It’s October, that singular month solely dedicated to haunted houses, ghosties, ghoulies, and things that go bump in the night. Growing up, my friends and I would have sleep-overs at each other’s house, and stay up late into the night to watch the Friday night scary movie. Then we’d try to sleep without becoming incontinent. (No easy task. It’s still a challenge.)
There was a whole compendium of Hollywood 1940’s B movies of terror, from Frankenstein to the Werewolf to the Mummy…and, of course…Dracula. They all gave us grand mal bejeebers. But the greatest challenge to bladder control was always Vlad Dracul. What a spooky invention he is.
Bram Stoker created a disturbing mythological creature whose horror is so potent in part because he is a count…Count Dracula to be exact. By the way, did you know that Bram Stoker slept with a sarcophagus in his bedroom? Dennis said he could top that, but I advised him to think it through very carefully. The name “Dracula” actually comes from a Transylvanian word meaning “dragon.” He isn’t hairy. He doesn’t snarl or drag his leg because his bandages are sagging. His manners are impeccable. He is charming and articulate. He is always dressed in his finest cloak and slicked back hair. And his fangs lie covert under his lips. That is, until he needs them. And then he rips back those lips to reveal the incisive suckers that will ultimately puncture two perfect holes in the neck of some hapless, penoir-clad, really stupid woman’s jugular. Most of his victims are neuron-non-functioning females with a penchant for pajama couture.
Dracula is a very sloppy diner, however. He tends to slurp and slobber and do socially unacceptable things with his food. But I suppose that’s because he must hastily eat and run in order to prevent clotting…another argument for going vegan. I can’t believe there are so many females with the intellectual agility of a fruit fly that have managed to provide the Nosferatu with sufficient nourishment to perpetuate the species of undead mutants throughout the centuries. Of course, I also could never understand how the mummy was able to catch a fleeing girl while wrapped in gauze and dragging a gimpy leg…except that she was always tripping over her long, flowing nightgown, (constructed of transparent material that was little more than lace over nude). Witless women who are always falling are the ultimate nocturnal horror.
Every year I debate about whether or not to wear a costume. Assuming another identity or a third personality might be a pleasant pastime. Perhaps this wouldn’t be such a dilemma if it were not for the rigorous routine I go through on a daily basis just getting dressed and preparing myself to enter polite society.
First of all, the fashion barracuda proclaim that one must not only be dressed, but presentable. Being a raving cutie is mandatory. Well, that’s just fine, except that through the years, Nature has caused everything adorable to spiral downward so drastically, it actually shifts one’s center of gravity. This constitutes felonious assault.
It has been said that anatomy is destiny. I believe in destiny. I also believe in anatomy. So to combat such unmitigated anatomical, graphic sag, I bought a rather unique invention that goes by the brand name “Spanx.” It is this century’s version of the Victorian corset. It is a shape shifter with a vice squeeze of such vengeance, that it requires a hydraulic engineer just to elevate it above the thighs, that is, if you once get both feet in the opening.
One is then obliged to grunt, groan, push, pull, stuff, lubricate, curse, contort, and utter polyglot expletives to maneuver the device upward into its targeted position. Breathing is not an option. You know you got it right if there is serendipitous collateral cleavage enhancement due to thigh fat that has popped into your bra by blunt force trauma.
Once you are clad, and the apparatus is in its final resting place, you experience something akin to the vague calm you get after puking. You’re ready for your close-up.
The first time I succeeded donning this “jaws of life” undergarment, I resembled a yak in spandex. The look is finished off with a whole tube of mascara and stilletoes. Of course, attired thus, I couldn’t possibly outrun even the most pokey mummy. But then, looking like this, Dennis assures me I’m not in danger…unless there’s a demented mummy somewhere out there looking to drown me as a humanitarian gesture.
Unfortunately, nothing short of a toxic oil slick or agent orange and latex gloves can dislocate the Spanx from the torso, and the idea of wearing the outfit for a week should be considered. One must really think it all the way through
It’s no secret that I don’t like Halloween. It marks an anniversary that’s scarier than anything the mind of Bram Stoker could invent. Dennis’ most recent foray to the phlebotomist revealed a slight elevation in his CA 19-9 tumor marker. (Those Huntsman blood-suckers can conjure some serious nightmares.)
So in order to ward off evil, I got out my trusty vampire-killer kit. I have put a garland of garlic in the windows, over the doors, in my cauldron, and around my neck. (I also ate some raw cloves to throttle up the potency, but so far I’ve inadvertently offed strangers, stray cats and small children.) I’ve placed mirrors on all the walls, so I can detect if someone does not cast a reflection. Sadly, my own reflection would scare Beelzebub out of Hades. And I have a stake and a hammer. I’m ready. Extreme cage fight! Bring it on!
Dennis said this was all well and good, but he thought Dr. Mulvihill’s recommendation more efficacious than my “Van Helsing” remedy. He will have his blood re-drawn on Friday to re-check the values. Hmmmmm. How utterly devoid of flair.
I know all will be well. But I will be glad to get out of October altogether, when the only thing that goes bump in the night are my thighs as I make the midnight run to the latrine. I love the season, but not the holiday. I can’t wait until November, the month of pilgrims and gratitude. As always, we have so much more to be thankful for than afraid of.
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
One of These Days
“One of these days” arrived last week. Dennis and I went to Vermont. For years, we have promised ourselves that one of these days we would do our “Robert Frost/east coast in the autumn” dream excursion. But things just kept getting in the way.
First of all, we had babies. And, because they were particularly cute, we opted not to eat our young, but feed them instead. Of course, there were days when we questioned that decision, but on the whole, there has not been much beget regret.
Then there was the little matter of Dennis’ practice. He was either at the hospital, in the exam room, or on call. So many patients. So little time. This could have been irritating had it not been for the fact that we could pay our bills and feed our offspring. The girls were getting older, and had come to expect food, clothes and a roof as a right of their existence.
Our world seemed to orbit around the girls’ mouths. We filled them with food and drilled them for cavities. And we single-handedly provided the financial wherewithall for their orthodontist to take an early retirement. (He retired to the east coast one autumn.)
As the years came and went, Erin and Brodi went to high school with all its proms, football games, social interaction, and drama…a time of life that would strain even the financial empire of Bill Gates himself.
And then came college. Apparently both girls had actually internalized our recitation of the catechism of higher education. And the registrar demanded financial remuneration. Apparently they didn’t consider the fact that the girls had teeth straighter than palace guards as tuition payment. Pity.
Just when we thought we saw some possibility of heading east over the Rockies, both girls fell in love. And we had weddings. Boy Howdy! Did we have weddings! And in the natural cycle of things, babies came. More adorable babies. And like the generation preceding, they, too, demanded to be fed regularly.
Traveling would be so much more convenient if life didn’t keep intruding on our GPS.
However, we are now at a point in our lives where we probably have more yesterdays than tomorrows. So this fall, when two roads diverged in a yellow wood, we took the one less traveled by, and that really has made all the difference.
I’m not sure why we chose Vermont in particular. Perhaps it was all those idyllic images from “White Christmas” of Bing Crosby and Rosemary Clooney singing about snow and dancing as “the kids put on a show.” So, why not?
I love Vermont. It is so quaint. “Quaint” is not just visual. “Quaint” is a mind-set. It beckons you to gather around a hearth-fire and huddle under a quilt pieced by someone’s grandmother as she sat in her rocker. “Quaint” has an aroma. It’s warm, mellow apple cider and soup of barley and beef. It’s the loamy smell of soil in autumn’s chill. It’s the perfect still-life. Of course, the older people pictured in these Normal Rockwell tableaux never seem to be plagued by an aging bladder. (After the third cup of sweet cider, not to mention several supplementary diet Cokes to throttle up the energy level with caffeine, Mother Nature gets ugly, and humiliation in polite society is one untimely sneeze away.) Thus, there are never any artist’s renditions of an up-ended cup of cider in mid-air suspended animation as a gray-haired granny is depicted as a mere blur bookin’ it to the bathroom. Pity. There is no room in “quaint” for potty breaks.
Every corner on every street has a white clapboard church. And every denomination ever conceived was represented in Vermont. There was even one whose sign read “First Church of Something Something, Scientist.” We passed too fast to read it exactly, but I did wonder if there was a certain IQ required for membership. Just down the road a ways was St. Somebody’s 2nd Church of Something Or Other. I figured that was probably for the mentally deficient, or those who hadn’t done well enough on the entrance exam to be a “scientist.” Ironically, the parking lot of THAT church was packed.
