Didn’t we just have Mother’s Day…last year? It’s the only holiday that seems to come around as frequently as Halloween. But Mother’s Day has come and gone. I survived. I’m not sure exactly why I anticipate this event with a lack of zeal. I understand why the term MAY DAY is universally recognized as a distress call. I’m submitting a proposal to Congress that MOTHER’S DAY would be a fitting substitution.
Actually, I don’t know any mother who really likes Mother’s Day. It isn’t even a real holiday. It’s an occasion manufactured by flower vendors, jewelers, chocolatiers and greeting card companies to suck the bucks from our pocketbooks. I’m not averse to getting a plethora of gifts. No siree. I always remind my family that they can never repay me for all I’ve done. Nevertheless, they should keep trying. But it’s all so commercial. Advertisers peddle everything from flowers to backhoes to show Mom our love. Personally, I don’t want any of that stuff. I just want to be obeyed!
I’m sure motives for contriving such an observance in the first place were pure.
But things have changed so much since then. And this is not necessarily change we can believe in. And speaking of change, I read recently that Thelma Lou, Barney Fife’s girlfriend, was robbed…right in Mayberry. She’s 83. Dang it! Things really HAVE changed. She can’t be 83. That would make me…even younger. If Thelma Lou can be mugged, WE’RE ALL GONNA’ DIE!
Ah, but I digress. Evidence of approaching Mother’s Day is ubiquitous.
Recently at Costco’s, the place was crowded with people loading baskets with plants, bouquets, women’s apparel and cookbooks.
But one man in particular caught my attention because he stood out from the throng. He was pushing a flatbed cart heavily laden with countless stacks of paper plates and reams of toilet paper. That cart was so burdened with these items, the wheels groaned under the strain. I wanted to stop him and inquire as to the purpose of his purchase. Why these items in these quantities?
Then it hit me. These were Mother’s Day gifts of truest appreciation. He was the only person in Costco who really gets this occasion. His was a graphic representation of what mothers really do – feed the gut and wipe the butt! I doubt Hallmark will put that little couplet on a greeting card. Pity.
Now, I don’t mean to seem cynical or appear as the anti-June Cleaver. But sometimes this occasion celebrates moms without really appreciating them. And all the tributes can make us misty-eyed and feeling guilty for not measuring up to all the tributes. It’s a conundrum.
I swore an oath that I would not get entangled in all the sentiment this year. I would not get tripped up by those tender recollections that close off the throat.
I attended our daughter’s church where our grandkids were singing tributes to all the mothers in the congregation. Abram and Josh sang lyrics that went, “Heavenly Father has sent me to you-wooh,” all the while making gagging gestures and rolling their eyes. In the meantime, Asher the Basher was body-slamming the kid next to him with such blunt force, the child was on the floor dazed and traumatized. The line of children trying to maintain their balance had an erratic ripple where the little hoodlum was standing. He managed to stop head butting only long enough to pick his nose.
Dennis was laughing uncontrollably, while I was trying to recall any documented cases of insanity in my family’s genetic make-up.
Usually Mother’s Day is to be tolerated, not celebrated. But this year, I observed the occasion, and enjoyed it. I have decided that childhood and motherhood are both excellent institutions. It seems the faster we go, the less time we have to spare. I’m grateful we slowed down enough to hear kids sing songs to mothers that make us laugh while it tugs at the heartstrings.
Now I will begin the new week. Things will return to normal. I’ll clean up the clutter from Sunday’s commemoration. I’ll put away the dishes, dispose of the diapers and wipe viscous secretions from noses. Monday it’s back to paper plates and toilet paper.
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
Thursday, April 22, 2010
Victory and Triumph
This past week has been one for the highlight reel in sports. Our favorite, Phil Mickelson, won the Masters Golf Championship, evidence that there is a certain cosmic justice in the universe.
In addition, we were invited to be present when Larry Miller’s jersey, # 9, was retired in the rafters of the Energy Solutions Arena during half-time at the Jazz game.
Both events had particular meaning for us.
