Let the joyous news be spread. Dennis’ weight has increased with a staggering ascent.
Yes, way!
For the past week, he has held steady at a buxom 124!! (and knocking at the door of 125!) It is only a matter of time before the door is opened, and he is embraced in the bosom of the obese.
We waited to confirm this announcement for fear it might be a false positive, an optical delusion, a figment of our fevered desire for the warm reassurance of observable, palpable pudge.
But one cannot deny the evidence. Dennis’ landscape is definitely more vast, the expanse of his terrain more sprawling. He has 48 newly-acquired, fleshy ounces that mitigate his linear alignment. He did not shrink, but he most decidedly broadened. ( We refer to this as horizontal enhancement.)
He has shed the visage of the nutritionally deprived, and has features that have morphed from specter to spectacular. Cue the herald angels!
OK, my intention is not to stretch the bounds of credulity to exclaim our rapture, but we have spent a year where the central feature of our existence is to continue to exist, and that fact of life seems to be predicated upon the accumulation of enough molecular cells to sustain life. So every precious fat cell collected swaddles his bones, and advances our cause. Ergo, we celebrate with comic-book faces of levity, and greatly anticipate the time when Dennis puts on an outfit and asks, “Does this make me look fat?”
Andre Agassi served as pitchman for some product with the slogan, “Image is everything.” I’m not sure of the veracity of that observation. Images can be deceiving, and self-images can be down-right distorted.
For instance, I have liked to think of myself as a fortress of conviction, a battleship of stoicism, an impenetrable force to be reckoned with.
I have no doubt I am capable of field-dressing some hapless creature unfortunate enough to get caught in the cross-hairs of my Physician’s Desk Reference. (See prior blog for clarification.)
I am vulnerable to “turf-toe,” the bane of all Sherpas, because my feet are on such a precipitous descent, they are jammed into the front of my single-cleat, power stilletoes designed to simultaneously impale and aerate as I stride the boundless wilderness murmuring audible projectiles.
My awesome presence emits the pheromones of the extreme cage-fighter, stealthy and lethal.
I am a vortex of energy. A carnivore. And my lipstick – “Vlad, The Impaler” red.
However, circumstance recently forced me into a cataclysmic confrontation with the perception/perceived differential which drew me off my delusional center, and made me realize I was operating from a distortion quotient of zero sum intelligence – a single mind without a single verifiable thought.
It all began last week when Ben Ballou phoned me at 7:30 a.m. in mid-sentence. If you know Ben, you know this wouldn’t exactly qualify as unusual behavior. What is unusual is that it doesn’t occur more frequently!
Ah, but I digress.
Apparently, Ben had just read an account posted on Brodi’s blog of an incident that took place several years ago. Now, Ben was actually designated to be Brodi’s brother, but serendipitously got re-routed in transit to the Ballou Family. So we always cut him some slack and give him a free pass via the insane/savant treaty between our two families.
Anyway, Ben was mortified that such an incident could have taken place. He was calling to verify. I verified. He was distraught, inconsolable, and quoted whole passages from the book I’d made him read, “The Hunter I Might Have Been.”
And when I inquired what had prompted this heinous historical re-visitation, he wailed, “Brodi’s blog!” From Ben’s perspective, it was definitely a “blog noire.”
Of course, my interest was piqued, and I instantly went to the designated blog. I was rather amused at Brodi’s chronicle. I laughed out loud at the “Bambi tale.” But I was also surprised at Brodi’s description of me. She all but insinuated that my lipstick repertoire consists only of varying shades of pastel.
Now it is true that I am emotionally ill-equipped to watch the entire animated version of Disney’s “Bambi.” I am rather vulnerable to computer-generated trauma. This may have impacted the whole doorstep-desiccation incident.
I was going to try to paraphrase Brodi’s telling of the infamous incident, but opted to include her blog account instead. You’ll see why she is our designated family griot. She is the keeper of our stories.
DEER LEGS (From Brodi)
Tuesday Dork Side status: First edition of the Dork Side (yesterday’s post) went better than expected. Only one person threw rotten fruit (I’m not naming names, Cam) But she redeemed herself when she mentioned deer legs in the snow.
What did she mean, you may ask?
Let me tell you a little story about Cam’s husband. His name’s Ben, and we practically grew up together. I was the little brother he never wanted. He was the bigger brother who used to engage in a grossly ritualistic and bloody rite of passage that most Utah boys (due to a lack of oxygen from the inversion, no doubt) have instilled in them from their day of birth.
Can anyone guess to what I am referring?
Let me preface the rest by telling you something about my mother. Insects have feelings. Fleas just want to be loved. Spiders are angels trapped in an eight-legged hairy body. The “least of these” have been did unto (does that make Biblical sense?) in my home.
Every little critter was given safe passage out onto our front porch. (Except for the random rat in our back yard. Those get squished by my Dad’s Physician’s Desk Reference, depending on the accuracy of his aim. But, I digress.)
Anyway, our little innocent Ashton Family woke up one snowy morning to find a most disturbing sight in our front yard. Four deer legs sticking out of a mound of snow. Yes, Bambi had been slaughtered on our doorstep! His body only half buried under snow, the four legs sticking straight up in the air.
After we revived my mother, we went out front to un-snow the little darling. Only, guess what. The four deer legs weren’t attached to anything! Bambi had been dismembered, and his legs had been stuck into the snow mound in our yard!
Curses, Ben Ballou! Curse your deer appendages! Now, if it had been anybody else, my mother never would have found the good graces to forgive. But this was Ben. Granted, he would soon find out he owed her a lifetime of servitude, but he was eventually forgiven. I never understood, until one day she told me she always wanted just two children: my sister, Erin, and a son!
That last sentence is a total fabrication, but the rest of Brodi’s account is fairly accurate, although that doesn’t exactly make me the “spider whisperer!” ( She did, however, fail to mention that there is a category of spider which is not extended “favored arachnid” status: crush and flush. If the sight of a spider causes the loss of sphincter control, he is extinguished in our own version of Gitmo waterboarding…he is crushed and flushed. Hey, it is what it is.