Vermont has a plethora of unique warning signs for all the things that could possibly cross the highway as you’re traveling the byways. There were silhouettes of cowboys on horses, moose, mountains with rocks crumbling down the slopes, and the universal image for the chronically confused – who probably should have been attending their church meetings instead of wandering out on the freeway.
There was even a sign specifically targeting bikers: “Scarified pavement. Motorcycles Exercise Caution.” So those of us not on motorcycles continued driving carelessly.
At one point, traffic was merged into one lane, and, as luck would have it, we happened to get behind a truck with a sign on the back that read: “Construction Vehicle. DO NOT FOLLOW.” Well, we had no choice. There was simply nowhere to go. So we just averted our gaze as we trailed along behind, and tried not to make eye contact.
Vermont doesn’t have cities. The whole state is comprised of hamlets, villages, boroughs, and towns with names like Bellows Falls, Westminster, and Dover. Besides the traditional clapboard church, each village has a cemetery, usually located in a prominent place adjacent to the churchyard. However, one cemetery was located at the end of a road marked “Dead End.” We tried not to identify ourselves as tourists with our moronic laughter, but that was way hard. Of course, exclaiming “Oh, my heck!” blew my cover as a rube from the West in the witness protection program.
Even the street names are charming: Hummingbird Hill, Apple Valley, Birdsong Way, Gingerbread Corner. One sign read, “Village Peddler: Next Right.” I wondered what the peddler would peddle. Utah is sadly lacking in village peddlers. I think our state needs to “Mayberry Up!”
The speed limit is 50 mph at its fastest. But most roads do not exceed 30. The pace is languid, not sluggish. I like languid. We saw signs warning of reduced speed ahead. But reduced speed simply meant coming to a complete stop.
Vermont is in a whole different time zone. I was never sure just what time it was. It’s pleasant to lose track of time. Heck, with everything being so quaint, I even lost track of the century. We mingled with people whose hair had never been chemically enhanced, and who would stand in clusters with their hands in their pockets and visit. Rushing would violate their standard of behavior.
Houses are constructed with wrap-around porches whose inhabitants colonize rockers and Adirondack chairs so generously proportioned, they swallow the sitter from shoulder to knees. Once you nestle into one of those babies, you’re in for the whole conversation. Porch-sitting is a lost art.
We were able to visit Robert Frost’s home where he penned “Stopping By A Woods On A Snowy Evening.” It was enchanting, located in the heart of fields and pastures. I can see why he would be inspired by Nature.
As luck would have it, I, too, was “inspired by Nature,” and searched for a restroom. Apparently, Robert Frost did not feel inclined to build such conveniences for tourists. He seemed to prefer to ponder and write poems. The proprietor indicated where to go, and it was actually Robert Frost’s own bathroom. I sat and waited for inspiration. Nothing happened. However, there is a tradition among those so persuaded to write a parody of Frost’s famous poem. So I, like others before me, decided to try my hand at it.
Here goes.
Whose john this is I think I know.
But Robert Frost ain’t here no ‘mo.
He will not see me stopping here
To take a seat and rest my rear.
Dennis gave the keys a shake
To signal the end of potty break.
I threatened to take those keys and deposit
Them in the depths of the water closet.
So I hollered through the bathroom door
He was toast if he shook those keys once more.
The outhouse was lovely, dark and deep,
But we had itineraries to keep.
And miles to go before we’d peep.
And miles to go before we’d peep.
It was with great reluctance that we left Vermont. We knew we had passed beyond the borders of “quaint” when we entered New York and motored through places named “Pittstown” and “Hoosick.” They just didn’t have the same charm.
When we finally arrived home, and we were unpacking our bags, I saw a notice from the baggage handlers that announced they had randomly chosen my luggage for inspection. What??? I couldn’t believe it. I felt violated. I dreaded what some stranger with rubber gloves and nefarious motives discovered about me as he rifled through my belongings. What we pack reveals a lot about ourselves.
No doubt there is a guy working for Delta Airlines that now knows:
I have a fettish for empty calories with all the “Runts” and “Goobers” I had stashed in the side pockets just under the laundry.
I carry “dummy” lingerie on top of my shredded Minnie Mouse nightshirt just in case my suitcase accidentally falls open in public.
And then there are all the things (inserts, etc.) that constitute my shape shifters I use to alter my appearance I don’t even want to think about.
Oh, the humiliation.
It’s akin to death by a thousand duck nibbles.
One of these days, I’m going to write a scathing letter of protest to the TSA.
But not for a while. Right now we are celebrating. Brodi always said that one of these days she would write a book. And she did. And someone wants to publish it. “One of these days” is actually January, 2012, when the book will be in the bookstores. At the moment, we are all grinning and looking goofy, and exclaiming in unison, “OH MY HECK!” We are in Utah, after all.
First of all, we had babies. And, because they were particularly cute, we opted not to eat our young, but feed them instead. Of course, there were days when we questioned that decision, but on the whole, there has not been much beget regret.
Then there was the little matter of Dennis’ practice. He was either at the hospital, in the exam room, or on call. So many patients. So little time. This could have been irritating had it not been for the fact that we could pay our bills and feed our offspring. The girls were getting older, and had come to expect food, clothes and a roof as a right of their existence.
Our world seemed to orbit around the girls’ mouths. We filled them with food and drilled them for cavities. And we single-handedly provided the financial wherewithall for their orthodontist to take an early retirement. (He retired to the east coast one autumn.)
As the years came and went, Erin and Brodi went to high school with all its proms, football games, social interaction, and drama…a time of life that would strain even the financial empire of Bill Gates himself.
And then came college. Apparently both girls had actually internalized our recitation of the catechism of higher education. And the registrar demanded financial remuneration. Apparently they didn’t consider the fact that the girls had teeth straighter than palace guards as tuition payment. Pity.
Just when we thought we saw some possibility of heading east over the Rockies, both girls fell in love. And we had weddings. Boy Howdy! Did we have weddings! And in the natural cycle of things, babies came. More adorable babies. And like the generation preceding, they, too, demanded to be fed regularly.
Traveling would be so much more convenient if life didn’t keep intruding on our GPS.
However, we are now at a point in our lives where we probably have more yesterdays than tomorrows. So this fall, when two roads diverged in a yellow wood, we took the one less traveled by, and that really has made all the difference.
I’m not sure why we chose Vermont in particular. Perhaps it was all those idyllic images from “White Christmas” of Bing Crosby and Rosemary Clooney singing about snow and dancing as “the kids put on a show.” So, why not?
I love Vermont. It is so quaint. “Quaint” is not just visual. “Quaint” is a mind-set. It beckons you to gather around a hearth-fire and huddle under a quilt pieced by someone’s grandmother as she sat in her rocker. “Quaint” has an aroma. It’s warm, mellow apple cider and soup of barley and beef. It’s the loamy smell of soil in autumn’s chill. It’s the perfect still-life. Of course, the older people pictured in these Normal Rockwell tableaux never seem to be plagued by an aging bladder. (After the third cup of sweet cider, not to mention several supplementary diet Cokes to throttle up the energy level with caffeine, Mother Nature gets ugly, and humiliation in polite society is one untimely sneeze away.) Thus, there are never any artist’s renditions of an up-ended cup of cider in mid-air suspended animation as a gray-haired granny is depicted as a mere blur bookin’ it to the bathroom. Pity. There is no room in “quaint” for potty breaks.
Every corner on every street has a white clapboard church. And every denomination ever conceived was represented in Vermont. There was even one whose sign read “First Church of Something Something, Scientist.” We passed too fast to read it exactly, but I did wonder if there was a certain IQ required for membership. Just down the road a ways was St. Somebody’s 2nd Church of Something Or Other. I figured that was probably for the mentally deficient, or those who hadn’t done well enough on the entrance exam to be a “scientist.” Ironically, the parking lot of THAT church was packed.
Vermont has a plethora of unique warning signs for all the things that could possibly cross the highway as you’re traveling the byways. There were silhouettes of cowboys on horses, moose, mountains with rocks crumbling down the slopes, and the universal image for the chronically confused – who probably should have been attending their church meetings instead of wandering out on the freeway.