But there’s one athletic contest that will not go down in history or even be recorded by avid sports writers. And it was the most inspiring.
It took place last Saturday. Here’s how it happened.
Necie, our only granddaughter, had a soccer game that morning, like every kid her age in the neighborhood. It is a rite of passage for children these days.
Her team, however, was decimated, due to illness and vacations. She was one player of only four. Besides Necie, there were Justice, Anna and Trevor. (No “Suzy” or “Bill” on the roster.) They were the core four, ribbons and pony tails flapping in the breeze, and smiling their first-grade, six-year-old smiles – not a single front tooth among them.
Their coach reviewed their game strategy, lined them up, and told them to play hard and have fun. The day looked promising.
Then the other team took the field. They were all boys…whose mouths revealed two rows each of adult teeth. This was obviously their first string, and the coach called them by name, like Santa’s roll call of his most infamous mutant reindeer: On Brutus! On Caius Cassius! Let’s go, Iago! Come on, Mephastophales!
I turned to Dennis and said, “I have a bad feeling about this.”
The whistle blew, and the game began. Well, the Goths moved down the field like rotweilers with distemper. Our team ran, scrambled, and fell in futility, as the ball went swift and sure to the goal. Nothing but net.
Their fans roared their terrible roar, and gnashed their terrible teeth.
This burned about 25 seconds off the game clock. At this point, all our parents and grandparents were checking their watches, praying the playing time would expire and end the merciless massacre. We still had 44 ½ minutes to go.
We all shouted encouragement like, “Way to hang in there,” and “Shake if off,” and “You’ll get ‘em next time!”
Our guys would line up again, smile their toothless grins, and try to defend against the onslaught. Twenty seconds later the ball exploded into the center of the net. Our team’s defense was as porous as their teeth.
The fans on our side collectively contorted into the fetal position, as if each goal were a personal sucker-punch to the solar plexis, hoping the groans were not audible. We averted our eyes for the humiliation.
Once more, Necie, Justice, Anna and Trevor assembled, ready to play.
After six goals in rapid succession, their coach put in their B team, calling them individually to the line: Atilla, Taras Bulba, Vlad the Impaler, and Caligula.
We watched as their goals mounted. But interestingly, for every point they scored, our team lined up ready to play again. These kids were exhausted, thirsty, sucking wind – and there were no subs on the entire planet to provide respite.
Suddenly, there was a palpable shift in the momentum – not with the players, but with the crowd. We uncoiled from our contortions and began genuinely cheering these diminutive, intrepid gladiators.
Then came the miracle. Due to some cosmic anomaly, Anna was able to kick the ball into OUR net. The crowd went insane, standing, ovating. John Stockton’s winning, 3-point buzzer-beater paled by comparison.
It was now 12-1.
The team ramped up their efforts. Necie got her mojo. She defended. She deflected. She blocked. She intercepted. She had the tenacity of a pit bull, and thwarted their attempts to score once again…or it would have been 13-1. Ha! Not on Necie’s watch!
As a supreme humanitarian gesture, the time ran out. We mobbed the team; they were nearly carried off the field on our shoulders and crowned with laurel wreaths.
In an act of consummate sportsmanship, all the parents of both sides formed a victory arc de triumph for each of the players to run through…praise and glory all around.
There were no losers this day. There was no defeat. While we did not get the victory, we got the triumph. Their team won the game. Our team won the hearts.
I learned some important things that morning. Possibly the best lessons are taught before we have all our adult teeth. Maybe it isn’t about winning and the idea that anything less is losing. “Nice try” is just that – a nice try. To conquer, to dominate, just may not be the sole purpose of competition. Perhaps reciting the Olympic Creed is more authentic than chanting “We’re number one!”
Hmmm. I pondered the possibilities.
So, in light of my new enlightenment, I have decided to declare my New Year’s Resolutions. Yes, I do know it’s April. But I cannot be held accountable for commitments made under the influence of mainlining fruit cake and the annual holiday dietary glut. Nor should said resolutions be emblazoned on stone tablets carried down from Mt. Sinai to hold us hostage.
