometimes I question my decision to become an astrophysicist, instead of a surgeon.)
So, while we WWWAAAIIITTT, Necie and I are planning our Halloween costumes. She decided we are going to be “sister witches.” This was a much easier decision. Now, I love harvest time, but I have never been fond of Halloween. However, this particular invitation was delightful. I don’t know why it pleases me that my granddaughter thinks it cool for us to be witches and go out together to haunt the neighborhood. She is unaware that I do this on a daily basis just running errands.
We reviewed the inventory of what we would need to transform ourselves into scary specters…and I realized, (after significantly upping my dosage of prescribed mood elevators) that my make-up will only require a wart prosthesis for my nose. I already possess all the other paraphernalia for “coven couture.”
1. Bloodshot eyes – check
2. Facial distortion – check
3. Scrawny neck – check
4. Maniacal cackle – check
5. Green pallor – check
6. Black hair (root re-growth counts) – check
7. Spells, curses and conjurings – check (Just finished my “Double, double, toil and trouble” from the opening scenes of Macbeth that I recite daily)
8. Mischief – check – (Necie’s got us both covered on that!)
Necie loves to tell me scary stories. Her latest is “Monsters vs. Aliens.” She loves to hear me tell scary stories, too, So I stick mostly to sanitized Stephen King and Scooby Doo. I know more frightening tales, but they are better left untold.
There will come a day when Grandma is no longer “all that.” But for right now, I’m content to ride double on a broom and cruise the skies when the full moon rises, till the witching hour – which for both of us is about 8:00 p.m. (Our particular coven has a curfew.)
It is autumn – soup-making days, pear time, cool evenings, hearth fires and chimney smoke, squash and pumpkin spice, gusty winds and skeletal trees…and scary ghost stories.
We will duly note the 2-year anniversary of Dennis’ diagnosis with a tip of my pointy hat and a finger to the side of said wart. And then we’ll move on.
On November 1st, I will put away my wart for a year, and dress the house for Thanksgiving. I’ve always preferred pilgrims to poltergeists.
Besides, we have so much more to be thankful for than scared of.
Love,
The Clot
However, I did suggest to Dr. Mulvihill, that I wanted him to give Dennis some of the Michael Jackson sleep elixir, tip him back right there in the exam chair, and perform a total gutectomy…STAT! I thought a complete surgical purge, with titanium prostheses was efficacious, including implants and transplants. (The implants are for me, of course.)
After all this time, Dr. Mulvihill knows me very well, and accords me the courtesy of listening to me solve every problem that arises with my brains and his surgical acuity. Bottom line: NIP IT!
When I had expended the entire contents of my gray matter, (which didn’t take long, by the way), he said my plan had a certain amount of credibility. However, as usual, he countered my suggestion with a more rational proposal. (He has a way of trumping credibility with rationality.)
His idea was to wait.
WAIT???!!! Are you freakin’kiddin’me???!!! WAIT???!!! As in be patient, wait? Stay calm, wait? What kind of solution is that? Where’s the scalpel in “wait?”
Dr. Mulvihill explained that lab results are notoriously inaccurate. In fact, he said we could dismiss the numbers and re-draw them on our next quarterly exam. They are not necessarily “cancer specific,” and should not cause undue concern. We should make decisions based on reason. Yeah, like pouting isn’t a viable decision-maker?
Well, I confess I was persuaded by common sense. It’s just that an unexpected elevation in that particular number diminished my capacity for abstract thought. (or stract thought, for that matter.)
“Oh-Kay-ay! We’ll Way-ay-ay-it!” I replied in my most petulant whine…a technique I learned from my pre-pubescent daughters. ( But sometimes I question my decision to become an astrophysicist, instead of a surgeon.)
So, while we WWWAAAIIITTT, Necie and I are planning our Halloween costumes. She decided we are going to be “sister witches.” This was a much easier decision. Now, I love harvest time, but I have never been fond of Halloween. However, this particular invitation was delightful. I don’t know why it pleases me that my granddaughter thinks it cool for us to be witches and go out together to haunt the neighborhood. She is unaware that I do this on a daily basis just running errands.
We reviewed the inventory of what we would need to transform ourselves into scary specters…and I realized, (after significantly upping my dosage of prescribed mood elevators) that my make-up will only require a wart prosthesis for my nose. I already possess all the other paraphernalia for “coven couture.”