There was even a sign specifically targeting bikers: “Scarified pavement. Motorcycles Exercise Caution.” So those of us not on motorcycles continued driving carelessly.
At one point, traffic was merged into one lane, and, as luck would have it, we happened to get behind a truck with a sign on the back that read: “Construction Vehicle. DO NOT FOLLOW.” Well, we had no choice. There was simply nowhere to go. So we just averted our gaze as we trailed along behind, and tried not to make eye contact.
Vermont doesn’t have cities. The whole state is comprised of hamlets, villages, boroughs, and towns with names like Bellows Falls, Westminster, and Dover. Besides the traditional clapboard church, each village has a cemetery, usually located in a prominent place adjacent to the churchyard. However, one cemetery was located at the end of a road marked “Dead End.” We tried not to identify ourselves as tourists with our moronic laughter, but that was way hard. Of course, exclaiming “Oh, my heck!” blew my cover as a rube from the West in the witness protection program.
Even the street names are charming: Hummingbird Hill, Apple Valley, Birdsong Way, Gingerbread Corner. One sign read, “Village Peddler: Next Right.” I wondered what the peddler would peddle. Utah is sadly lacking in village peddlers. I think our state needs to “Mayberry Up!”
The speed limit is 50 mph at its fastest. But most roads do not exceed 30. The pace is languid, not sluggish. I like languid. We saw signs warning of reduced speed ahead. But reduced speed simply meant coming to a complete stop.
Vermont is in a whole different time zone. I was never sure just what time it was. It’s pleasant to lose track of time. Heck, with everything being so quaint, I even lost track of the century. We mingled with people whose hair had never been chemically enhanced, and who would stand in clusters with their hands in their pockets and visit. Rushing would violate their standard of behavior.
Houses are constructed with wrap-around porches whose inhabitants colonize rockers and Adirondack chairs so generously proportioned, they swallow the sitter from shoulder to knees. Once you nestle into one of those babies, you’re in for the whole conversation. Porch-sitting is a lost art.
We were able to visit Robert Frost’s home where he penned “Stopping By A Woods On A Snowy Evening.” It was enchanting, located in the heart of fields and pastures. I can see why he would be inspired by Nature.
As luck would have it, I, too, was “inspired by Nature,” and searched for a restroom. Apparently, Robert Frost did not feel inclined to build such conveniences for tourists. He seemed to prefer to ponder and write poems. The proprietor indicated where to go, and it was actually Robert Frost’s own bathroom. I sat and waited for inspiration. Nothing happened. However, there is a tradition among those so persuaded to write a parody of Frost’s famous poem. So I, like others before me, decided to try my hand at it.
Here goes.
Whose john this is I think I know.
But Robert Frost ain’t here no ‘mo.
He will not see me stopping here
To take a seat and rest my rear.
Dennis gave the keys a shake
To signal the end of potty break.
I threatened to take those keys and deposit
Them in the depths of the water closet.
So I hollered through the bathroom door
He was toast if he shook those keys once more.
The outhouse was lovely, dark and deep,
But we had itineraries to keep.
And miles to go before we’d peep.
And miles to go before we’d peep.
It was with great reluctance that we left Vermont. We knew we had passed beyond the borders of “quaint” when we entered New York and motored through places named “Pittstown” and “Hoosick.” They just didn’t have the same charm.
When we finally arrived home, and we were unpacking our bags, I saw a notice from the baggage handlers that announced they had randomly chosen my luggage for inspection. What??? I couldn’t believe it. I felt violated. I dreaded what some stranger with rubber gloves and nefarious motives discovered about me as he rifled through my belongings. What we pack reveals a lot about ourselves.
No doubt there is a guy working for Delta Airlines that now knows:
I have a fettish for empty calories with all the “Runts” and “Goobers” I had stashed in the side pockets just under the laundry.
I carry “dummy” lingerie on top of my shredded Minnie Mouse nightshirt just in case my suitcase accidentally falls open in public.
And then there are all the things (inserts, etc.) that constitute my shape shifters I use to alter my appearance I don’t even want to think about.
Oh, the humiliation.
It’s akin to death by a thousand duck nibbles.
One of these days, I’m going to write a scathing letter of protest to the TSA.
But not for a while. Right now we are celebrating. Brodi always said that one of these days she would write a book. And she did. And someone wants to publish it. “One of these days” is actually January, 2012, when the book will be in the bookstores. At the moment, we are all grinning and looking goofy, and exclaiming in unison, “OH MY HECK!” We are in Utah, after all.
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
Woofers
More than any other season, autumn is steeped in tradition. Perhaps that’s because it’s an amalgam of all the other seasons.
There are the end of summer clearance sales, the back-to-school sales, the Labor Day sales, and the pre-season ski sales. There are a plethora of baseball games, football games, sports tournaments, and Rafa Nadal.
Autumn has a rhythm all its own, but fall officially arrives on the first day back to school. The date on the calendar is irrelevant, really. When children with sun-bleached hair and feet that are summer-barefoot brown dawn a backpack and new clothes…it is autumn.
Something changes. Everything changes. The air seems crisp, regardless of the dictates of the thermometer. And the refrigerator is still colonized with its late-summer picnic remnants, as red and gold delicious apples encroach upon the territory.
Taking our kids, and now our grandkids, to their new classrooms to meet their new teachers is an autumnal rite of passage. But it never gets easier. I wonder why. There is an air of excitement, but there’s also a tug at the heart. The annual ritual, with its smells of pencils, chalk, blackboards and books should go off without a hiccup after all these years of “first days.”
And it does…for the most part. The kids do just fine. It’s me. I get the hiccups. I don’t understand why, as I say good-bye and walk away, relinquishing custody to their new teacher, why they suddenly seem taller, a little older, bigger, somehow, than they were just the day before at our final picnic of the summer. But this is as it should be. Life has a certain ebb and flow that imposes appropriate order.
Time passes in increments so small they’re barely noticeable…until they accumulate and cluster around my heart when school starts. Seats that seemed to swallow the child just a year ago have lost some of their large. I like to think they’re making furniture smaller these days. It’s the ultimate down-sizing.
I wouldn’t change things, even if I could. I’d just slow it down long enough for the hiccups to pass.
Labor Day is the true harbinger of autumn…and the Christmas season. Holiday catalogs with pictures of angels on the front, herald the glad tidings that there are only four more months until the Big Day arrives, and I’d better get crackin’ because I’m already behind in rackin’ up my over-indulgence credit card debt so crucial to capturing the “true meaning of Christmas.” I wonder how Mary and Joseph ever had time for birth and taxes when there was so much to do to prepare for the holidays.
Apparently Nieman Marcus didn’t get the memo about the current recession. Boy Howdy! Buy a couple of items from that little establishment, and I could single-handedly cause the DOW to leap a couple of points.
By Labor Day, Halloween-themed items that have been on display since the Pioneer Day Parade must be moved aside to make room for the Christmas decorations. So much for the old adage that “to everything there is a season.”
But by far my favorite Labor Day tradition is the International Sheep Dog Championship. This is the competition in which border collies and their handlers work as two people with a single brain to pen a group of incredibly unpredictable ( not to mention dumb) range sheep off the mountain, through a series of upright panels, over the river and through the woods and into an 8X9 pen. Not as easy as it sounds, because shouting obscenities is not allowed. The border collie cannot excite the sheep, but must control them with just his presence…and intense gaze. This technique is known as “the eye.” The dogs seem to hypnotize the sheep into following their demands. A skilled border collie can deliver the herd within the allotted time without having to touch or confront a single ewe.
With a series of tweets and whistles, the handler, never leaving his post, communicates the commands necessary for the dog to drive the animals through the course successfully. The handlers rarely use audibles, but one woman had a voice like a Wagnerian bull horn. When she hollered, “LIE DOWN!”, all six thousand spectators hit the ground!
Well, needless to say, I was inspired. So much so that I thought it would be a good idea to set up a similar communication system for me and Dennis. That way I wouldn’t have to nag and plead with a constant hum and drone as annoying as the vuvuzelas at the World Cup Soccer games. Brilliant!
So here is my simple tweet command system to ensure efficiency and harmony in our household:
1. Whee-Who: pick up your towels.
2. Whee-Wheee-o: pick up your towels…or die.
3. One Prolonged Whistle Blast (compound signal - command with implied threat): pick up the towels – there’s a sale at Nordstrom, I have your credit card, and I know how to use it!