No. Resolutions should be seasonally adjusted, becoming the servants of one’s whims and caprice of the moment. Expediency must be the guiding principle.
Ergo, with the understanding that victory is not always triumph, here are my mid-term “gonna do’s,” designed solely to bring me joy.
1. Lower the level of my discourse.
2. Drink an entire bottle of Orange Crush without pausing to take a breath and belch the Gettysburg Address.
3. Eat cucumber sandwiches.
4. Invite myself to someone’s picnic in the park
5. Attend every garage sale and farmer’s market.
6. Redefine haute cuisine to include hot dogs at the ball park.
7. Stifle the groan when I arise after stooping to wipe a grandkid’s nose.
8. Start singing Christmas carols on the 4th of July.
9. Go hang gliding…and then –
10. Have a comprehensive psychological evaluation. (If I reversed the order of #9 and #10, I’d never go hang gliding.)
We’ll see what May brings.
In addition, we were invited to be present when Larry Miller’s jersey, # 9, was retired in the rafters of the Energy Solutions Arena during half-time at the Jazz game.
Both events had particular meaning for us.
But there’s one athletic contest that will not go down in history or even be recorded by avid sports writers. And it was the most inspiring.
It took place last Saturday. Here’s how it happened.
Necie, our only granddaughter, had a soccer game that morning, like every kid her age in the neighborhood. It is a rite of passage for children these days.
Her team, however, was decimated, due to illness and vacations. She was one player of only four. Besides Necie, there were Justice, Anna and Trevor. (No “Suzy” or “Bill” on the roster.) They were the core four, ribbons and pony tails flapping in the breeze, and smiling their first-grade, six-year-old smiles – not a single front tooth among them.
Their coach reviewed their game strategy, lined them up, and told them to play hard and have fun. The day looked promising.
Then the other team took the field. They were all boys…whose mouths revealed two rows each of adult teeth. This was obviously their first string, and the coach called them by name, like Santa’s roll call of his most infamous mutant reindeer: On Brutus! On Caius Cassius! Let’s go, Iago! Come on, Mephastophales!
I turned to Dennis and said, “I have a bad feeling about this.”
The whistle blew, and the game began. Well, the Goths moved down the field like rotweilers with distemper. Our team ran, scrambled, and fell in futility, as the ball went swift and sure to the goal. Nothing but net.
Their fans roared their terrible roar, and gnashed their terrible teeth.
This burned about 25 seconds off the game clock. At this point, all our parents and grandparents were checking their watches, praying the playing time would expire and end the merciless massacre. We still had 44 ½ minutes to go.
We all shouted encouragement like, “Way to hang in there,” and “Shake if off,” and “You’ll get ‘em next time!”
Our guys would line up again, smile their toothless grins, and try to defend against the onslaught. Twenty seconds later the ball exploded into the center of the net. Our team’s defense was as porous as their teeth.
The fans on our side collectively contorted into the fetal position, as if each goal were a personal sucker-punch to the solar plexis, hoping the groans were not audible. We averted our eyes for the humiliation.
Once more, Necie, Justice, Anna and Trevor assembled, ready to play.
After six goals in rapid succession, their coach put in their B team, calling them individually to the line: Atilla, Taras Bulba, Vlad the Impaler, and Caligula.
We watched as their goals mounted. But interestingly, for every point they scored, our team lined up ready to play again. These kids were exhausted, thirsty, sucking wind – and there were no subs on the entire planet to provide respite.
Suddenly, there was a palpable shift in the momentum – not with the players, but with the crowd. We uncoiled from our contortions and began genuinely cheering these diminutive, intrepid gladiators.
Then came the miracle. Due to some cosmic anomaly, Anna was able to kick the ball into OUR net. The crowd went insane, standing, ovating. John Stockton’s winning, 3-point buzzer-beater paled by comparison.
It was now 12-1.