I guess it is good to see ourselves as others see us. It’s definitely sobering! But we are all connected by bonds of love and distortion, and while not one of us is an island, together, we’re a continent!
Love,
The Clot
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Sunday, January 11, 2009
WELCOME ’09!
Happy New Year, Loved Ones!
Well, the holidays have ended, but the year is just beginning. Hooray! The moisture of this past week has cleansed the air, eased the drought, and beautified the world. Looks like we’re going to have a white New Year.
What a wonderful opportunity to move forward from the past year and celebrate renewal and a re-commitment to the lovely things of this life. 2009 is barely a week old, and I have already made – and brutally broken – numerous resolutions. (Oh, the carnage!) However, I take pride in the fact that I had monumental success in keeping the resolutions I made last year…there were actually 22 on my Top Ten list. I was able to not lose weight nor gain character traits that might hold me hostage for living an exemplary life. I vowed to lobotomize my inhibitions, indulge my bubble-gum addiction, and eat jelly bellies after 9:30 a.m. and p.m. I have even driven 40 m.p.h. on freeways in spite of numerous “birds of protest,” for driving my age. These accomplishments compensate for the fact that I have not yet earned my advanced degree in rocket science. All in good time, my Pretty.
We liked the holidays a little better this year than last. Time is a remarkable commodity. It mercifully shrinks our capacity to take in all the events of this last year, and yet it has expanded our conduit to the finer, more transcendent things of life. This is all good.
Christmas Day was the usual mixture of chaos and confusion. This lethal combination produces the anesthetizing properties equivalent to a tranquilizer dart…merciful and painless. It can actually be restorative to the adults who just pulled off the biggest felonious act of unconscionable, uncompromised, and unjustified indulgence of the holiday season.
The grandkids have made the dubious discovery that their behavior during the time prior to Christmas has absolutely no effect on the amount of plunder Santa stuffs down our chimney with such relish, in spite of oft-repeated and decibel-increasing empty threats to the contrary. We spent the greater part of the week between Christmas and New Year’s performing hazardous waste management clean-up, and vowing that this disgusting display of conspicuous consumption will never again in the annals of history be repeated…and then going to all the after-Christmas sales to pick up stocking stuffers for the ’09 heinous encore.
Our New Year’s Eve celebration consisted of just the two of us. This year was a whole different animal than last year. But, nevertheless, we adhered to the strict observance of the usual traditions as in times past. We celebrated our brains out…which mercifully, of late, doesn’t take too long. Then, we retired at midnight…New Zealand standard time. (That’s just about 6:00 p.m. in the Salt Lake time zone.) This is sooo OK.
In spite of, and, perhaps, because of, suffering from the affliction known as PTHSS(Post-Traumatic Holiday Stress Syndrome), we have decided to make a fraction of the resolutions we made last year. We had considered not making any resolutions, empty promises, or commandments we really do not intend to keep, but guilt is a relentless despot, so we go on record for posterity.
So, here goes:
1. Although it seems apparent that I must live life in every insane and logically defiant episode of “I Love Lucy,” I am committed to anticipating and trying to avoid as many gratuitous “Lucy and Ethel” moments as possible. I realize this might make life a little boring, but it will also severely reduce moments of great humiliation and chagrin.
2. I hereby swear to curb my swearing…in multiples. After realizing how clean and pristine a single obscenity properly pontificated can be, (thanks, Margaret) I understand that multiples are excesses that lack creative forethought, impact, and imagination…and can lead to verbal stagnation. (The concept that less is more.) Artistic expression should never be subordinated to spontaneous, uncontrolled regurgitations.
3. I promise not to go rogue. I will try to stay on message. And I will maintain my stilletoes and mascara as my main power cosmetics. (I also plan to throw my panty hose in the political ring in 2012.)
4. We vow to reject the proverbial “golden parachute,” but we’re sinking fast. So we have altered our financial expectations just enough to reject the iron anvil and hope for some sort of miraculous magical gas…similar to helium…that will keep us aloft, but not launch us into the stratosphere! We’re thinking of petitioning Congress (that great flatulent institution) to offer us a bail-out similar to the ones provided for the Chrysler and perhaps porn industries.
We rejoice beyond expression for Dennis’ health and continued progress. We are committed to living life from miracle to miracle, something we have learned through our experience of 08. And we are most thankful for each one of our family, friends, neighbors and dear ones, for blessing and enriching our lives, and being constantly by our sides. You are truly God’s sweetest angels.
Love,
The Clot
Well, the holidays have ended, but the year is just beginning. Hooray! The moisture of this past week has cleansed the air, eased the drought, and beautified the world. Looks like we’re going to have a white New Year.
What a wonderful opportunity to move forward from the past year and celebrate renewal and a re-commitment to the lovely things of this life. 2009 is barely a week old, and I have already made – and brutally broken – numerous resolutions. (Oh, the carnage!) However, I take pride in the fact that I had monumental success in keeping the resolutions I made last year…there were actually 22 on my Top Ten list. I was able to not lose weight nor gain character traits that might hold me hostage for living an exemplary life. I vowed to lobotomize my inhibitions, indulge my bubble-gum addiction, and eat jelly bellies after 9:30 a.m. and p.m. I have even driven 40 m.p.h. on freeways in spite of numerous “birds of protest,” for driving my age. These accomplishments compensate for the fact that I have not yet earned my advanced degree in rocket science. All in good time, my Pretty.
We liked the holidays a little better this year than last. Time is a remarkable commodity. It mercifully shrinks our capacity to take in all the events of this last year, and yet it has expanded our conduit to the finer, more transcendent things of life. This is all good.
Christmas Day was the usual mixture of chaos and confusion. This lethal combination produces the anesthetizing properties equivalent to a tranquilizer dart…merciful and painless. It can actually be restorative to the adults who just pulled off the biggest felonious act of unconscionable, uncompromised, and unjustified indulgence of the holiday season.