1. Bloodshot eyes – check
2. Facial distortion – check
3. Scrawny neck – check
4. Maniacal cackle – check
5. Green pallor – check
6. Black hair (root re-growth counts) – check
7. Spells, curses and conjurings – check (Just finished my “Double, double, toil and trouble” from the opening scenes of Macbeth that I recite daily)
8. Mischief – check – (Necie’s got us both covered on that!)
Necie loves to tell me scary stories. Her latest is “Monsters vs. Aliens.” She loves to hear me tell scary stories, too, So I stick mostly to sanitized Stephen King and Scooby Doo. I know more frightening tales, but they are better left untold.
There will come a day when Grandma is no longer “all that.” But for right now, I’m content to ride double on a broom and cruise the skies when the full moon rises, till the witching hour – which for both of us is about 8:00 p.m. (Our particular coven has a curfew.)
It is autumn – soup-making days, pear time, cool evenings, hearth fires and chimney smoke, squash and pumpkin spice, gusty winds and skeletal trees…and scary ghost stories.
We will duly note the 2-year anniversary of Dennis’ diagnosis with a tip of my pointy hat and a finger to the side of said wart. And then we’ll move on.
On November 1st, I will put away my wart for a year, and dress the house for Thanksgiving. I’ve always preferred pilgrims to poltergeists.
Besides, we have so much more to be thankful for than scared of.
Love,
The Clot
Monday, September 28, 2009
BONES, BOUFFANTS AND BIRTHDAYS
Well, I have finally come, with great reluctance, to the conclusion that Dennis is what he is…boney. I guess I’ll just have to own the fact that he is skinny, and it will ever be thus. He’s 127-128 lbs. with admirable regularity, but he just can’t seem to up his bulk sufficiently to break into the 130’s. I don’t understand it. I can do it with relative ease.
I, however, have made my peace with that reality, and will no longer accuse the scales of flagrant malfeasance in weights and measures by not registering greater body mass than actually exists. How liberating. Free at last! I am no longer held hostage by the promise of a phantom second “hunka,” some time in the future. He is a one-hunka man, and I roger that. So, tomorrow I plan to return all the clothes I purchased in a frenzy of optimism from the Fat Man’s Wearhouse just in case he became morbidly obese overnight from nocturnal binge eating.
Recently we were saddened by the passing of Mary Travers…of Peter, Paul and Mary. What a gifted trio. They sang the soul of the generation I grew up in, and were often the voice of a decade looking for answers to ill-conceived wars and political corruption. Actually, their songs are viable today.
Listening to their music, I am transported back to the days before my body morphed into a consortium of elbow flaps, varicose veins, arm swags, liver spots, and pendulous breasts…well, strike the last one.
We were the AQUA NET generation. Aqua Net was a feminine rite of passage from puberty through high school. It was not just THE hair spray of choice. Aqua Net was a staple in the morning regimen of every teen-age girl whose bouffant construction determined the success or failure of the whole day…possibly her entire social existence!
It was as if the whole female population were devout members of the fundamentalist coiffure religious sect…whose catechism was: the higher the bouffant, the closer to heaven. I went to school with girls whose “do” was actually knocking at the pearly gates! We figured the class that sprays together…stays together.
Not Mary Travers. Her hair was severely straight, sleek, blond, and blew in the wind. I know. I saw them in concert many times. Her voice was rich and full-bodied, and no nonsense. Her hair moved in sync with the words, as if to punctuate her musical manifesto. I am sure her lyrics influenced the policy-makers of the time.
I always admired Mary, her hair, her voice, her presence. I wanted to wear my hair straight and loose, and watch it moving gracefully at the slightest breeze. But Aqua Net ensured that even Hurricane Katrina could not have budged a single strand from its designated place in the beehive. Some coifs resembled surgical mesh, unyielding, and designed to withstand cataclysmic shifts in tectonic plates.
My Mom once told me about a woman whose bouffant was sprayed to such a point of sticky stiffness, that a black widow spider got trapped inside and could not escape. She read it in the paper, so we knew it was true. I pooh-poohed the idea…but nevertheless, each night before I wrapped each strand around a plethora of oversized rollers, I did a thorough scalp check. Actually, as I reflect back, the bristles on the rollers we used were like Samarai swords, with a special lethality that would impale any arachnid foolish enough to hazard entry into the web. Luckily, I survived generational turbulence, Twiggy, rollers, spiders, and Woodstock, to enter the safe and quiet confines of adult paranoid schizophrenia.