The team ramped up their efforts. Necie got her mojo. She defended. She deflected. She blocked. She intercepted. She had the tenacity of a pit bull, and thwarted their attempts to score once again…or it would have been 13-1. Ha! Not on Necie’s watch!
As a supreme humanitarian gesture, the time ran out. We mobbed the team; they were nearly carried off the field on our shoulders and crowned with laurel wreaths.
In an act of consummate sportsmanship, all the parents of both sides formed a victory arc de triumph for each of the players to run through…praise and glory all around.
There were no losers this day. There was no defeat. While we did not get the victory, we got the triumph. Their team won the game. Our team won the hearts.
I learned some important things that morning. Possibly the best lessons are taught before we have all our adult teeth. Maybe it isn’t about winning and the idea that anything less is losing. “Nice try” is just that – a nice try. To conquer, to dominate, just may not be the sole purpose of competition. Perhaps reciting the Olympic Creed is more authentic than chanting “We’re number one!”
Hmmm. I pondered the possibilities.
So, in light of my new enlightenment, I have decided to declare my New Year’s Resolutions. Yes, I do know it’s April. But I cannot be held accountable for commitments made under the influence of mainlining fruit cake and the annual holiday dietary glut. Nor should said resolutions be emblazoned on stone tablets carried down from Mt. Sinai to hold us hostage.
No. Resolutions should be seasonally adjusted, becoming the servants of one’s whims and caprice of the moment. Expediency must be the guiding principle.
Ergo, with the understanding that victory is not always triumph, here are my mid-term “gonna do’s,” designed solely to bring me joy.
1. Lower the level of my discourse.
2. Drink an entire bottle of Orange Crush without pausing to take a breath and belch the Gettysburg Address.
3. Eat cucumber sandwiches.
4. Invite myself to someone’s picnic in the park
5. Attend every garage sale and farmer’s market.
6. Redefine haute cuisine to include hot dogs at the ball park.
7. Stifle the groan when I arise after stooping to wipe a grandkid’s nose.
8. Start singing Christmas carols on the 4th of July.
9. Go hang gliding…and then –
10. Have a comprehensive psychological evaluation. (If I reversed the order of #9 and #10, I’d never go hang gliding.)
We’ll see what May brings.
Thursday, April 1, 2010
To Half and Half Not
I have gone on record as making a commitment to living my life half-fast. So far, I’ve been monumentally successful.
It seems to me that life is organized by halves: half joy, half sorrow; half up, half down; half yin, half yang. Most things in the world are divided in half.
Think about it. There’s:
Half and half.
Half moon.
Half Nelson.
Half gainer.
Half life.
Half time.
Half note.
Half truth.
Half mast.
Half staff.
Half off.
Half-way house.
The cup is half full.
Not half bad, huh?
Numbers are simply our way of arranging or classifying quantities. They give order and symmetry and regularity to our existence.
Some numbers don’t necessarily have to be totally accurate to be valid. We can tweak them to represent what they OUGHT to be…for instance, age, weight, cleavage.
Nevertheless, numbers have a spirit, not just a value.
Some numbers cannot be altered to satisfy vanity. They say there is safety in numbers. That’s not always true. Often numbers are riddled with danger and menace.
Blood draws are never routine. There is a tense anticipation ever-present as the quarterly date approaches. And the weeks prior to lab day are fraught with angst.
Tweaking these numbers would serve no purpose. Their reality is stark and immutable. One single numerical value may alter a lifetime.
So we just don’t think about it. This year we went to Palm Springs to watch the tennis matches and celebrate our anniversary…and didn’t think about it. We clean the house and grocery shop and go through our day not thinking about it. Every minute we are acutely aware of what we’re not thinking about.
Blood work is like the body’s Rosetta Stone. The equations yield vital information. Some results can be good. But like the head of Medussa, some numbers can turn you to stone just looking at them.
Thursday morning, Dennis met with the phlebotomist, who congenially sucked out multiple vials of the liquid. (Funny how perky people can be on the other end of the needle.) When the draw concluded, we left…and the wait began.