The grandkids have made the dubious discovery that their behavior during the time prior to Christmas has absolutely no effect on the amount of plunder Santa stuffs down our chimney with such relish, in spite of oft-repeated and decibel-increasing empty threats to the contrary. We spent the greater part of the week between Christmas and New Year’s performing hazardous waste management clean-up, and vowing that this disgusting display of conspicuous consumption will never again in the annals of history be repeated…and then going to all the after-Christmas sales to pick up stocking stuffers for the ’09 heinous encore.
Our New Year’s Eve celebration consisted of just the two of us. This year was a whole different animal than last year. But, nevertheless, we adhered to the strict observance of the usual traditions as in times past. We celebrated our brains out…which mercifully, of late, doesn’t take too long. Then, we retired at midnight…New Zealand standard time. (That’s just about 6:00 p.m. in the Salt Lake time zone.) This is sooo OK.
In spite of, and, perhaps, because of, suffering from the affliction known as PTHSS(Post-Traumatic Holiday Stress Syndrome), we have decided to make a fraction of the resolutions we made last year. We had considered not making any resolutions, empty promises, or commandments we really do not intend to keep, but guilt is a relentless despot, so we go on record for posterity.
So, here goes:
1. Although it seems apparent that I must live life in every insane and logically defiant episode of “I Love Lucy,” I am committed to anticipating and trying to avoid as many gratuitous “Lucy and Ethel” moments as possible. I realize this might make life a little boring, but it will also severely reduce moments of great humiliation and chagrin.
2. I hereby swear to curb my swearing…in multiples. After realizing how clean and pristine a single obscenity properly pontificated can be, (thanks, Margaret) I understand that multiples are excesses that lack creative forethought, impact, and imagination…and can lead to verbal stagnation. (The concept that less is more.) Artistic expression should never be subordinated to spontaneous, uncontrolled regurgitations.
3. I promise not to go rogue. I will try to stay on message. And I will maintain my stilletoes and mascara as my main power cosmetics. (I also plan to throw my panty hose in the political ring in 2012.)
4. We vow to reject the proverbial “golden parachute,” but we’re sinking fast. So we have altered our financial expectations just enough to reject the iron anvil and hope for some sort of miraculous magical gas…similar to helium…that will keep us aloft, but not launch us into the stratosphere! We’re thinking of petitioning Congress (that great flatulent institution) to offer us a bail-out similar to the ones provided for the Chrysler and perhaps porn industries.
We rejoice beyond expression for Dennis’ health and continued progress. We are committed to living life from miracle to miracle, something we have learned through our experience of 08. And we are most thankful for each one of our family, friends, neighbors and dear ones, for blessing and enriching our lives, and being constantly by our sides. You are truly God’s sweetest angels.
Love,
The Clot
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
CRACKED EYES AND CHRISTMAS
Well, there are only a few spaces (two to be exact) left on the advent calendar, and the long-anticipated morning will be upon us…crushing us with joy and merriment. (The anticipation of a long winter’s nap is the only item on my wish list.)
Holidays can be so dang much fun, that often the boredom of January becomes quite alluring. Now, don’t get me wrong…I’m not Bah Humbugging the season, but there is just a little inherent stress pulling off the whole ho-ho-ho thing. And I confess that sometimes I’m tempted to cut corners…like not hanging stockings by the chimney with care, but hiding them in the attic to see if Santa can find them there.
Last week, our five-year old grandson, Carter, The Observant, looked at me in alarm. (This in and of itself is not that unusual, as many people often do the same thing!) But he said, “Grandma, your eyes are cracked!” I went to the mirror to see just what cracks he was referring to. (And I had my plastic surgeon’s number of permanent speed dial, just in case.) Staring back at me from the mirror were two startlingly bloodshot eyes. I mean, these eyes were not just cracked…they were shattered! We were both traumatized, but in an effort to reassure him that everything was OK, I said, “Oh, there’s nothing wrong, Carter…it’s just Christmas!” Carter became more alarmed than ever, and staring up at me with his lids so widely extended, they resembled cartoon eyes in the dark, he asked, “Grandma, are my eyes cracked?”
Well, needless to say, I went straight to the fridge, took out six cans of anything wet that was liberally laced with caffeine, and, after imbibing the entire contents of those (and watching every episode of the old “Andy Hardy” movies), I decided it was time to recalibrate just what we are trying to celebrate, and how the holidays should be observed. Cracked eyes are an integral part of the holidays. Now, I do not expect to look in the mirror and appear feloniously attractive, but when it requires daily triage and a tub of industrial strength mortician’s putty to make me socially presentable, and still I scare little children, I’m doing something wrong somewhere. Being recognizable, but awesomely unlovely as something I strive to achieve, I fear there is enough mounting evidence to convict me of spiritual dwarfism.
I do not think it necessary to be haunted by three ghosts during the night. (Obviously I’m the scariest thing in the house at present.) But I have given considerable thought (which has required inordinate pressure on my one firing neuron), and I have come to some conclusions. One can become a victim of progressive but imperceptible transformations that lead to a descent into the insipid and vacuous.
First of all, I think that it is possible for dense forest to obscure vision and intrude upon unobstructed views. Forests are deep, dark, musky and fragrant, and generally to be admired. But larger grandeurs can go unheeded as we are propelled through the overambitious celebrations inherent in the season. The gift of “second sight” is a spiritual and intuitive gift, often the result of trial or tribulation. It should not be rendered impotent by the tedious but irresistible.
Secondly, earthly success is not the criterion of merit, nor the measure of true greatness. Nor are acquisitions.
Finally, especially at this time of year, to accept the gift of this miraculous birth is to acknowledge the responsibility of giving something back. I intend to.
So for now, these are my holiday observations, which will influence my 22 top ten resolutions for 2009.
In the meantime, I am including a list of our favorite words of 2008, an idea I borrowed from Brodi: (I think they’ll make my “favs” list in ’09 also)
Survivor, Dr. Mulvihill, resect, fu-fu, NED (No Evidence of Disease) Whipple, Prayer Warrior, Clot, Gratitude, Zofran, “Pissy,” Family, Friends, Angels, Miracle, Love.
Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!