September really is a time of reflection, and I have been hoarding memories and measuring the passage of time by my root re-growth. But I would like to raise a can of Aqua Net to bouffants past, vintage beehives, and Mary Travers.
And speaking of hoarding memories, September is a month dense with birthdays. I always make reference to those of my kin born within a very close time span, but perhaps it is time to give a brief biographical sketch of the tribe. They may sue for defamation of character, but then they would have to discredit the facts. No lawyer is that good!
Asher is our youngest grandson. He just turned three. We were all surprised at his longevity.
Asher is road rash in diapers, malfeasance of toddlerhood, a walking felony. He continually tests the laws of gravity by daily thuds to see if these laws are indeed immutable…they are. He emits a stentorian bellow, regains his equilibrium, and promptly tests those laws again. We are constantly checking to see if his eyes are dilated. We have come to the conclusion that he operates under the Wiley Coyote delusion that if you fall off a cliff, you just scrape yourself off the pavement and keep chasing the Road Runner. He wins, by not losing.
Politeness is not necessarily a virtue Asher possesses, nor esteems in others. All six grandchildren have scars where Grandpa Ashton has surgically repaired the consequences of the latest kid to tempt the laws of gravity. But Asher has included concussions and unconsciousness in his repertoire of war wounds.
There is a “verbness” to Asher. He is a mobile calamity, a compact sphincter check. But his charm and that smile restore the decorum obliterated by the little gangster. With Asher, there is always the implication of guilt. We adore the pasty hoodlum. We try to think back to what it was like before he joined the posse. We can’t seem to recollect. I guess we must have had nanoseconds of boredom. I don’t recall. But we wouldn’t trade the kid for a single moment of silence…hmmmm.
Asher comes by his traits as a natural consequence of being born to Erin, our daughter and first venture into parenthood. Compared to her, Asher looks like he’s in a catatonic stupor. We are still awaiting the time when she sleeps through the night.
Erin was born on 9-11. Does that give a clue to her personality? Her sense of humor is what has kept us from eating our young. Here is just a sample of her personality and her schedule. It is more telling than I can express. She mapped out her daily routine when we, in a moment of sublime insanity, agreed to take care of her boys while she was out of town.
6:30-7:00 a.m. – Darling boys awaken and all hell breaks loose; Josh’s diaper needs to be changed, and Bram needs to go pee pee on the potty.
7:00-8:00 a.m. – Give kids a sippy of chocolate milk, or anything they want, and try to take a really quick shower.
7:00-9:00 a.m. – Try to get kids dressed and feed them anything you can.
9:00-Noon – GOOD LUCK…
12:00-1:00 – Try to feed them anything you can.
1:00-2:00 – GOOD LUCK
2:00-5:00 – Let the kids run wild.
5:00-6:00 – Try to feed them anything you can.
6:00-Bedtime – GOOD LUCK…
12:00 a.m. – Your time is your own. Rest and relax! You successfully conquered that day.
Police/Emergency – 9-1-1
P.S. By the way, I must tell you that some of this itinerary might work, or none of it might work. Remember, we love you, and we hope you will be speaking to us when this is all over!
Obviously, criminal insanity is a chronic condition, because even as we speak, we are helping take care of the children while Dave and Erin are in Spain for 10 days…and this time we have FOUR. Life has blessed us with the gift of dementia, so in our forgetfulness, we consented to do it all over again.
Brodi came to us on 9-18, her birth being the direct result of said dementia. I do recall saying, “Never again!” And later thinking…how did this happen? Nevertheless, she arrived three years and one week to the day after Erin.
She ate at regular intervals, and slept long stretches of time…eventually going through the night before puberty. She never cried, unless she was hungry or wet. We couldn’t figure out what was wrong with this baby. Our pediatrician suggested that perhaps she was “normal.” This was something we had never considered.
Her endurance was (and still is) phenomenal…she actually survived a big sister who liked to put her in a play shopping cart, run at top speed, and smash her into walls. This greatly concerned me because while we only had two children, we did want to see them BOTH survive to adulthood.
Brodi also has a sense of humor (a mechanism of survival), and she can give as good as she gets. In their regular contests at comparing who got the worst features from their parents, Brodi always takes the prize because she got, “Mom’s teeth in Dad’s mouth!!!” At this point, Erin concedes the competition and accepts the runner-up trophy.