4. Whee-Whee: PUT THE TOILET LID DOWN!
I’ve been working on “the eye,” but my technique needs practice. I must be doing something wrong – the only one I seemed to hypnotize was myself. I spent the entire morning picking up towels and closing toilet lids.
Maybe it’s because autumn is a time of nostalgia. Maybe it’s because so many birthdays are clustered in September – a natural biological consequence of cold winters. But I tried once more, and failed miserably, to throw away my baby swing.
Every fall I am seized by primordial instinct to clean out closets and discard old and obsolete items – to make room for more stuff that I will clean out next September, because they, too, will be old and obsolete.
And every year I am determined to dispose of the swing that we used to lull our daughters to sleep when they were babies. The gentle rocking and swaying would calm and compose them. It was a sweet receptacle that enticed fussy babies to slumber.
Obviously, it’s been decades since I nestled their diapered nether regions into that seat. The swing has occupied a corner of our storage room forever, and gathers dust for months until I make time for its quarterly cleaning.
But things that no longer have a purpose should be disposed of. It’s the law of practical consequence. Besides, I need the room. So I asked Dennis to remove it from its place in the corner, haul it down the stairs, and place it in the trash bin. Soon it would be garbage day. (I’d have done it myself, but I had just washed my hair.)
Each day thereafter, I looked at that swing with its little toys tied across the front, peering forlornly out of the garbage can. But I was resolute. Forget the memories. I would not be deterred. I simply could not justify the expenditure of space simply to house sentiment. It had to go. End of discussion.
Well, Tuesday finally arrived. Dennis lugged the can to the curb for the weekly pick-up. And then we waited. Earlier than usual, we heard the roar and the belch of the garbage truck, with its distinctive beep and squeal.
Dennis and I looked at each other. With an understanding that exceeded the communication between border collie and handler, we sprinted to the street in a sentimental smack-down, just in time to rescue the swing with its baby toys on the string, guide it through the upright panels, and return it safely to the 8X9 pen,…in its accustomed corner of the storage room. And we sighed in relief.
Some things whose primary purpose has expired, are still of great worth. I just hope everyone remembers that when I’m really old.
I’ll clean out the storage room next year.
Autumn is hidden within every leaf – even when they first bud in the spring. It’s Nature’s disguise – like the arboretist’s witness protection program. Not so many hummingbirds at the nectar feeders these days. But that’s OK. There isn’t much time for bird watching right now. I’ve got Christmas shopping to do!
There are the end of summer clearance sales, the back-to-school sales, the Labor Day sales, and the pre-season ski sales. There are a plethora of baseball games, football games, sports tournaments, and Rafa Nadal.
Autumn has a rhythm all its own, but fall officially arrives on the first day back to school. The date on the calendar is irrelevant, really. When children with sun-bleached hair and feet that are summer-barefoot brown dawn a backpack and new clothes…it is autumn.
Something changes. Everything changes. The air seems crisp, regardless of the dictates of the thermometer. And the refrigerator is still colonized with its late-summer picnic remnants, as red and gold delicious apples encroach upon the territory.
Taking our kids, and now our grandkids, to their new classrooms to meet their new teachers is an autumnal rite of passage. But it never gets easier. I wonder why. There is an air of excitement, but there’s also a tug at the heart. The annual ritual, with its smells of pencils, chalk, blackboards and books should go off without a hiccup after all these years of “first days.”
And it does…for the most part. The kids do just fine. It’s me. I get the hiccups. I don’t understand why, as I say good-bye and walk away, relinquishing custody to their new teacher, why they suddenly seem taller, a little older, bigger, somehow, than they were just the day before at our final picnic of the summer. But this is as it should be. Life has a certain ebb and flow that imposes appropriate order.
Time passes in increments so small they’re barely noticeable…until they accumulate and cluster around my heart when school starts. Seats that seemed to swallow the child just a year ago have lost some of their large. I like to think they’re making furniture smaller these days. It’s the ultimate down-sizing.
I wouldn’t change things, even if I could. I’d just slow it down long enough for the hiccups to pass.
Labor Day is the true harbinger of autumn…and the Christmas season. Holiday catalogs with pictures of angels on the front, herald the glad tidings that there are only four more months until the Big Day arrives, and I’d better get crackin’ because I’m already behind in rackin’ up my over-indulgence credit card debt so crucial to capturing the “true meaning of Christmas.” I wonder how Mary and Joseph ever had time for birth and taxes when there was so much to do to prepare for the holidays.
Apparently Nieman Marcus didn’t get the memo about the current recession. Boy Howdy! Buy a couple of items from that little establishment, and I could single-handedly cause the DOW to leap a couple of points.
By Labor Day, Halloween-themed items that have been on display since the Pioneer Day Parade must be moved aside to make room for the Christmas decorations. So much for the old adage that “to everything there is a season.”
But by far my favorite Labor Day tradition is the International Sheep Dog Championship. This is the competition in which border collies and their handlers work as two people with a single brain to pen a group of incredibly unpredictable ( not to mention dumb) range sheep off the mountain, through a series of upright panels, over the river and through the woods and into an 8X9 pen. Not as easy as it sounds, because shouting obscenities is not allowed. The border collie cannot excite the sheep, but must control them with just his presence…and intense gaze. This technique is known as “the eye.” The dogs seem to hypnotize the sheep into following their demands. A skilled border collie can deliver the herd within the allotted time without having to touch or confront a single ewe.
With a series of tweets and whistles, the handler, never leaving his post, communicates the commands necessary for the dog to drive the animals through the course successfully. The handlers rarely use audibles, but one woman had a voice like a Wagnerian bull horn. When she hollered, “LIE DOWN!”, all six thousand spectators hit the ground!
Well, needless to say, I was inspired. So much so that I thought it would be a good idea to set up a similar communication system for me and Dennis. That way I wouldn’t have to nag and plead with a constant hum and drone as annoying as the vuvuzelas at the World Cup Soccer games. Brilliant!
So here is my simple tweet command system to ensure efficiency and harmony in our household:
1. Whee-Who: pick up your towels.
2. Whee-Wheee-o: pick up your towels…or die.
3. One Prolonged Whistle Blast (compound signal - command with implied threat): pick up the towels – there’s a sale at Nordstrom, I have your credit card, and I know how to use it!
4. Whee-Whee: PUT THE TOILET LID DOWN!
I’ve been working on “the eye,” but my technique needs practice. I must be doing something wrong – the only one I seemed to hypnotize was myself. I spent the entire morning picking up towels and closing toilet lids.
Maybe it’s because autumn is a time of nostalgia. Maybe it’s because so many birthdays are clustered in September – a natural biological consequence of cold winters. But I tried once more, and failed miserably, to throw away my baby swing.
Every fall I am seized by primordial instinct to clean out closets and discard old and obsolete items – to make room for more stuff that I will clean out next September, because they, too, will be old and obsolete.
And every year I am determined to dispose of the swing that we used to lull our daughters to sleep when they were babies. The gentle rocking and swaying would calm and compose them. It was a sweet receptacle that enticed fussy babies to slumber.
Obviously, it’s been decades since I nestled their diapered nether regions into that seat. The swing has occupied a corner of our storage room forever, and gathers dust for months until I make time for its quarterly cleaning.
But things that no longer have a purpose should be disposed of. It’s the law of practical consequence. Besides, I need the room. So I asked Dennis to remove it from its place in the corner, haul it down the stairs, and place it in the trash bin. Soon it would be garbage day. (I’d have done it myself, but I had just washed my hair.)
Each day thereafter, I looked at that swing with its little toys tied across the front, peering forlornly out of the garbage can. But I was resolute. Forget the memories. I would not be deterred. I simply could not justify the expenditure of space simply to house sentiment. It had to go. End of discussion.
Well, Tuesday finally arrived. Dennis lugged the can to the curb for the weekly pick-up. And then we waited. Earlier than usual, we heard the roar and the belch of the garbage truck, with its distinctive beep and squeal.
Dennis and I looked at each other. With an understanding that exceeded the communication between border collie and handler, we sprinted to the street in a sentimental smack-down, just in time to rescue the swing with its baby toys on the string, guide it through the upright panels, and return it safely to the 8X9 pen,…in its accustomed corner of the storage room. And we sighed in relief.