Love,
The Clot
Holidays can be so dang much fun, that often the boredom of January becomes quite alluring. Now, don’t get me wrong…I’m not Bah Humbugging the season, but there is just a little inherent stress pulling off the whole ho-ho-ho thing. And I confess that sometimes I’m tempted to cut corners…like not hanging stockings by the chimney with care, but hiding them in the attic to see if Santa can find them there.
Last week, our five-year old grandson, Carter, The Observant, looked at me in alarm. (This in and of itself is not that unusual, as many people often do the same thing!) But he said, “Grandma, your eyes are cracked!” I went to the mirror to see just what cracks he was referring to. (And I had my plastic surgeon’s number of permanent speed dial, just in case.) Staring back at me from the mirror were two startlingly bloodshot eyes. I mean, these eyes were not just cracked…they were shattered! We were both traumatized, but in an effort to reassure him that everything was OK, I said, “Oh, there’s nothing wrong, Carter…it’s just Christmas!” Carter became more alarmed than ever, and staring up at me with his lids so widely extended, they resembled cartoon eyes in the dark, he asked, “Grandma, are my eyes cracked?”
Well, needless to say, I went straight to the fridge, took out six cans of anything wet that was liberally laced with caffeine, and, after imbibing the entire contents of those (and watching every episode of the old “Andy Hardy” movies), I decided it was time to recalibrate just what we are trying to celebrate, and how the holidays should be observed. Cracked eyes are an integral part of the holidays. Now, I do not expect to look in the mirror and appear feloniously attractive, but when it requires daily triage and a tub of industrial strength mortician’s putty to make me socially presentable, and still I scare little children, I’m doing something wrong somewhere. Being recognizable, but awesomely unlovely as something I strive to achieve, I fear there is enough mounting evidence to convict me of spiritual dwarfism.
I do not think it necessary to be haunted by three ghosts during the night. (Obviously I’m the scariest thing in the house at present.) But I have given considerable thought (which has required inordinate pressure on my one firing neuron), and I have come to some conclusions. One can become a victim of progressive but imperceptible transformations that lead to a descent into the insipid and vacuous.
First of all, I think that it is possible for dense forest to obscure vision and intrude upon unobstructed views. Forests are deep, dark, musky and fragrant, and generally to be admired. But larger grandeurs can go unheeded as we are propelled through the overambitious celebrations inherent in the season. The gift of “second sight” is a spiritual and intuitive gift, often the result of trial or tribulation. It should not be rendered impotent by the tedious but irresistible.
Secondly, earthly success is not the criterion of merit, nor the measure of true greatness. Nor are acquisitions.
Finally, especially at this time of year, to accept the gift of this miraculous birth is to acknowledge the responsibility of giving something back. I intend to.
So for now, these are my holiday observations, which will influence my 22 top ten resolutions for 2009.
In the meantime, I am including a list of our favorite words of 2008, an idea I borrowed from Brodi: (I think they’ll make my “favs” list in ’09 also)
Survivor, Dr. Mulvihill, resect, fu-fu, NED (No Evidence of Disease) Whipple, Prayer Warrior, Clot, Gratitude, Zofran, “Pissy,” Family, Friends, Angels, Miracle, Love.
Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!
Love,
The Clot
Thursday, December 18, 2008
BIG BANG THEORY A PAINFUL REALITY
Well, in an effort to prove that good intentions pave the way to…heck, (actually, the way is less “paved” than “oiled”), I am more convinced than ever that I am being held hostage in some kind perverted sit-com. My neighbor, Margaret, and I had one of those recurring “Lucy and Ethel” moments I would very much like to attribute to “caffeine withdrawal delirium tremors” or lack of oxygen to the brain due to ascending dizzying heights as we try to summit Mt. Everest. Sadly, this is not the case.
I plan to record the incident exactly as it took place, no embellishment or “deranged dumbing down” to mitigate the graphic effects in order to maintain a PG rating. Viewer discretion is advised. And in order to protect Margaret’s privacy, I will call her, “Ethel.”
So here are the facts, in no particular order.
Recently, a neighbor of ours had shoulder surgery. Now, there is no convenient time to be incapacitated by pain, but the holidays are the worst. Ergo, in an effort to render aid to the afflicted, Margaret and I decided to take dinner in to Linda and her family. We’ve done dinners together before, with tolerable success, and, by now, we pretty much know the routine. Margaret would make the soup, and I would do the rolls and dessert. I mean, it isn’t exactly rocket science. Two reasonably bright adults could carry this off without a foreboding sense of impending doom.
We had our menu, our assignments, our designated time of arrival, and that over-all furry feeling that we were rendering service and helping lighten someone else’s burden. What could possible go wrong?
Well, Margaret picked me up right on time. She had carefully placed a large (and I mean large) pot of home-made tortellini soup in the back of her Highlander, and the aroma was so good, I enjoyed schnucking the steam up my nostrils. In fact, I had garlic breath just from inhaling second-hand condensation.
So the two of us, complete with our feast and holiday mirth, drove the few houses up to the Barker home. Margaret parked, put on her emergency brake, and pressed the button of her remote control rear door lifter. And that sucker lifted. Boy Howdy, did that door lift! Now, this is where we ran into disaster. The one and only circumstance that we had not factored into the routine, was the fact that the Barkers live UPHILL from us. I mean, WAY UPHILL! I’m talkin’ Mt. Killimanjaro uphill.
As the two of us sat there, we heard a sickening whooooosh in the back seat, and it does not require a deep understanding of quantum physics to know what was about to happen. It was one of those moments when things seem to proceed in slow motion, and one cannot get to ground zero in time to prevent disaster.
The massive tureen of soup began its precipitous descent with a downward trajectory toward the asphalt. Now here’s where it gets interesting. In perfect symmetrical synchronization, Margaret’s “SSSSSSSHHHHHHHHHIIIIIIIIIHHHHHHHHHHHH…matched exactly the length of time it took for the soup to slide out of the back seat. And the staccato “T” at the end coordinated in flawless harmony with the clatter of metal colliding with pavement. Dang! She really did herself proud. Talk about big finale! (Not to mention perfect timing. No orchestra conductor could have done better.)
The oath pierced the tranquility of the silent night like the plaintive bellow of a love sick elk in the wilderness. It was awesome.