Take a look at Brodi’s blog to get a feel for her ability to regulate the mundane with hilarity. And notice that while she does, in actuality, have my teeth and her Dad’s mouth, she is quite beautiful in spite of it all.
This chronically nutty life of ours is a constant source of joy. We never stop counting our blessings, even when the accounting occurs while someone is being stitched.
Our love to all,
The Clot
I, however, have made my peace with that reality, and will no longer accuse the scales of flagrant malfeasance in weights and measures by not registering greater body mass than actually exists. How liberating. Free at last! I am no longer held hostage by the promise of a phantom second “hunka,” some time in the future. He is a one-hunka man, and I roger that. So, tomorrow I plan to return all the clothes I purchased in a frenzy of optimism from the Fat Man’s Wearhouse just in case he became morbidly obese overnight from nocturnal binge eating.
Recently we were saddened by the passing of Mary Travers…of Peter, Paul and Mary. What a gifted trio. They sang the soul of the generation I grew up in, and were often the voice of a decade looking for answers to ill-conceived wars and political corruption. Actually, their songs are viable today.
Listening to their music, I am transported back to the days before my body morphed into a consortium of elbow flaps, varicose veins, arm swags, liver spots, and pendulous breasts…well, strike the last one.
We were the AQUA NET generation. Aqua Net was a feminine rite of passage from puberty through high school. It was not just THE hair spray of choice. Aqua Net was a staple in the morning regimen of every teen-age girl whose bouffant construction determined the success or failure of the whole day…possibly her entire social existence!
It was as if the whole female population were devout members of the fundamentalist coiffure religious sect…whose catechism was: the higher the bouffant, the closer to heaven. I went to school with girls whose “do” was actually knocking at the pearly gates! We figured the class that sprays together…stays together.
Not Mary Travers. Her hair was severely straight, sleek, blond, and blew in the wind. I know. I saw them in concert many times. Her voice was rich and full-bodied, and no nonsense. Her hair moved in sync with the words, as if to punctuate her musical manifesto. I am sure her lyrics influenced the policy-makers of the time.
I always admired Mary, her hair, her voice, her presence. I wanted to wear my hair straight and loose, and watch it moving gracefully at the slightest breeze. But Aqua Net ensured that even Hurricane Katrina could not have budged a single strand from its designated place in the beehive. Some coifs resembled surgical mesh, unyielding, and designed to withstand cataclysmic shifts in tectonic plates.
My Mom once told me about a woman whose bouffant was sprayed to such a point of sticky stiffness, that a black widow spider got trapped inside and could not escape. She read it in the paper, so we knew it was true. I pooh-poohed the idea…but nevertheless, each night before I wrapped each strand around a plethora of oversized rollers, I did a thorough scalp check. Actually, as I reflect back, the bristles on the rollers we used were like Samarai swords, with a special lethality that would impale any arachnid foolish enough to hazard entry into the web. Luckily, I survived generational turbulence, Twiggy, rollers, spiders, and Woodstock, to enter the safe and quiet confines of adult paranoid schizophrenia.
September really is a time of reflection, and I have been hoarding memories and measuring the passage of time by my root re-growth. But I would like to raise a can of Aqua Net to bouffants past, vintage beehives, and Mary Travers.
And speaking of hoarding memories, September is a month dense with birthdays. I always make reference to those of my kin born within a very close time span, but perhaps it is time to give a brief biographical sketch of the tribe. They may sue for defamation of character, but then they would have to discredit the facts. No lawyer is that good!
Asher is our youngest grandson. He just turned three. We were all surprised at his longevity.
Asher is road rash in diapers, malfeasance of toddlerhood, a walking felony. He continually tests the laws of gravity by daily thuds to see if these laws are indeed immutable…they are. He emits a stentorian bellow, regains his equilibrium, and promptly tests those laws again. We are constantly checking to see if his eyes are dilated. We have come to the conclusion that he operates under the Wiley Coyote delusion that if you fall off a cliff, you just scrape yourself off the pavement and keep chasing the Road Runner. He wins, by not losing.
Politeness is not necessarily a virtue Asher possesses, nor esteems in others. All six grandchildren have scars where Grandpa Ashton has surgically repaired the consequences of the latest kid to tempt the laws of gravity. But Asher has included concussions and unconsciousness in his repertoire of war wounds.