It’s an ironic predicament expecting that telephone to ring - the apprehension and the hope - knowing the results will determine which diverging road we will be going down. It’s a little like walking on a high wire – simply taking a breath could disrupt equilibrium and send one tumbling into free fall.
That night Dr. Jones finally called to say the lab results showed Dennis’ numbers to be totally normal – especially his tumor markers. Normal. All he could say was, “Unbelievable!” Neither of us could move. We stood like cement casts…our brains sending messages to bodily appendages with no response.
Friday Dr. Mulvihill ratified those results with an enthusiastic examination of Dennis’ central domain. And after a thorough review of all the digits, he issued him a clean bill of health. Furthermore, he said that at this juncture, statistically speaking, it is more likely the cancer will NOT recur, than that it will. “51-49.” The cup is more than half full, and since it is our policy to round up, our cup runneth over. We’ve been given half a chance. Good Friday came a week early this year.
Now, we know we’re not out of the woods yet, but…
“The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But we have promises to keep,
And miles to go before we sleep…”
Our car drove home like a hovercraft. I don’t recall the wheels touching the road. And that night we slept more peacefully than we have of late.
We are buoyant. There’s such a sense of renewal.
We will celebrate Easter…all year…and live the life we have fought so hard for.
Nuri Al-Maliki, the Iraqi Prime Minister, said, “The beautiful days in life come after fatigue and difficulties. The difficult labor produces a more beloved result.” Amen.
It seems to me that life is organized by halves: half joy, half sorrow; half up, half down; half yin, half yang. Most things in the world are divided in half.
Think about it. There’s:
Half and half.
Half moon.
Half Nelson.
Half gainer.
Half life.
Half time.
Half note.
Half truth.
Half mast.
Half staff.
Half off.
Half-way house.
The cup is half full.
Not half bad, huh?
Numbers are simply our way of arranging or classifying quantities. They give order and symmetry and regularity to our existence.
Some numbers don’t necessarily have to be totally accurate to be valid. We can tweak them to represent what they OUGHT to be…for instance, age, weight, cleavage.
Nevertheless, numbers have a spirit, not just a value.
Some numbers cannot be altered to satisfy vanity. They say there is safety in numbers. That’s not always true. Often numbers are riddled with danger and menace.
Blood draws are never routine. There is a tense anticipation ever-present as the quarterly date approaches. And the weeks prior to lab day are fraught with angst.
Tweaking these numbers would serve no purpose. Their reality is stark and immutable. One single numerical value may alter a lifetime.
So we just don’t think about it. This year we went to Palm Springs to watch the tennis matches and celebrate our anniversary…and didn’t think about it. We clean the house and grocery shop and go through our day not thinking about it. Every minute we are acutely aware of what we’re not thinking about.
Blood work is like the body’s Rosetta Stone. The equations yield vital information. Some results can be good. But like the head of Medussa, some numbers can turn you to stone just looking at them.
Thursday morning, Dennis met with the phlebotomist, who congenially sucked out multiple vials of the liquid. (Funny how perky people can be on the other end of the needle.) When the draw concluded, we left…and the wait began.
It’s an ironic predicament expecting that telephone to ring - the apprehension and the hope - knowing the results will determine which diverging road we will be going down. It’s a little like walking on a high wire – simply taking a breath could disrupt equilibrium and send one tumbling into free fall.
That night Dr. Jones finally called to say the lab results showed Dennis’ numbers to be totally normal – especially his tumor markers. Normal. All he could say was, “Unbelievable!” Neither of us could move. We stood like cement casts…our brains sending messages to bodily appendages with no response.
Friday Dr. Mulvihill ratified those results with an enthusiastic examination of Dennis’ central domain. And after a thorough review of all the digits, he issued him a clean bill of health. Furthermore, he said that at this juncture, statistically speaking, it is more likely the cancer will NOT recur, than that it will. “51-49.” The cup is more than half full, and since it is our policy to round up, our cup runneth over. We’ve been given half a chance. Good Friday came a week early this year.