And so we did the only thing that rational people can do at times like these…we laughed hysterically, maniacally, preposterously!
We tried to mop up the mess with my rolls. However, they were not intended for industrial waste management incidents, and it was a comically useless exercise. There was a massive oil slick that extended the length of Mt. Springs road, but curiously did not reach down to the front of our particular homes. Unfortunately, for weeks now, our entire neighborhood has smelled like an Italian restaurant run by a chef with a garlic fettish.
It was a pity that Margaret is so shockingly expletive-impaired. Had she learned the elocutionary skills I did, she could have stuffed the atmosphere with many more words and melted the snow from the street at the same time. Aaah, but I was duly impressed with the simplicity, power and timing of her chosen obscenity. I gave her a 9.9 for her dismount, and her masterful coordination of cuss and clatter.
Our impeachment as neighborhood hospitality chairmen is pending. In the meantime, we have decided to comply with multiple suggestions that we voluntarily place our names on the “marauding culinary offenders” list and register our good intentions as lethal weapons!
The Clot is currently in the midst of celebrating our little brains out for the holidays, and we have met all the demands of the dictatorial traditions that would have made Charles Dickens envious. Our place looks like the centerfold for Currier and Ives, and the adults are on the verge of nervous collapse.
But we are unrestrained in our joy that it is this year and not last…although I do admit that Christmas 2007 taught us more about the Nativity and the life of our Savior than any prior, and those lessons have continued to today.
Recently I came upon a parody of a poem that I wrote in a facetious attempt to relate the realities of the holidays, and as I re-read it, I rather thought it was fairly accurate. I include it just in case it may reflect what others may be experiencing at the start of the holidays.
‘Twas the month before Christmas,
And all through each mother’s heart,
She was counting the moments
Before the frenzy would start.
The Thanksgiving turkey
Causes mothers to smirk,
For before it’s leftovers,
We must go to work.
Yes, it’s that holiday panic
And for six weeks we’re sick,
For without some slick tricks,
There will be no St. Nick.
So armed with our plastic, checks,
And don’t forget cash,
We brave hail, sleet and teen drivers,
And to crowded stores we dash.
On sales clerks, on charge card,
On to the next mall!
Now wrap it up, wrap it up,
Wrap it up, all!
I’ve made out my list,
And I’ve checked it twice.
But NO ONE DESERVES ANYTHING,
…’Cuz NO ONE’S BEEN NICE!
Each year this old scramble
Gets progressively absurder.
My gift list now includes
Gold, Frankincense and myrrh…der!
I buy clothes, I buy bows,
I observe all traditions.
I buy flour and sweet stuff
To make sugar plums for visions.
I make out our bills,
I made out our will.
And I decorate
Till I nauseate.
I buy and I lie,
I bake till I ache,
I join choirs, build fires…
Is that the budget I just heard break?
I’m more like the Grinch
Than that right jolly old elf.
And I cry at my thigh size
In spite of myself!
Did someone else buy
More than I bought???
There’s no twinkle in MY eyes…
There’s only bloodshot!
I’m no longer merry.
Great! The tree just drooped.
I’m hassled and harried.
And I’m just plain pooped!
Yes, ‘tis the month before Christmas,
And I say with a sigh…
If I survive this darned season,
Just let me sleep till July!
Merry Christmas, loved ones.
The Clot
I plan to record the incident exactly as it took place, no embellishment or “deranged dumbing down” to mitigate the graphic effects in order to maintain a PG rating. Viewer discretion is advised. And in order to protect Margaret’s privacy, I will call her, “Ethel.”
So here are the facts, in no particular order.
Recently, a neighbor of ours had shoulder surgery. Now, there is no convenient time to be incapacitated by pain, but the holidays are the worst. Ergo, in an effort to render aid to the afflicted, Margaret and I decided to take dinner in to Linda and her family. We’ve done dinners together before, with tolerable success, and, by now, we pretty much know the routine. Margaret would make the soup, and I would do the rolls and dessert. I mean, it isn’t exactly rocket science. Two reasonably bright adults could carry this off without a foreboding sense of impending doom.
We had our menu, our assignments, our designated time of arrival, and that over-all furry feeling that we were rendering service and helping lighten someone else’s burden. What could possible go wrong?
Well, Margaret picked me up right on time. She had carefully placed a large (and I mean large) pot of home-made tortellini soup in the back of her Highlander, and the aroma was so good, I enjoyed schnucking the steam up my nostrils. In fact, I had garlic breath just from inhaling second-hand condensation.
So the two of us, complete with our feast and holiday mirth, drove the few houses up to the Barker home. Margaret parked, put on her emergency brake, and pressed the button of her remote control rear door lifter. And that sucker lifted. Boy Howdy, did that door lift! Now, this is where we ran into disaster. The one and only circumstance that we had not factored into the routine, was the fact that the Barkers live UPHILL from us. I mean, WAY UPHILL! I’m talkin’ Mt. Killimanjaro uphill.
As the two of us sat there, we heard a sickening whooooosh in the back seat, and it does not require a deep understanding of quantum physics to know what was about to happen. It was one of those moments when things seem to proceed in slow motion, and one cannot get to ground zero in time to prevent disaster.
The massive tureen of soup began its precipitous descent with a downward trajectory toward the asphalt. Now here’s where it gets interesting. In perfect symmetrical synchronization, Margaret’s “SSSSSSSHHHHHHHHHIIIIIIIIIHHHHHHHHHHHH…matched exactly the length of time it took for the soup to slide out of the back seat. And the staccato “T” at the end coordinated in flawless harmony with the clatter of metal colliding with pavement. Dang! She really did herself proud. Talk about big finale! (Not to mention perfect timing. No orchestra conductor could have done better.)
The oath pierced the tranquility of the silent night like the plaintive bellow of a love sick elk in the wilderness. It was awesome.
And so we did the only thing that rational people can do at times like these…we laughed hysterically, maniacally, preposterously!