There is a “verbness” to Asher. He is a mobile calamity, a compact sphincter check. But his charm and that smile restore the decorum obliterated by the little gangster. With Asher, there is always the implication of guilt. We adore the pasty hoodlum. We try to think back to what it was like before he joined the posse. We can’t seem to recollect. I guess we must have had nanoseconds of boredom. I don’t recall. But we wouldn’t trade the kid for a single moment of silence…hmmmm.
Asher comes by his traits as a natural consequence of being born to Erin, our daughter and first venture into parenthood. Compared to her, Asher looks like he’s in a catatonic stupor. We are still awaiting the time when she sleeps through the night.
Erin was born on 9-11. Does that give a clue to her personality? Her sense of humor is what has kept us from eating our young. Here is just a sample of her personality and her schedule. It is more telling than I can express. She mapped out her daily routine when we, in a moment of sublime insanity, agreed to take care of her boys while she was out of town.
6:30-7:00 a.m. – Darling boys awaken and all hell breaks loose; Josh’s diaper needs to be changed, and Bram needs to go pee pee on the potty.
7:00-8:00 a.m. – Give kids a sippy of chocolate milk, or anything they want, and try to take a really quick shower.
7:00-9:00 a.m. – Try to get kids dressed and feed them anything you can.
9:00-Noon – GOOD LUCK…
12:00-1:00 – Try to feed them anything you can.
1:00-2:00 – GOOD LUCK
2:00-5:00 – Let the kids run wild.
5:00-6:00 – Try to feed them anything you can.
6:00-Bedtime – GOOD LUCK…
12:00 a.m. – Your time is your own. Rest and relax! You successfully conquered that day.
Police/Emergency – 9-1-1
P.S. By the way, I must tell you that some of this itinerary might work, or none of it might work. Remember, we love you, and we hope you will be speaking to us when this is all over!
Obviously, criminal insanity is a chronic condition, because even as we speak, we are helping take care of the children while Dave and Erin are in Spain for 10 days…and this time we have FOUR. Life has blessed us with the gift of dementia, so in our forgetfulness, we consented to do it all over again.
Brodi came to us on 9-18, her birth being the direct result of said dementia. I do recall saying, “Never again!” And later thinking…how did this happen? Nevertheless, she arrived three years and one week to the day after Erin.
She ate at regular intervals, and slept long stretches of time…eventually going through the night before puberty. She never cried, unless she was hungry or wet. We couldn’t figure out what was wrong with this baby. Our pediatrician suggested that perhaps she was “normal.” This was something we had never considered.
Her endurance was (and still is) phenomenal…she actually survived a big sister who liked to put her in a play shopping cart, run at top speed, and smash her into walls. This greatly concerned me because while we only had two children, we did want to see them BOTH survive to adulthood.
Brodi also has a sense of humor (a mechanism of survival), and she can give as good as she gets. In their regular contests at comparing who got the worst features from their parents, Brodi always takes the prize because she got, “Mom’s teeth in Dad’s mouth!!!” At this point, Erin concedes the competition and accepts the runner-up trophy.
Take a look at Brodi’s blog to get a feel for her ability to regulate the mundane with hilarity. And notice that while she does, in actuality, have my teeth and her Dad’s mouth, she is quite beautiful in spite of it all.
This chronically nutty life of ours is a constant source of joy. We never stop counting our blessings, even when the accounting occurs while someone is being stitched.
Our love to all,
The Clot
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
FRANKLY MY DEAR
It’s Labor Day…the official close of summer. Actually, I’m still waiting for summer to officially begin. June was rained out. July melted away. And August took place in a haze of anesthesia and family trips at hypersonic speed. I can account for the passage of time. I just don’t know where the time went.
On August 11th, we noted the first anniversary of Dennis’ last chemo infusion. Since the conclusion of that episode, there have been two hernia repairs and an emergency appendectomy. And the lazy, crazy hazy days of summer have opened and closed…much like our midsections. But we both have acquired some surgical trophies that we proudly exhibit with very minimal prompting. (We are available for church functions, family parties, etc.)