Now, we know we’re not out of the woods yet, but…
“The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But we have promises to keep,
And miles to go before we sleep…”
Our car drove home like a hovercraft. I don’t recall the wheels touching the road. And that night we slept more peacefully than we have of late.
We are buoyant. There’s such a sense of renewal.
We will celebrate Easter…all year…and live the life we have fought so hard for.
Nuri Al-Maliki, the Iraqi Prime Minister, said, “The beautiful days in life come after fatigue and difficulties. The difficult labor produces a more beloved result.” Amen.
Friday, March 12, 2010
Half Fast
It seems to me we are a society obsessed with velocity. We only have to look at the contemporary catch-phrases to prove my point.
Consider the following:
1. haste makes waste
2. make hasty decisions
3. life in the fast lane
4. rat race
5. speeding bullet
6. warp speed
7. full steam ahead
8. the runs
9. quick sale
10. rapid fire
And don’t even get me started on “rush.” We have rush hour, the Christmas rush, the caffeine rush to jump-start the morning…and of course, Rush Limbaugh, the motor mouth of talk radio.
We propel ourselves through traffic and through life as if our whole mortal existence were like the chariot races in “Ben Hur.”
We jump in the shower, throw on our clothes, race to I-HOP for a cuppa joe, before running errands. We rush to In ‘n Out and get our order “to go,” and we demand that everything be done yesterday.
And the saints preserve the driver foolish enough to go the speed limit! The grill guerillas and trunk huggers tailgate so closely, you can smell the garlic on their breath over your shoulder.
Is no one languid any more? Wouldn’t Superman still be a hero if he shambled to the rescue?
Can’t we all take our shoulder from the wheel and just mosey along?
Would the world stop spinning on its axis if we slackened the pace just a skosh?
Today we are heading to California for the annual tennis tournament. We will race to the parking lot, shuttle to the terminal, hurry through security, hop on the plane, fly faster than the speed of sound, and drive in the fast lane to Palm Springs to watch the world’s elite players slam missiles at one another. And Rafa will serve balls that are only a furry blur in the atmosphere as he adjusts his jock strap simultaneously.
But when I arrive, I plan to mosey to my seat in the bleachers, and relax my thighs so much, they ooze down the planks like butter off a hot biscuit. If I get the intestinal flu, my only symptom will be “the struts.” My main mode of travel will be by dawdle, the delayed amble, perhaps a meander or two.
For one brief shining moment, I plan to cut my speed in half…and live life half-fast. I am going to kick down the cobblestones, and let the morningtime drop all its petals on me.
Consider the following:
1. haste makes waste
2. make hasty decisions
3. life in the fast lane
4. rat race
5. speeding bullet
6. warp speed
7. full steam ahead
8. the runs
9. quick sale
10. rapid fire
And don’t even get me started on “rush.” We have rush hour, the Christmas rush, the caffeine rush to jump-start the morning…and of course, Rush Limbaugh, the motor mouth of talk radio.
We propel ourselves through traffic and through life as if our whole mortal existence were like the chariot races in “Ben Hur.”
We jump in the shower, throw on our clothes, race to I-HOP for a cuppa joe, before running errands. We rush to In ‘n Out and get our order “to go,” and we demand that everything be done yesterday.
And the saints preserve the driver foolish enough to go the speed limit! The grill guerillas and trunk huggers tailgate so closely, you can smell the garlic on their breath over your shoulder.
Is no one languid any more? Wouldn’t Superman still be a hero if he shambled to the rescue?
Can’t we all take our shoulder from the wheel and just mosey along?
Would the world stop spinning on its axis if we slackened the pace just a skosh?
Today we are heading to California for the annual tennis tournament. We will race to the parking lot, shuttle to the terminal, hurry through security, hop on the plane, fly faster than the speed of sound, and drive in the fast lane to Palm Springs to watch the world’s elite players slam missiles at one another. And Rafa will serve balls that are only a furry blur in the atmosphere as he adjusts his jock strap simultaneously.