We tried to mop up the mess with my rolls. However, they were not intended for industrial waste management incidents, and it was a comically useless exercise. There was a massive oil slick that extended the length of Mt. Springs road, but curiously did not reach down to the front of our particular homes. Unfortunately, for weeks now, our entire neighborhood has smelled like an Italian restaurant run by a chef with a garlic fettish.
It was a pity that Margaret is so shockingly expletive-impaired. Had she learned the elocutionary skills I did, she could have stuffed the atmosphere with many more words and melted the snow from the street at the same time. Aaah, but I was duly impressed with the simplicity, power and timing of her chosen obscenity. I gave her a 9.9 for her dismount, and her masterful coordination of cuss and clatter.
Our impeachment as neighborhood hospitality chairmen is pending. In the meantime, we have decided to comply with multiple suggestions that we voluntarily place our names on the “marauding culinary offenders” list and register our good intentions as lethal weapons!
The Clot is currently in the midst of celebrating our little brains out for the holidays, and we have met all the demands of the dictatorial traditions that would have made Charles Dickens envious. Our place looks like the centerfold for Currier and Ives, and the adults are on the verge of nervous collapse.
But we are unrestrained in our joy that it is this year and not last…although I do admit that Christmas 2007 taught us more about the Nativity and the life of our Savior than any prior, and those lessons have continued to today.
Recently I came upon a parody of a poem that I wrote in a facetious attempt to relate the realities of the holidays, and as I re-read it, I rather thought it was fairly accurate. I include it just in case it may reflect what others may be experiencing at the start of the holidays.
‘Twas the month before Christmas,
And all through each mother’s heart,
She was counting the moments
Before the frenzy would start.
The Thanksgiving turkey
Causes mothers to smirk,
For before it’s leftovers,
We must go to work.
Yes, it’s that holiday panic
And for six weeks we’re sick,
For without some slick tricks,
There will be no St. Nick.
So armed with our plastic, checks,
And don’t forget cash,
We brave hail, sleet and teen drivers,
And to crowded stores we dash.
On sales clerks, on charge card,
On to the next mall!
Now wrap it up, wrap it up,
Wrap it up, all!
I’ve made out my list,
And I’ve checked it twice.
But NO ONE DESERVES ANYTHING,
…’Cuz NO ONE’S BEEN NICE!
Each year this old scramble
Gets progressively absurder.
My gift list now includes
Gold, Frankincense and myrrh…der!
I buy clothes, I buy bows,
I observe all traditions.
I buy flour and sweet stuff
To make sugar plums for visions.
I make out our bills,
I made out our will.
And I decorate
Till I nauseate.
I buy and I lie,
I bake till I ache,
I join choirs, build fires…
Is that the budget I just heard break?
I’m more like the Grinch
Than that right jolly old elf.
And I cry at my thigh size
In spite of myself!
Did someone else buy
More than I bought???
There’s no twinkle in MY eyes…
There’s only bloodshot!
I’m no longer merry.
Great! The tree just drooped.
I’m hassled and harried.
And I’m just plain pooped!
Yes, ‘tis the month before Christmas,
And I say with a sigh…
If I survive this darned season,
Just let me sleep till July!
Merry Christmas, loved ones.
The Clot
Tuesday, December 2, 2008
ABSENCE MAKES THE MIND GROW FOGGIER
I cannot believe it has been so long since my last blog entry. I have some explanations, but no excuses. Somewhere along the way, I lost control of the steering wheel, and my vehicle took quite a detour.
Suffice it to say, Murphy’s Law has become a dictator of late.
To begin with, our computer was down. OK! OK! I know. That’s like saying my oven isn’t working, so I won’t be cooking. Yeah, like that’s gonna fly! It doesn’t exactly constitute a seismic shift in my daily routine. However, in order to arrange for IPS (Internet Provider Service for my geek-impaired comrades), Dennis made no fewer than 38 appointments for technicians of dubious background who pledged to arrive sometime within my lifetime (roughly between the hours of 12:00 a.m. and 8:00 p.m. on non-specific days of unspecified seasons). He then left for work in an exceedingly agreeable mood under the naïve assumption that all is well…all is well.
Well, the first two guys who eventually appeared looked like refugees from central casting for extras in the latest horror flick. Each had scrupulously ensured that no two spiked hairs on their heads or other body parts pointed in the same direction simultaneously. That must have taken some doing, because both looked like offspring of Sasquatch. Don’t get me wrong. I have nothing against spikey hair. Each morning when I drag my saggy, groggy carcass out of bed, my coif could strike envy in the hearts of every severely deranged Goth. It’s just that it was a little unsettling to be alone in the house with two guys wearing black fingernail polish and armed with drills!
I won’t repeat the monologue Dennis and I shared that evening, since some of the language was graphic and may be disturbing to younger audiences. Suffice it to say, the computer is up and running and resuming its usual distractions…and Dennis is satisfactorily apologetic. (By the way, check out my new pearl earrings!)
I also spent a week one day at Welfare Square… canning. I know. I know. The thought strains the limits of credulity. Nevertheless, it is true. My assignment was to screw the lids on jars of pear sauce. No brainer, right? I watched as the pear sauce foreman demonstrated the technique with admirable dexterity, barely able to conceal a yawn. I mean, really, how hard can it be?
The jars move in lines of four along a conveyor belt. Four women, two on either side of the conveyor belt, take a lid from a nearby box, and twist it on the pre-assigned jar. My jar was #3.
We assumed our appointed positions, hair nets claustrophobically bound to our scalps. Suddenly, the belt began to move with a jerk. I was armed with my lid in hand, ready for my pre-emptive strike in anticipation of bottle #3. It arrived. I slapped the lid on the jar, I twisted with the exact amount of foot pounds of pressure per second per second, and #3 bottle of pear sauce went merrily on its journey around the corner and out of sight. Slick. Bring it on!