At my last appointment, Dr. Voorhees assured me that the incision site is lookin’ goooooood. It has repaired itself into a kind of Mona Lisa smile – enigmatic, mysterious, beguiling. Not like Dennis’ scars. His whole abdominal wall looks like some competing graffiti-crazed rival gangs of surgeons (the “Bloods” and the “Crits”) have marked their territory with deranged perversions of Alfred E. Newman’s gape-toothed grin. When he shudders his pale, quivering torso, Dennis impersonates the jovial animation of each contestant at a Homer Simpson look-alike contest. It may not exactly qualify him as a contender on “America’s Got Talent,” but he manages to keep me entertained…it doesn’t take much these days.
Ah, but I digress. Dr. Voorhees had a young medical student he was tutoring, and he euphemistically noted the concave curvature of my solar plexus. Translation: “This body is a pathetically wasted, amorphous mass of crepey flesh draped over a collection of ancient porous bones…but we harvested the offending organ, so the poor old soul doesn’t have to be put down just yet.”
Actually, that worked for me. Post-surgical mending has created a narcissistic state of self-absorption that inspires me to repel any recollection of pain not obliterated by the welcome relief of amnesia. I just don’t want to hurt any more. Convulsive, jagged gasps for breath from paroxysms of supreme distress is not exactly what I’m fondest of. Utter absence of pain has left me with a healthy preoccupation with health and the utter absence with pain. Appendicitis gives pain a bad name!
So, this past summer Dennis and I have spent happily festered and sequestered, while alternating surgical episodes. We are hoping this does not become tradition, because between us we have very few expendable organs left.
The prospect of unending summer reminds us that Tourette’s Syndrome is a direct condition of mothers with bored children.
But last week, even as half-eaten peanut butter sandwiches sat on the counter, summer concluded abruptly…and school began. It always seems that autumn arrives on the first day of school, no matter the date on the calendar. The world smells like fall. And everything changes, not just the leaves.
Grandkids that have spent an entire season in disheveled squalor, have had every particle of soil sand-blasted from between their toes and chiseled from fingernails. And summer-bleached hair is combed and miraculously oriented in reasonably ordered directions.
I wouldn’t miss the first day of school.
Whatever it is that binds us as a family seemed fortified as we engaged in the annual ritual of picture-taking and merriment…and anxiety. My emotions were paper-thin, and I was inclined to run ahead of my little posse and impose a canopy of arm flab to protect them from any pain, disappointment or heartache. Perhaps grandmas are hard-wired for softening life’s blows…like a second-generation sumo wrestler. But these are my people…I just want the world to be kind.
However, I am fully aware that each child has his kryptonite, and common sense compels me to step back and allow them the privilege of counterbalancing the good and bad of human growth and development.
There is a certain brutality to the traditional relinquishing custody of a cherished grandchild to a capable and gregarious teacher, whose room smells of pencils and chalk…and efficiency. And the privacy one has longed for over the duration of three months seems more like solitary isolation.
Before retreating from each classroom, I hugged the kid, with complete disregard for peer humiliation. It’s a precarious line to embrace and not embarrass. I try not to invite ridicule, but I usually fail utterly. However, before I made my exit, I tattooed my cell phone number on every child’s backpack, lunch sack, forehead and underwear, vowing to be there before they heard the dial tone…should the need arise.
I almost lost my timing as I departed. Sometimes eyes leak before I quite make it out the door. But stealth has never been my forte.
I confess to a certain innate suffocative gene, and with every year that passes, this demented attention to adored offspring has fermented a little. But circumstances of late have intensified and extended my range of feelings, and the world will have to “roger” that. I am not an emotional flatliner.
My task, at the moment, is to adjust to the current dumbfounded void and the new quiet. A certain companionship has made its absence known. Silence, while often longed for, is not always welcome. It will demand daily attention to reorganize my mind. I had an appointment for a desperation pedicure to repair the ravages of summer picnics and family vacations. My nail polish color of choice: “Milk of Magnesia Pink.” (It’s the hottest shade for the geriatric set.) And beginning with ten perky toes and feet smoothed by 220-grip sandpaper is a fine way to readjust to the Great Interruption that is the first day of school, and the woeful fatigue of prolonged “me time.”
Absence makes the heart grow nostalgic, so…I think tomorrow I’ll have a manicure.
A few days ago we returned from Atlanta. Without going into great detail, I include some of the things we observed while in the deep South.