But when I arrive, I plan to mosey to my seat in the bleachers, and relax my thighs so much, they ooze down the planks like butter off a hot biscuit. If I get the intestinal flu, my only symptom will be “the struts.” My main mode of travel will be by dawdle, the delayed amble, perhaps a meander or two.
For one brief shining moment, I plan to cut my speed in half…and live life half-fast. I am going to kick down the cobblestones, and let the morningtime drop all its petals on me.
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Seems Like Old Times
Sometimes life hurtles by with such velocity, it seems as if it were some sort of perplexing Olympic luge run. Case in point…I’m somebody’s grandma. How did THAT happen??!!!
It takes guts to be a grandma – guts, and a healthy self-esteem that is a permanent resident in a state of denial.
I make this observation, because just recently, our only granddaughter, Necie, accused me of being old. I was astonished…mortified. Every one of my varicose veins quivered with indignity. Of course, I immediately enshrouded myself in said denial and bellowed, “I am NOT OLD! Why do you say I’m old???” She replied with all the logic of a six-year-old, “You’re a grandma. And grandmas are old.”
Boy Howdy! What are the penalties in the after-life for excessive blaspheming under one’s chins, in the presence of a minor?
I patiently tried to explain to her that I was a grandma by the accidental reality of her birth. She lives…therefore, I am…a grandma. That does not exactly qualify me as the next candidate for extermination by the euthanasia squad. Had she not been the natural by-product of a happy “oops,” I would not even BE a grandma, and, therefore, “old!” (With the notable exception of our five grandsons. I wonder if age compounds itself with each successive birth. Hmmmmm…) Necie looked skeptical.
Well, I had just plucked my unibrow, and was ready for confrontation. To bolster my case, I presented some rational questions for her consideration:
1. Do old people have NATURALLY FLAXEN HAIR…(that only needs a total platinum overhaul once every 4-6 weeks)? Huh?
2. Do old people roller blade, ice skate and bike ride (albeit at a glacial pace due to air drag) with only the occasional rest stop because one is sucking wind or needs to re-wrap the arthritic knees?
3. I ask you, do old people dress up to such an extent that RuPaul is usurped as reigning drag queen just to have tea parties with granddaughters? Think about it.
4. Do old people carry a bagful of bubble gum in their purse that is furry with Kleenex fluff, and then chew more wads than the grand kids?...with considerably fewer teeth? YOU CALL THAT OLD? Wassa matta witchu, Sistah?
Geez, the whole thing made me want to toss back a glass of prune juice, don my Depends, and take to my bed.
Why can’t youth see things through the eyes of age? Logic is not always the clearest lense. Life demands discriminating distortion.
Now, I concede that Mother Nature can be brutal. The passing years inflict little indignities that accumulate in a conspiracy of cruelty that makes us SEEM old to eyes that have seen the earth rotate on its axis only six times. That does not translate to OLD!
I still say Thomas Wolfe was wrong. You not only CAN go home again, you can go back to high school! I know. I did it just last week.
I got together with some old (“old” being figurative) friends and reminisced for several hours about days gone by. The years melted away into viscous puddles of nostalgia and cellulite, as our conversation resembled a simultaneous filibuster. There are potent endorphins in memory. And nobody had changed. We all looked exactly the same…sort of. However, after reviewing the inventories of our combined radical organectomies, we concluded we were only half the women we used to be.
I don’t believe that any woman actually ages beyond 18, in spite of empirical evidence to the contrary. Carbon dating can verify that. We reach that number, and hunker down forever. We all recall like it was yesterday the time when the only thing that needed plucking was our eyebrows. Now, they are the single item on our inventories of hair that exists only in memory. Polite society demands we shave, pluck, and wax our way up from our ankles to our hair line. Every woman owns a pair of Geezer’s Tweezers to remove any pitiful outgrowth from any pitiful orifice failing eyesight can detect. The outrage is that we can still sprout the rogue zit.