Things proceeded with astonishing regularity for the course of about 3 lids, and I felt myself easing into a tranquil tedium. However, there must have been a defect in the #4 lid. It did not settle into the grooves at the mouth of the bottle as its predecessors had. In a panicked attempt to rectify the deviant, I leaned over my sister-in-law trying to readjust the miscreant lid. By that time, the next quartet of jars was coming at me with obvious sinister motive…malevolent and intimidating. I was trying to grasp a lid from a mountain of unrecognizable metal, while resuming my position on my stool, but I missed. My alarm transitioned instantly to frustration, and the cursive mutterings under my breath became curiously amplified. Before long, I couldn’t grab a lid nor even locate my #3 bottle before it rounded the corner with a vengeance. Vicki managed to salvage several of my #3’s while maintaining her unbroken rhythmical cadence by seamlessly placing a lid on each of her #1 jars. (No wonder my in-laws always liked her best!)
I feared the retribution of the pear sauce warden, but the situation was so reminiscent of Lucy and Ethel in the candy factory. It was my worst nightmare…trapped in a 50’s sit com with Lucy Ricardo and a hair net!
Of course, I started hysterically, maniacally laughing till the mascara tears blurred my vision, and several bottled quartets with steamy pulpy contents undulated in parastaltic hiccoughs past my station in mocking contempt. Mercifully the machine temporarily broke down, and we got a momentary reprieve before it was up and running again, and I
was forced into confrontation with an endless onslaught of demon Mason jars.
After an eternity (actually it was about 2 &1/2 hours) our team was replaced by the next shift. (I’m sure it was a humanitarian gesture on the part of the pear sauce warlords) But we were allowed to purchase 7 cases of the pear sauce…available only to those who had taken a shift with the cursed lids. This pear sauce is like mother’s milk to us. For several months, it was the only food Dennis could eat and retain. The stuff is like pulpy gold. My happiness to see the end of my shift was exceeded only by the joy of the entire canning staff, and I emerged into daylight staggering and disheveled…bloodied, but not bowed. (And my car was triumphantly loaded with 84 jars of pear sauce and one discarded hair net.)
I am happily retiring my hair net in the rafters of Welfare Square…at least until we finish off jar # 83!
We cannot keep count of all we are thankful for this year. Dennis actually has muscle mass ( due, no doubt, to copious helpings of pear sauce). I have been known to sleep in excess of six hours without interruption. When sleep eludes me, however, I count canning jars by fours until, by degrees, utter boredom over-takes me, and I fall into a stupor.
We will celebrate Christmas with greater simplicity…and greater intensity, and count dear friends and family as life’s sweetest gifts.
Love,
The Clot
Suffice it to say, Murphy’s Law has become a dictator of late.
To begin with, our computer was down. OK! OK! I know. That’s like saying my oven isn’t working, so I won’t be cooking. Yeah, like that’s gonna fly! It doesn’t exactly constitute a seismic shift in my daily routine. However, in order to arrange for IPS (Internet Provider Service for my geek-impaired comrades), Dennis made no fewer than 38 appointments for technicians of dubious background who pledged to arrive sometime within my lifetime (roughly between the hours of 12:00 a.m. and 8:00 p.m. on non-specific days of unspecified seasons). He then left for work in an exceedingly agreeable mood under the naïve assumption that all is well…all is well.
Well, the first two guys who eventually appeared looked like refugees from central casting for extras in the latest horror flick. Each had scrupulously ensured that no two spiked hairs on their heads or other body parts pointed in the same direction simultaneously. That must have taken some doing, because both looked like offspring of Sasquatch. Don’t get me wrong. I have nothing against spikey hair. Each morning when I drag my saggy, groggy carcass out of bed, my coif could strike envy in the hearts of every severely deranged Goth. It’s just that it was a little unsettling to be alone in the house with two guys wearing black fingernail polish and armed with drills!
I won’t repeat the monologue Dennis and I shared that evening, since some of the language was graphic and may be disturbing to younger audiences. Suffice it to say, the computer is up and running and resuming its usual distractions…and Dennis is satisfactorily apologetic. (By the way, check out my new pearl earrings!)
I also spent a week one day at Welfare Square… canning. I know. I know. The thought strains the limits of credulity. Nevertheless, it is true. My assignment was to screw the lids on jars of pear sauce. No brainer, right? I watched as the pear sauce foreman demonstrated the technique with admirable dexterity, barely able to conceal a yawn. I mean, really, how hard can it be?
The jars move in lines of four along a conveyor belt. Four women, two on either side of the conveyor belt, take a lid from a nearby box, and twist it on the pre-assigned jar. My jar was #3.
We assumed our appointed positions, hair nets claustrophobically bound to our scalps. Suddenly, the belt began to move with a jerk. I was armed with my lid in hand, ready for my pre-emptive strike in anticipation of bottle #3. It arrived. I slapped the lid on the jar, I twisted with the exact amount of foot pounds of pressure per second per second, and #3 bottle of pear sauce went merrily on its journey around the corner and out of sight. Slick. Bring it on!
Things proceeded with astonishing regularity for the course of about 3 lids, and I felt myself easing into a tranquil tedium. However, there must have been a defect in the #4 lid. It did not settle into the grooves at the mouth of the bottle as its predecessors had. In a panicked attempt to rectify the deviant, I leaned over my sister-in-law trying to readjust the miscreant lid. By that time, the next quartet of jars was coming at me with obvious sinister motive…malevolent and intimidating. I was trying to grasp a lid from a mountain of unrecognizable metal, while resuming my position on my stool, but I missed. My alarm transitioned instantly to frustration, and the cursive mutterings under my breath became curiously amplified. Before long, I couldn’t grab a lid nor even locate my #3 bottle before it rounded the corner with a vengeance. Vicki managed to salvage several of my #3’s while maintaining her unbroken rhythmical cadence by seamlessly placing a lid on each of her #1 jars. (No wonder my in-laws always liked her best!)
I feared the retribution of the pear sauce warden, but the situation was so reminiscent of Lucy and Ethel in the candy factory. It was my worst nightmare…trapped in a 50’s sit com with Lucy Ricardo and a hair net!
Of course, I started hysterically, maniacally laughing till the mascara tears blurred my vision, and several bottled quartets with steamy pulpy contents undulated in parastaltic hiccoughs past my station in mocking contempt. Mercifully the machine temporarily broke down, and we got a momentary reprieve before it was up and running again, and I
was forced into confrontation with an endless onslaught of demon Mason jars.