1. Mornings come REALLY early in Georgia.
2. There seem to be a plethora of men with the given name of Richard. In between belching ethnically offensive epithets at one another, they referred to each other by the nickname. I’m not sure it is a term of endearment. They also made suggestions one to another about doing things that violate the laws of both physics and anatomy. Dennis recommended that I not point that out that fact to the congregation.
3. I don’t love humidity.
4. There are lots of streets named “Robert E. Lee” or “Peachtree.” I never ran across a “Sherman Avenue,” or a “Tecumsah Boulevard.”
5. Rainy nights in Georgia are all the song implies. The rain fell with the relentless typewriter patter that would make one question if it really WAS raining all over the world.
6. I love the sound of the tangy, sweet, soft, raspy Georgia drawl.
7. Not many women in Atlanta were wearing velvet drapes at this time of year. Must be the heat and humidity and all. After visiting the Margaret Mitchell home and seeing the haute couture of the time, I realize there is no corset on this earth that could make ANY waist 18 inches. Talk about defying the realities of anatomy! Dennis suggested I might have more success with the rib cage. Luckily for him, I’ll think about that tomorrow.
8. Groups of three or more men frequently engage in an elaborately choreographed hand ballet of bumps, clicks, snaps, jerks, knuckle knocks, delicate pinkie locks and thumb circles that would flummox Fosse and baffle Barishnykov. It is complex, complicated, maze-like…a secret combination that makes the Macarena look comically juvenile. Greeting one another consumes most of the morning.
9. I learned that Georgia is the swine flu epidemic epicenter of the U.S. Alaska is right behind. We immersed our bodies with a pre-emptive oil slick of hand sanitizing gel and vowed never to go to Alaska.
10. MARTA is an efficient means of public transportation that makes one feel like one is in the bowels of a multi-segmented serpent about to be the victim of peristalsis and eventually excreted.
11. Oh, Auntie Em, there’s no place like home.
It’s September, the month of birthdays, state fairs and the U.S. tennis Open. It doesn’t get better than that.
Love to all,
The Clot
On August 11th, we noted the first anniversary of Dennis’ last chemo infusion. Since the conclusion of that episode, there have been two hernia repairs and an emergency appendectomy. And the lazy, crazy hazy days of summer have opened and closed…much like our midsections. But we both have acquired some surgical trophies that we proudly exhibit with very minimal prompting. (We are available for church functions, family parties, etc.)
At my last appointment, Dr. Voorhees assured me that the incision site is lookin’ goooooood. It has repaired itself into a kind of Mona Lisa smile – enigmatic, mysterious, beguiling. Not like Dennis’ scars. His whole abdominal wall looks like some competing graffiti-crazed rival gangs of surgeons (the “Bloods” and the “Crits”) have marked their territory with deranged perversions of Alfred E. Newman’s gape-toothed grin. When he shudders his pale, quivering torso, Dennis impersonates the jovial animation of each contestant at a Homer Simpson look-alike contest. It may not exactly qualify him as a contender on “America’s Got Talent,” but he manages to keep me entertained…it doesn’t take much these days.
Ah, but I digress. Dr. Voorhees had a young medical student he was tutoring, and he euphemistically noted the concave curvature of my solar plexus. Translation: “This body is a pathetically wasted, amorphous mass of crepey flesh draped over a collection of ancient porous bones…but we harvested the offending organ, so the poor old soul doesn’t have to be put down just yet.”
Actually, that worked for me. Post-surgical mending has created a narcissistic state of self-absorption that inspires me to repel any recollection of pain not obliterated by the welcome relief of amnesia. I just don’t want to hurt any more. Convulsive, jagged gasps for breath from paroxysms of supreme distress is not exactly what I’m fondest of. Utter absence of pain has left me with a healthy preoccupation with health and the utter absence with pain. Appendicitis gives pain a bad name!
So, this past summer Dennis and I have spent happily festered and sequestered, while alternating surgical episodes. We are hoping this does not become tradition, because between us we have very few expendable organs left.
The prospect of unending summer reminds us that Tourette’s Syndrome is a direct condition of mothers with bored children.
But last week, even as half-eaten peanut butter sandwiches sat on the counter, summer concluded abruptly…and school began. It always seems that autumn arrives on the first day of school, no matter the date on the calendar. The world smells like fall. And everything changes, not just the leaves.
Grandkids that have spent an entire season in disheveled squalor, have had every particle of soil sand-blasted from between their toes and chiseled from fingernails. And summer-bleached hair is combed and miraculously oriented in reasonably ordered directions.