Some things whose primary purpose has expired, are still of great worth. I just hope everyone remembers that when I’m really old.
I’ll clean out the storage room next year.
Autumn is hidden within every leaf – even when they first bud in the spring. It’s Nature’s disguise – like the arboretist’s witness protection program. Not so many hummingbirds at the nectar feeders these days. But that’s OK. There isn’t much time for bird watching right now. I’ve got Christmas shopping to do!
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
Colonoscopies and Twinkies
Prepping for a colonoscopy is an exercise in the surreal. What other medical procedure requires you to starve, guzzle industrial-strength laxatives and drink colorless, tasteless, slightly disgusting liquids in order to purge the system to the point of dessication?
The whole process must have been devised in the deranged mind of someone raised on a strict diet of Twinkies seeking to reek revenge on the whole of humanity, because he could not extract every ounce of cream filling from within the confines of that spongy, cylindrical, tubular, rubbery non-cake.
For the uninitiated, or those who have not yet reached the half-century mark – that golden age of the wazoo watch – the ultimate goal of the prep is “no caca left behind.” This is accomplished by a protocol of three brutal steps resulting in a slightly disgusting rectal smack-down.
1. total food deprivation
2. laxatives
3. more laxatives
Regarding starvation, no solids are permitted thirty-six hours prior to procedure. You may drink clear liquids, however. According to the butt Nazis, clear liquids are defined as anything you can see through. I inquired if that included pureed buffalo burger. I was sure I could liquefy it to total transparency. The tech pooh-poohed the suggestion, so to speak, declaring that if it once roamed the great American prairie and deposited cow pies in the wilderness, it could not qualify as a clear liquid. The same goes for French fries, chocolate cake, popcorn and salsa. Dang. They really take the fun out of a cleanse.
But they did say that tea and coffee without cream were just fine. Being Mormon, albeit weak and very prone to sin, this was problematic. Although the hungrier I got, the more appealing the “Born-again Bacchanalian Church” became.
However, mainlining Mountain Dew passed the smell test, and was proclaimed acceptable.
I don’t know why I always seem to begin a fast when the rest of the civilized world is either grilling steaks or baking bread. Slobbering and salivating until there was a perpetual foam pillowed around my lips all day made people tend to regard me as appearing somewhat genetically challenged.
At noon, I was to take four (count ‘em – FOUR!) Dulcolax pills – caplets so tiny they could sit on the head of a pin, and yet so powerful, they could elicit a spill that would make the BP oil disaster look like an insignificant leak.
I downed those bad boys like it was a 7-course banquet, they being the only solid thing I’d swallowed for days. At first I wondered just how much effect such itsy-bitsy medication would have. I only had to wonder 37 ½ seconds.
At 5:00 p.m., the next step in the sequence from Hades was to mix the entire 238 (two freakin’ hundred thirty-eight!) gram bottle of MiraLax with 64 ounces of Gatorade. WOW! What a cocktail! I was to swill the entire tanker while muttering a benediction over the entire Salt Lake sewer system. The potion was the equivalent of 14 doses of laxative – at once…in an entire sitting…within one hour.
Not being used to taking laxatives, I began to understand the power of the purge. Suffice it to say, I came clean.
Memo to self: DO NOT schedule an appointment with the hairdresser directly after imbibing 14 doses of MiraLax!
The directions advised going to bed at my usual time. Hmmmm. Let’s just say that laxatives and Mr. Sandman make strange bedfellows.
So many times I had been sorely tempted to fudge on the cleanse. I almost unlawfully broke my fast with, of all things, a red bubble gum ball. But no matter how deeply I looked, I simply could not see through it. My entire body was liquefied. Even my nose was runny.
But I was glad I resisted the temptation. The colon does not lie. It has to be a total colon cleanse: a semi-colon won’t do;
The morning of the procedure, I arrived at the hospital one hour early, bedraggled, parched and despondent, clawing my way on to the gurney. Colonoscopies give new meaning to the term, “advance to the rear,” – which is exactly what Dr. Daly did. She came into the procedure room looking laudably perky and adorably coiffed. In any other venue, I would have been jealous. She and I are friends (it’s wise to be on good terms with one’s proctologist!) We chatted amiably. She was noticeably more cogent than I was at that point. I was reduced to muttering unintelligibly.
Then she began preparing the equipment as I was administered some kind of “I don’t care” drug. The last thing I remember seeing was a hose the diameter of the Alaskan Pipe Line, but I didn’t care. Dr. Daly made reference to where the sun didn’t shine, and then, mercifully, everything faded to black.
Apparently, all was fine because, by mutual agreement, I won’t be returning for another 5 years. But I awoke with an insatiable craving for Twinkies.
Laxatives are harsh but effective for what they are designed to do. However, a general review of the conditions of colon cancer is enough to scare the crap out of you. Given the alternative, MiraLax wasn’t so bad after all.
The whole process must have been devised in the deranged mind of someone raised on a strict diet of Twinkies seeking to reek revenge on the whole of humanity, because he could not extract every ounce of cream filling from within the confines of that spongy, cylindrical, tubular, rubbery non-cake.
For the uninitiated, or those who have not yet reached the half-century mark – that golden age of the wazoo watch – the ultimate goal of the prep is “no caca left behind.” This is accomplished by a protocol of three brutal steps resulting in a slightly disgusting rectal smack-down.
1. total food deprivation
2. laxatives
3. more laxatives
Regarding starvation, no solids are permitted thirty-six hours prior to procedure. You may drink clear liquids, however. According to the butt Nazis, clear liquids are defined as anything you can see through. I inquired if that included pureed buffalo burger. I was sure I could liquefy it to total transparency. The tech pooh-poohed the suggestion, so to speak, declaring that if it once roamed the great American prairie and deposited cow pies in the wilderness, it could not qualify as a clear liquid. The same goes for French fries, chocolate cake, popcorn and salsa. Dang. They really take the fun out of a cleanse.
But they did say that tea and coffee without cream were just fine. Being Mormon, albeit weak and very prone to sin, this was problematic. Although the hungrier I got, the more appealing the “Born-again Bacchanalian Church” became.
However, mainlining Mountain Dew passed the smell test, and was proclaimed acceptable.
I don’t know why I always seem to begin a fast when the rest of the civilized world is either grilling steaks or baking bread. Slobbering and salivating until there was a perpetual foam pillowed around my lips all day made people tend to regard me as appearing somewhat genetically challenged.
At noon, I was to take four (count ‘em – FOUR!) Dulcolax pills – caplets so tiny they could sit on the head of a pin, and yet so powerful, they could elicit a spill that would make the BP oil disaster look like an insignificant leak.
I downed those bad boys like it was a 7-course banquet, they being the only solid thing I’d swallowed for days. At first I wondered just how much effect such itsy-bitsy medication would have. I only had to wonder 37 ½ seconds.
At 5:00 p.m., the next step in the sequence from Hades was to mix the entire 238 (two freakin’ hundred thirty-eight!) gram bottle of MiraLax with 64 ounces of Gatorade. WOW! What a cocktail! I was to swill the entire tanker while muttering a benediction over the entire Salt Lake sewer system. The potion was the equivalent of 14 doses of laxative – at once…in an entire sitting…within one hour.
Not being used to taking laxatives, I began to understand the power of the purge. Suffice it to say, I came clean.
Memo to self: DO NOT schedule an appointment with the hairdresser directly after imbibing 14 doses of MiraLax!
The directions advised going to bed at my usual time. Hmmmm. Let’s just say that laxatives and Mr. Sandman make strange bedfellows.
So many times I had been sorely tempted to fudge on the cleanse. I almost unlawfully broke my fast with, of all things, a red bubble gum ball. But no matter how deeply I looked, I simply could not see through it. My entire body was liquefied. Even my nose was runny.
But I was glad I resisted the temptation. The colon does not lie. It has to be a total colon cleanse: a semi-colon won’t do;
The morning of the procedure, I arrived at the hospital one hour early, bedraggled, parched and despondent, clawing my way on to the gurney. Colonoscopies give new meaning to the term, “advance to the rear,” – which is exactly what Dr. Daly did. She came into the procedure room looking laudably perky and adorably coiffed. In any other venue, I would have been jealous. She and I are friends (it’s wise to be on good terms with one’s proctologist!) We chatted amiably. She was noticeably more cogent than I was at that point. I was reduced to muttering unintelligibly.