After an eternity (actually it was about 2 &1/2 hours) our team was replaced by the next shift. (I’m sure it was a humanitarian gesture on the part of the pear sauce warlords) But we were allowed to purchase 7 cases of the pear sauce…available only to those who had taken a shift with the cursed lids. This pear sauce is like mother’s milk to us. For several months, it was the only food Dennis could eat and retain. The stuff is like pulpy gold. My happiness to see the end of my shift was exceeded only by the joy of the entire canning staff, and I emerged into daylight staggering and disheveled…bloodied, but not bowed. (And my car was triumphantly loaded with 84 jars of pear sauce and one discarded hair net.)
I am happily retiring my hair net in the rafters of Welfare Square…at least until we finish off jar # 83!
We cannot keep count of all we are thankful for this year. Dennis actually has muscle mass ( due, no doubt, to copious helpings of pear sauce). I have been known to sleep in excess of six hours without interruption. When sleep eludes me, however, I count canning jars by fours until, by degrees, utter boredom over-takes me, and I fall into a stupor.
We will celebrate Christmas with greater simplicity…and greater intensity, and count dear friends and family as life’s sweetest gifts.
Love,
The Clot
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
GHOST OF HALLOWEEN PAST
Since it’s almost Halloween, how about a little something to raise your “spirits?” Dennis returned to work part-time after nearly a year sabbatical. (Actually, during that year, we really didn’t “sabbat.”) Only after a year’s leave, does one understand what a privilege it is to go to work, in spite of being “marked” by the precious bodily fluids that go with the territory of his chosen profession!
His patients have welcomed him back with open arms, (and clenched jaws) even though he is armed with his usual array of instruments specifically created to produce angst and discomfort in wee folk. He comes home tired but exhilarated, smiling and grateful. Returning to his practice is a pretty ambitious undertaking, but with the assistance of amazing colleagues and patients, he’s absolutely loving it.
Because his chest dimensions have been seriously compromised by the considerable physical down-sizing that has occurred of late, he may have to get a smaller stethoscope…one that doesn’t completely obscure the radius of his entire sternum. (The Latin-root medical term for this syndrome is “chestus minimus,” a condition currently affecting us both.) Actually, I think his stethoscope takes on the appearance of a large, Olympic-size medal, which is quite appropriate because, after all, he has endured a marathon of angst and discomfort. In fact, I’m thinking of having the hearing device engraved with “e pluribus unum.” Loosely translated, it means, “I da man!”
Halloween is not exactly our favorite holiday. It will mark an anniversary that haunts us still with the specter of last year’s diagnosis. However, in spite of everything, we have been planning what we ought to wear for the occasion. Dennis wanted to borrow my fake fat butt, if and when I ever felt like I was emotionally prepared to give up my “security cellulite” for a day. (I took exception to the term, “security cellulite,” as if it provided a degree of comfort that caffeine and chocolate could not!) I tried to re-channel his thinking to alternative costumes, but he kept insisting, until I was forced to confess that the fake fat butt I always wear... wasn’t fake.
There! Now, was he satisfied??? We just barely started speaking again last night! (He has decided, for the sake of the marriage, to be a scarecrow. Most fitting!)
And just when you thought the stock market was more than you could “bear,” some numbers are actually going up. Dennis’ labs are definitely bullish, (with the glaring exception of his weight.)
His patients have welcomed him back with open arms, (and clenched jaws) even though he is armed with his usual array of instruments specifically created to produce angst and discomfort in wee folk. He comes home tired but exhilarated, smiling and grateful. Returning to his practice is a pretty ambitious undertaking, but with the assistance of amazing colleagues and patients, he’s absolutely loving it.
Because his chest dimensions have been seriously compromised by the considerable physical down-sizing that has occurred of late, he may have to get a smaller stethoscope…one that doesn’t completely obscure the radius of his entire sternum. (The Latin-root medical term for this syndrome is “chestus minimus,” a condition currently affecting us both.) Actually, I think his stethoscope takes on the appearance of a large, Olympic-size medal, which is quite appropriate because, after all, he has endured a marathon of angst and discomfort. In fact, I’m thinking of having the hearing device engraved with “e pluribus unum.” Loosely translated, it means, “I da man!”
Halloween is not exactly our favorite holiday. It will mark an anniversary that haunts us still with the specter of last year’s diagnosis. However, in spite of everything, we have been planning what we ought to wear for the occasion. Dennis wanted to borrow my fake fat butt, if and when I ever felt like I was emotionally prepared to give up my “security cellulite” for a day. (I took exception to the term, “security cellulite,” as if it provided a degree of comfort that caffeine and chocolate could not!) I tried to re-channel his thinking to alternative costumes, but he kept insisting, until I was forced to confess that the fake fat butt I always wear... wasn’t fake.
There! Now, was he satisfied??? We just barely started speaking again last night! (He has decided, for the sake of the marriage, to be a scarecrow. Most fitting!)And just when you thought the stock market was more than you could “bear,” some numbers are actually going up. Dennis’ labs are definitely bullish, (with the glaring exception of his weight.)
Doesn't he look great?!! And just wait til you see his x-rays!
His glucose is 110, albumin-4.2, and his liver enzymes are good. I really don’t understand exactly what albumin is (I always thought it was some sort of spice.), or the confusing accounting system of a routine lab report. But I can gauge an upward trend by the doctors’ smiles, and today, I didn’t need a second opinion. The only number that’s down is his tumor marker – 25 – and that is very good.
Dr. Mulvihill says Dennis’ incision is looking good and still grinning happily. It has no nodules or asides. There is no edema or symptoms of diabetes or jaundice. His eyes are clear, he’s NED, and there is no pain in the ribs, back or spine.
And the Mulvihillism for the day is, “Things couldn’t be any better!” (We rap that mantra daily)
The economy may be crashing, but Dennis’ numbers are definitely our best investment. No headlines can bring us down. Sometimes the laws of gravity don’t always apply.
This afternoon we went for a walk and kicked leaves. It was a beautiful day. We accept the miracles with love and gratitude.
Love to all,
The Clot
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