I wouldn’t miss the first day of school.
Whatever it is that binds us as a family seemed fortified as we engaged in the annual ritual of picture-taking and merriment…and anxiety. My emotions were paper-thin, and I was inclined to run ahead of my little posse and impose a canopy of arm flab to protect them from any pain, disappointment or heartache. Perhaps grandmas are hard-wired for softening life’s blows…like a second-generation sumo wrestler. But these are my people…I just want the world to be kind.
However, I am fully aware that each child has his kryptonite, and common sense compels me to step back and allow them the privilege of counterbalancing the good and bad of human growth and development.
There is a certain brutality to the traditional relinquishing custody of a cherished grandchild to a capable and gregarious teacher, whose room smells of pencils and chalk…and efficiency. And the privacy one has longed for over the duration of three months seems more like solitary isolation.
Before retreating from each classroom, I hugged the kid, with complete disregard for peer humiliation. It’s a precarious line to embrace and not embarrass. I try not to invite ridicule, but I usually fail utterly. However, before I made my exit, I tattooed my cell phone number on every child’s backpack, lunch sack, forehead and underwear, vowing to be there before they heard the dial tone…should the need arise.
I almost lost my timing as I departed. Sometimes eyes leak before I quite make it out the door. But stealth has never been my forte.
I confess to a certain innate suffocative gene, and with every year that passes, this demented attention to adored offspring has fermented a little. But circumstances of late have intensified and extended my range of feelings, and the world will have to “roger” that. I am not an emotional flatliner.
My task, at the moment, is to adjust to the current dumbfounded void and the new quiet. A certain companionship has made its absence known. Silence, while often longed for, is not always welcome. It will demand daily attention to reorganize my mind. I had an appointment for a desperation pedicure to repair the ravages of summer picnics and family vacations. My nail polish color of choice: “Milk of Magnesia Pink.” (It’s the hottest shade for the geriatric set.) And beginning with ten perky toes and feet smoothed by 220-grip sandpaper is a fine way to readjust to the Great Interruption that is the first day of school, and the woeful fatigue of prolonged “me time.”
Absence makes the heart grow nostalgic, so…I think tomorrow I’ll have a manicure.
A few days ago we returned from Atlanta. Without going into great detail, I include some of the things we observed while in the deep South.
1. Mornings come REALLY early in Georgia.
2. There seem to be a plethora of men with the given name of Richard. In between belching ethnically offensive epithets at one another, they referred to each other by the nickname. I’m not sure it is a term of endearment. They also made suggestions one to another about doing things that violate the laws of both physics and anatomy. Dennis recommended that I not point that out that fact to the congregation.
3. I don’t love humidity.
4. There are lots of streets named “Robert E. Lee” or “Peachtree.” I never ran across a “Sherman Avenue,” or a “Tecumsah Boulevard.”
5. Rainy nights in Georgia are all the song implies. The rain fell with the relentless typewriter patter that would make one question if it really WAS raining all over the world.
6. I love the sound of the tangy, sweet, soft, raspy Georgia drawl.
7. Not many women in Atlanta were wearing velvet drapes at this time of year. Must be the heat and humidity and all. After visiting the Margaret Mitchell home and seeing the haute couture of the time, I realize there is no corset on this earth that could make ANY waist 18 inches. Talk about defying the realities of anatomy! Dennis suggested I might have more success with the rib cage. Luckily for him, I’ll think about that tomorrow.
8. Groups of three or more men frequently engage in an elaborately choreographed hand ballet of bumps, clicks, snaps, jerks, knuckle knocks, delicate pinkie locks and thumb circles that would flummox Fosse and baffle Barishnykov. It is complex, complicated, maze-like…a secret combination that makes the Macarena look comically juvenile. Greeting one another consumes most of the morning.
9. I learned that Georgia is the swine flu epidemic epicenter of the U.S. Alaska is right behind. We immersed our bodies with a pre-emptive oil slick of hand sanitizing gel and vowed never to go to Alaska.
10. MARTA is an efficient means of public transportation that makes one feel like one is in the bowels of a multi-segmented serpent about to be the victim of peristalsis and eventually excreted.
11. Oh, Auntie Em, there’s no place like home.
It’s September, the month of birthdays, state fairs and the U.S. tennis Open. It doesn’t get better than that.
Love to all,
The Clot
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