Then she began preparing the equipment as I was administered some kind of “I don’t care” drug. The last thing I remember seeing was a hose the diameter of the Alaskan Pipe Line, but I didn’t care. Dr. Daly made reference to where the sun didn’t shine, and then, mercifully, everything faded to black.
Apparently, all was fine because, by mutual agreement, I won’t be returning for another 5 years. But I awoke with an insatiable craving for Twinkies.
Laxatives are harsh but effective for what they are designed to do. However, a general review of the conditions of colon cancer is enough to scare the crap out of you. Given the alternative, MiraLax wasn’t so bad after all.
Thursday, July 29, 2010
FIFA with a chance of Meatballs
I confess I haven’t always understood nor appreciated soccer. The game can be confusing and convoluted to the novice.
It is the athletic equivalent of River Dancing – rapid-fire lower appendage agility that defies the eye’s ability to track the action, while the upper body is supposed to NOT touch the ball, nor the opponent, nor the officials. But, when the camera shows a clip in slow motion, there seems to be a lot of extreme cage-fighting going on under those shin guards. This isn’t exactly a non-contact sport.
The rules are not very clear, like they are in, say, football or basketball. In those contests, it doesn’t require much IQ to spot the flagrant foul…that’s because the foulee usually requires hospitalization and an orthopedic surgeon. And the perpetrator is awarded his own reality show.
And just what is “off sides?” Many people have offered explanations, but I have better success understanding Einstein’s string theory and parallel universes.
Exactly what infractions prompt yellow cards? Whenever a ref flashes one, six guys hold up their hands in a collective gesture of innocence and claim they never laid a glove of da guy. But a review of the action in slo-mo confirms the foulee will be lucky to walk upright. These are all-out aerial assaults. The offenders could be charged with felonious cleat impalement.
The logic of any pastime is suspect when the players must line up in front of a drooling pack of Philistines, hands over crotches, while some Goliath prepares to launch a penalty kick into the net located just behind them. It’s preposterous!
And what’s with those horns??? The incessant drone is enough to warrant involuntary institutionalization of every fan in the stadium. These weapons of total ear drum annihilation are called vuvuzelas…VUVUZELAS! Honkers owe a big apology to the honkees.
Erin gets soccer…which in itself makes us question her genetic integrity. She speaks names like Kyle Beckerman, Nick Rimando, Javier Morales and Jamison Olave in hallowed tones of reverence and awe. She does not take “Spain” in vain. I sometimes wonder if her judgment isn’t a little impaired from inhaling too much second-hand jock sweat.
She shouts to her sons to, ”Mark up”! and “Beat him to the ball!” Except for the decibels, she could be the FIFA whisperer.
But then we went to Abram’s recent soccer tournament. He is almost 12, and he gets the game. In the second half, with the score 0-0, against a team of carnivorous apex predators, Abram eyed the goal, sized up his opponent, lined up his right foot, and with the precision timing of a Swiss watch, and all the planets in the galaxy in perfect alignment, he bent that ball squarely into the center of the net. VICTORY!
I went berserk! I cheered louder than all the vuvuzelas on the entire African continent. I got a red card from the ref for excessive decibels in the end zone. Suuhhhweet!!
I GET SOCCER!
On an entirely different note, I have decided that it is bad karma to by-pass any lemonade stand on a summer morning. Our family considers that tradition inviolable. Besides, there is nothing more pleasant than to raise a cup of semi-cool refreshment (I like my lemonade weak and warm) and discuss the sour economy mano a mano with these diminutive CEO’s of citrus.
There is no end of opportunities to quench the solar thirst. Every corner of every street of every neighborhood bears a lemonade stand…a fact not lost on our grandson, Carter. Being an astute observer that the prevailing market was saturated, so to speak, Carter chose to diversify. Exercising his entrepreneurial options, he decided HIS lemonade stand would sell – what else – meatballs!
Now, there are several advantages to selling meatballs. First of all, a glaring lack of competition. It’s the only game in town. Second, meatballs can be eaten by themselves OR with lemonade. I don’t know how many times I’ve been sipping the sour nectar and found myself craving meatballs.
I purchased six of these little delicacies. They were so spicy, that it required a multi-chambered stomach just to digest them. Thankfully, I’m well endowed.
Phenomenal success has fueled Carter’s plans to expand the enterprise. Tomorrow he plans to sell steaks! I’ll be first in line.
Besides goals and meatballs, we got even more good news last week. Dennis’ lab draws came back showing his tumor markers to be normal. We rejoice.
So our plans for the remainder of the summer include sitting on the deck sipping lemonade till my lips fold themselves into a perpetual pucker, eating spicy meatballs, tooting my vuvuzela, periodically shouting “Mark up!” to no one in particular…and hoping my neighbors don’t yellow card me for being disturbed.
I Love Summer.
It is the athletic equivalent of River Dancing – rapid-fire lower appendage agility that defies the eye’s ability to track the action, while the upper body is supposed to NOT touch the ball, nor the opponent, nor the officials. But, when the camera shows a clip in slow motion, there seems to be a lot of extreme cage-fighting going on under those shin guards. This isn’t exactly a non-contact sport.
The rules are not very clear, like they are in, say, football or basketball. In those contests, it doesn’t require much IQ to spot the flagrant foul…that’s because the foulee usually requires hospitalization and an orthopedic surgeon. And the perpetrator is awarded his own reality show.
And just what is “off sides?” Many people have offered explanations, but I have better success understanding Einstein’s string theory and parallel universes.
Exactly what infractions prompt yellow cards? Whenever a ref flashes one, six guys hold up their hands in a collective gesture of innocence and claim they never laid a glove of da guy. But a review of the action in slo-mo confirms the foulee will be lucky to walk upright. These are all-out aerial assaults. The offenders could be charged with felonious cleat impalement.
The logic of any pastime is suspect when the players must line up in front of a drooling pack of Philistines, hands over crotches, while some Goliath prepares to launch a penalty kick into the net located just behind them. It’s preposterous!
And what’s with those horns??? The incessant drone is enough to warrant involuntary institutionalization of every fan in the stadium. These weapons of total ear drum annihilation are called vuvuzelas…VUVUZELAS! Honkers owe a big apology to the honkees.
Erin gets soccer…which in itself makes us question her genetic integrity. She speaks names like Kyle Beckerman, Nick Rimando, Javier Morales and Jamison Olave in hallowed tones of reverence and awe. She does not take “Spain” in vain. I sometimes wonder if her judgment isn’t a little impaired from inhaling too much second-hand jock sweat.
She shouts to her sons to, ”Mark up”! and “Beat him to the ball!” Except for the decibels, she could be the FIFA whisperer.
But then we went to Abram’s recent soccer tournament. He is almost 12, and he gets the game. In the second half, with the score 0-0, against a team of carnivorous apex predators, Abram eyed the goal, sized up his opponent, lined up his right foot, and with the precision timing of a Swiss watch, and all the planets in the galaxy in perfect alignment, he bent that ball squarely into the center of the net. VICTORY!
I went berserk! I cheered louder than all the vuvuzelas on the entire African continent. I got a red card from the ref for excessive decibels in the end zone. Suuhhhweet!!
I GET SOCCER!
On an entirely different note, I have decided that it is bad karma to by-pass any lemonade stand on a summer morning. Our family considers that tradition inviolable. Besides, there is nothing more pleasant than to raise a cup of semi-cool refreshment (I like my lemonade weak and warm) and discuss the sour economy mano a mano with these diminutive CEO’s of citrus.
There is no end of opportunities to quench the solar thirst. Every corner of every street of every neighborhood bears a lemonade stand…a fact not lost on our grandson, Carter. Being an astute observer that the prevailing market was saturated, so to speak, Carter chose to diversify. Exercising his entrepreneurial options, he decided HIS lemonade stand would sell – what else – meatballs!
Now, there are several advantages to selling meatballs. First of all, a glaring lack of competition. It’s the only game in town. Second, meatballs can be eaten by themselves OR with lemonade. I don’t know how many times I’ve been sipping the sour nectar and found myself craving meatballs.
I purchased six of these little delicacies. They were so spicy, that it required a multi-chambered stomach just to digest them. Thankfully, I’m well endowed.
Phenomenal success has fueled Carter’s plans to expand the enterprise. Tomorrow he plans to sell steaks! I’ll be first in line.
Besides goals and meatballs, we got even more good news last week. Dennis’ lab draws came back showing his tumor markers to be normal. We rejoice.
So our plans for the remainder of the summer include sitting on the deck sipping lemonade till my lips fold themselves into a perpetual pucker, eating spicy meatballs, tooting my vuvuzela, periodically shouting “Mark up!” to no one in particular…and hoping my neighbors don’t yellow card me for being disturbed.
I Love Summer.
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
The Good Ole Summer Time
There is a certain enchantment about summer. Nostalgia makes us all misty-eyed for the good old days. The season has its own unique rituals and traditions that demand strict observance.
Perhaps it’s the Mark Twain/Huck Finn phenomenon that plants memories in our recollections of going bare-foot to the swimming hole every afternoon. Or maybe it’s just the rosy retro lenses of youth that make the reminiscence of seasons past so pleasant.
In “To Kill A Mockingbird,” Harper Lee describes days so hot that ladies “by nightfall were like soft teacakes with frostings of sweat and sweet talcum.” I don’t recall feeling like a frosted tea cake exactly. It was definitely sticky, but the summer heat seemed to be a gentler warm then.
I remember lazy days, going to bed late and sleeping late. And we always woke up brown and sun-bleached and freckled – the prettiness of youth.
We did a lot of bike riding, swimming, and picnics in those days before Wii games and the web. Bruises, cuts and skinned knees were healed with band aids and the dreaded ointment, merthiolate.
Summer has a taste. It’s primarily potato salad, hot dogs, roasted marshmallows and snow cones so cold, you get brain freeze just choosing a flavor.
We really didn’t have tire swings in trees or Boo Radley living down the lane, although I have grafted some of those memories onto my own collection. But I remember being scared witless by campfire stories – like “Click Shah” – that chilled our spines and give me the “wubba wubbas” even now.
And, of course, there was Lagoon. An excursion to that amusement island lasted the whole day and into the night. There were three main attractions that guaranteed thrills, spills and instant nausea…the hammer, the roloplane, and the infamous roller coaster. You couldn’t wait to get on that coaster, and when you finally did, you could re-ride as many times as your stomach would permit. Some genetically-challenged guys would ride all day long in the last car, prompting their IQ to drop several points during the course of the marathon.
I didn’t much care for the laughing ladies in the house of mirrors. They still creep me out. Nor did I like the terror ride. My particular contraption of self-abasement was the Tilt-A-Whirl. It would whirl and twirl, and I would hurl. Funny, it doesn’t sound nearly as fun now as I recall. I never seemed to remember to eat my cotton candy AFTER going on the ride.
Like Christmas, summer has its own distinct music. Just hearing the sounds and back beat, one is instantly transported into July. Besides the patriotic Seussa marches by the marching bands in the many parades, there are the Beach Boys, James Taylor, and Credence Clearwater Revival. Those old songs start playing, and I am prompted to grease myself into an oil slick and lay out on tin foil in the back yard. Of course, that was before ultra-violet rays were invented, and skin cancer was so rare, only old people got it.
Unfortunately, summer ain’t what it used to be. So far, our day-planner is smeared with appointments for surgery, dental check-ups, skin cancer screening (from too much sun bathing on tin foil in youth, I’m told) prostate exams, and a colonoscopy. Our road trips are primarily to see the next doctor. Not exactly the lazy, hazy, crazy days of summer.
Summer reading consists of instruction sheets for the latest prescription meds, privacy agreements and co-pays. And our freckles are actually pre-cancerous actinic keritosis liver spots.
The Boo Radleys in our neighborhood are wars, oil spills, terrorist threats and celebrity infidelities – definitely not the benign recluses who leave pleasant surprises in tree knotholes.
The scariest campfire stories are the headlines.
Last week I bought Necie her first pair of rose-colored glasses. She’d been asking for a pair like mine. At seven years old, they are a sparkly fashion accessory – not yet the mandatory eye-wear for adult-onset bloodshot. Sometimes she lets me borrow them. I can see clearly now.
I have decided, in spite of everything, that one can celebrate the “spirit” of summer, if not the reality. It anchors us to the integrity of the season.
It should always be 10:00 on a morning in July.
Perhaps it’s the Mark Twain/Huck Finn phenomenon that plants memories in our recollections of going bare-foot to the swimming hole every afternoon. Or maybe it’s just the rosy retro lenses of youth that make the reminiscence of seasons past so pleasant.
In “To Kill A Mockingbird,” Harper Lee describes days so hot that ladies “by nightfall were like soft teacakes with frostings of sweat and sweet talcum.” I don’t recall feeling like a frosted tea cake exactly. It was definitely sticky, but the summer heat seemed to be a gentler warm then.
I remember lazy days, going to bed late and sleeping late. And we always woke up brown and sun-bleached and freckled – the prettiness of youth.
We did a lot of bike riding, swimming, and picnics in those days before Wii games and the web. Bruises, cuts and skinned knees were healed with band aids and the dreaded ointment, merthiolate.
Summer has a taste. It’s primarily potato salad, hot dogs, roasted marshmallows and snow cones so cold, you get brain freeze just choosing a flavor.
We really didn’t have tire swings in trees or Boo Radley living down the lane, although I have grafted some of those memories onto my own collection. But I remember being scared witless by campfire stories – like “Click Shah” – that chilled our spines and give me the “wubba wubbas” even now.
And, of course, there was Lagoon. An excursion to that amusement island lasted the whole day and into the night. There were three main attractions that guaranteed thrills, spills and instant nausea…the hammer, the roloplane, and the infamous roller coaster. You couldn’t wait to get on that coaster, and when you finally did, you could re-ride as many times as your stomach would permit. Some genetically-challenged guys would ride all day long in the last car, prompting their IQ to drop several points during the course of the marathon.
I didn’t much care for the laughing ladies in the house of mirrors. They still creep me out. Nor did I like the terror ride. My particular contraption of self-abasement was the Tilt-A-Whirl. It would whirl and twirl, and I would hurl. Funny, it doesn’t sound nearly as fun now as I recall. I never seemed to remember to eat my cotton candy AFTER going on the ride.
Like Christmas, summer has its own distinct music. Just hearing the sounds and back beat, one is instantly transported into July. Besides the patriotic Seussa marches by the marching bands in the many parades, there are the Beach Boys, James Taylor, and Credence Clearwater Revival. Those old songs start playing, and I am prompted to grease myself into an oil slick and lay out on tin foil in the back yard. Of course, that was before ultra-violet rays were invented, and skin cancer was so rare, only old people got it.
Unfortunately, summer ain’t what it used to be. So far, our day-planner is smeared with appointments for surgery, dental check-ups, skin cancer screening (from too much sun bathing on tin foil in youth, I’m told) prostate exams, and a colonoscopy. Our road trips are primarily to see the next doctor. Not exactly the lazy, hazy, crazy days of summer.
Summer reading consists of instruction sheets for the latest prescription meds, privacy agreements and co-pays. And our freckles are actually pre-cancerous actinic keritosis liver spots.
The Boo Radleys in our neighborhood are wars, oil spills, terrorist threats and celebrity infidelities – definitely not the benign recluses who leave pleasant surprises in tree knotholes.
The scariest campfire stories are the headlines.
Last week I bought Necie her first pair of rose-colored glasses. She’d been asking for a pair like mine. At seven years old, they are a sparkly fashion accessory – not yet the mandatory eye-wear for adult-onset bloodshot. Sometimes she lets me borrow them. I can see clearly now.
I have decided, in spite of everything, that one can celebrate the “spirit” of summer, if not the reality. It anchors us to the integrity of the season.
It should always be 10:00 on a morning in July.
Thursday, July 1, 2010
The Family Vacation
They say the journey of a thousand miles begins with the first step. But that’s assuming the traveler is upright to begin with.
In a state of delirium, I thought it plausible to have my throat slit just prior to embarking on our “Annual Family Vacation.” As the doctor removed the stitches, he regaled my fragile psyche with graphic descriptions of this most recent surgical escapade. I went deaf right after he made reference to a roto-rooter and the Black and Decker.
As further evidence that I should be involuntarily institutionalized, I deemed it a splendid idea to visit every physician and have every annual procedure known to man done simultaneously in order not to have to worry about it upon our return. So I went to the dermatologist, the gynecologist and the surgeon.
I began the trip with an inflated pustule on my forehead so large it looked like a third eye. I had bandages reminiscent of the Boris Karloff mummy, with my eyes half closed from an anesthetic hangover making me look detached and semi-inebriated. Also, I walked just as funny as the mummy because a physician had been excavating with a tanker of Vaseline and a backhoe. I now have a new respect for oil slicks in the gulf. I caused little children to shriek and run away in terror. Unfortunately, they were my grandkids.
Thus, I hobbled to the “thousand mile” starting line in an altered state, – hallucinatory and muttering incoherent platitudes.
We commence every odyssey with the highest expectations…optimism for the possibility of perfection. Our proposed travel menu would center on low-fat, densely-packed nutrition, healthy snacks, and organic fruits. We were vegan pilgrims ready for adventure.
Fifteen minutes into the merriment, we morphed into sugar fiends, craving whisky tarts and voraciously pounding down the junk food in a feeding orgy of gummi bears, Cheetos, Little Debbies, and petrified sandwiches on concrete crusts of bread spread with stale peanut butter and primordial ooze. Our gut-glut needle went right off the gauge.
In the classic “kid need food” phenomenon, we ate succulent little snacks that could cumulatively cut off one’s air passages and strangle one’s bowel…and left a curious and vulgar aftertaste. We eventually degenerated into the culinary equivalent of licking lard out of a can…like a banquet for the depraved.
In total, there were twelve of us – The Dirty Dozen – and we were a quorum. Things went pretty smoothly, considering the general dynamics.
We attempted to structure the experience by regulating laws for the common good. Operating under the dictum that 12 clocks cannot strike at precisely the same time, certain truths became self-evident, and therefore, policies and priorities were established.
1. The fullest bladder with the least amount of control determined the next rest stop. Curiously, I ruled. The boys, however, profaned the entire rain forest as a pristine toilet that they never had to flush.
2. Incontinence trumps everything. Again, I dominated.
3. “Hurling” pre-empts even incontinence. Beckham has a familiar pattern of “burp…burp…urp!” We must always remain no more than one “burp” shy of a receptacle. This law was ratified in a small room at the Wagon Wheel Motel in Baker, Idaho.
4. Viscous nasal contents are subordinate to more pressing bodily demands. That particular territory can be secured on sleeves and tree trunks.
5. Anyone who grumbles, bleats or prevaricates shall be abandoned at the nearest rest stop and condemned to eternal exile. In a humanitarian gesture, we decided to define “prevaricate” for the kids or they’d all still be at the rest stop in Rupert, Idaho!
6. Whoever has an inkling how to get where we’re going…leads.
Maximum motion on minimal sleep rendered us witless. Gradually we all went into light-trance mode, often looking like a collection of bobble heads just off the Tilt-a-Whirl.
I realized after looking at our most recent photos, there were whole episodes of this vacation I missed. I lurked blurrily at the edges of cognizance. Dang the Propofol! Trying to maintain a neutral expression, I casually asked Dennis what happened in my “absence.” He assured me that yes, we had a good time; no, I didn’t streak the field; and my “dance of the seven veils” was a particular hit with our fellow ferry passengers. I was gratified.
One incident I will never forget. It was the day the U.S. played its scheduled World Cup soccer match. Because of the very early hour, we all got up and gathered around the TV, unshowered, teeth unbrushed, and disheveled…on this trip we were never “sheveled!” We huddled companionably in a potent tribal stink and cheered for our team. It was our finest moment.
Family vacations are singularly encapsulated, compact moments that engender a riotous expenditure of energy, panic, exhaustion, infinitesimal lapses of sanity, and deep solidarity…small pleasures, perfect moments intersected with zany comic book mania. This was no country for old men…or women. But I’ve discovered youth is a renewable resource…I was definitely “youth”anized on this trip. In point of fact, last week it was my birthday. I turned 18 once more.
In April we’ll do it all over again.
In a state of delirium, I thought it plausible to have my throat slit just prior to embarking on our “Annual Family Vacation.” As the doctor removed the stitches, he regaled my fragile psyche with graphic descriptions of this most recent surgical escapade. I went deaf right after he made reference to a roto-rooter and the Black and Decker.
As further evidence that I should be involuntarily institutionalized, I deemed it a splendid idea to visit every physician and have every annual procedure known to man done simultaneously in order not to have to worry about it upon our return. So I went to the dermatologist, the gynecologist and the surgeon.
I began the trip with an inflated pustule on my forehead so large it looked like a third eye. I had bandages reminiscent of the Boris Karloff mummy, with my eyes half closed from an anesthetic hangover making me look detached and semi-inebriated. Also, I walked just as funny as the mummy because a physician had been excavating with a tanker of Vaseline and a backhoe. I now have a new respect for oil slicks in the gulf. I caused little children to shriek and run away in terror. Unfortunately, they were my grandkids.
Thus, I hobbled to the “thousand mile” starting line in an altered state, – hallucinatory and muttering incoherent platitudes.
We commence every odyssey with the highest expectations…optimism for the possibility of perfection. Our proposed travel menu would center on low-fat, densely-packed nutrition, healthy snacks, and organic fruits. We were vegan pilgrims ready for adventure.
Fifteen minutes into the merriment, we morphed into sugar fiends, craving whisky tarts and voraciously pounding down the junk food in a feeding orgy of gummi bears, Cheetos, Little Debbies, and petrified sandwiches on concrete crusts of bread spread with stale peanut butter and primordial ooze. Our gut-glut needle went right off the gauge.
In the classic “kid need food” phenomenon, we ate succulent little snacks that could cumulatively cut off one’s air passages and strangle one’s bowel…and left a curious and vulgar aftertaste. We eventually degenerated into the culinary equivalent of licking lard out of a can…like a banquet for the depraved.
In total, there were twelve of us – The Dirty Dozen – and we were a quorum. Things went pretty smoothly, considering the general dynamics.
We attempted to structure the experience by regulating laws for the common good. Operating under the dictum that 12 clocks cannot strike at precisely the same time, certain truths became self-evident, and therefore, policies and priorities were established.
1. The fullest bladder with the least amount of control determined the next rest stop. Curiously, I ruled. The boys, however, profaned the entire rain forest as a pristine toilet that they never had to flush.
2. Incontinence trumps everything. Again, I dominated.
3. “Hurling” pre-empts even incontinence. Beckham has a familiar pattern of “burp…burp…urp!” We must always remain no more than one “burp” shy of a receptacle. This law was ratified in a small room at the Wagon Wheel Motel in Baker, Idaho.
4. Viscous nasal contents are subordinate to more pressing bodily demands. That particular territory can be secured on sleeves and tree trunks.
5. Anyone who grumbles, bleats or prevaricates shall be abandoned at the nearest rest stop and condemned to eternal exile. In a humanitarian gesture, we decided to define “prevaricate” for the kids or they’d all still be at the rest stop in Rupert, Idaho!
6. Whoever has an inkling how to get where we’re going…leads.
Maximum motion on minimal sleep rendered us witless. Gradually we all went into light-trance mode, often looking like a collection of bobble heads just off the Tilt-a-Whirl.
I realized after looking at our most recent photos, there were whole episodes of this vacation I missed. I lurked blurrily at the edges of cognizance. Dang the Propofol! Trying to maintain a neutral expression, I casually asked Dennis what happened in my “absence.” He assured me that yes, we had a good time; no, I didn’t streak the field; and my “dance of the seven veils” was a particular hit with our fellow ferry passengers. I was gratified.
One incident I will never forget. It was the day the U.S. played its scheduled World Cup soccer match. Because of the very early hour, we all got up and gathered around the TV, unshowered, teeth unbrushed, and disheveled…on this trip we were never “sheveled!” We huddled companionably in a potent tribal stink and cheered for our team. It was our finest moment.
Family vacations are singularly encapsulated, compact moments that engender a riotous expenditure of energy, panic, exhaustion, infinitesimal lapses of sanity, and deep solidarity…small pleasures, perfect moments intersected with zany comic book mania. This was no country for old men…or women. But I’ve discovered youth is a renewable resource…I was definitely “youth”anized on this trip. In point of fact, last week it was my birthday. I turned 18 once more.
In April we’ll do it all over again.
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