Yes, those were the days when it was not necessary to accuse every mirror of having a “fat” defect, or the scale of being in open conflict with the international registry of weights and measures. We had shampoo-commercial hair, and could actually leave the house without waiting for the Metamucil to kick in. Our goals did not include liposuction, nor did we rely on the jello-and-an-enema diet to lose those few vanity pounds. We could sneeze and laugh without panty liners.
We were the mini-skirt generation, with svelte figures that could wear blue velvet and itsy, bitsy, teeny, weeny bikinis and not be arrested for felonious butt flab. Nowdays, due to excessively quivering thigh flesh, and gluteuses (glutei?) that are slightly more maximus, we’re all into “burqa couture.” We’re less chiseled… more serrated. Mercifully, we’re not part of the “pants on the ground” generation…unmercifully, that’s where our boobs are. Our collective centers of gravity have spiraled downward.
I wish the world were a little more more dyslexic…the megapixels of memory can see clearly, but with a kinder, gentler focus. Being among friends of a lifetime makes me realize that no woman is over 18, and no grandma is old. Friendship is a powerful narcotic. We put the “youth” in euthanasia.
I cannot impart that particular wisdom to Necie until she is much older and a grandma herself. She keeps reminding me I’ll be dead by then. No doubt. But my obit will proclaim I passed away prematurely – at age 18. In the meantime, I cocooned her in my arm flab and warmed her with a hot flash. She snuggled down into her favorite solar plexus sink hole as I explained that when she reaches her 18th year of perpetuity, she, too, will understand the complexities of marking out one’s life in female years. Why, we can trace our evolutionary chain clear back to Eve, who died at 18 after 930 years of prolific begetting, multiplying and suckling. Necie listened, while she lazily swatted at my neck wattles as if shooing flies on a summer afternoon. Her small body fits comfortably into all the folds and pockets so generously provided by Mother Nature as a special gift to grandmas who are old. I guess in that respect, I’m well endowed.
All in all, I’m quite content straddling the fine line of youth and age. Lengthening daylight means I don’t don the old “Minnie Mouse” until AFTER the 5:30 news… I am approaching Spring, not Autumn.
Perhaps granddaughters are our best reality check. But nostalgia trumps reality. In June, I’ll turn 18 again. And for the time being, I plan to pluck my big toes, get a pedicure, paint my nails Pepto Bismol pink, and raise a glass of Fleet’s to old times.
It takes guts to be a grandma – guts, and a healthy self-esteem that is a permanent resident in a state of denial.
I make this observation, because just recently, our only granddaughter, Necie, accused me of being old. I was astonished…mortified. Every one of my varicose veins quivered with indignity. Of course, I immediately enshrouded myself in said denial and bellowed, “I am NOT OLD! Why do you say I’m old???” She replied with all the logic of a six-year-old, “You’re a grandma. And grandmas are old.”
Boy Howdy! What are the penalties in the after-life for excessive blaspheming under one’s chins, in the presence of a minor?
I patiently tried to explain to her that I was a grandma by the accidental reality of her birth. She lives…therefore, I am…a grandma. That does not exactly qualify me as the next candidate for extermination by the euthanasia squad. Had she not been the natural by-product of a happy “oops,” I would not even BE a grandma, and, therefore, “old!” (With the notable exception of our five grandsons. I wonder if age compounds itself with each successive birth. Hmmmmm…) Necie looked skeptical.
Well, I had just plucked my unibrow, and was ready for confrontation. To bolster my case, I presented some rational questions for her consideration:
1. Do old people have NATURALLY FLAXEN HAIR…(that only needs a total platinum overhaul once every 4-6 weeks)? Huh?
2. Do old people roller blade, ice skate and bike ride (albeit at a glacial pace due to air drag) with only the occasional rest stop because one is sucking wind or needs to re-wrap the arthritic knees?
3. I ask you, do old people dress up to such an extent that RuPaul is usurped as reigning drag queen just to have tea parties with granddaughters? Think about it.
4. Do old people carry a bagful of bubble gum in their purse that is furry with Kleenex fluff, and then chew more wads than the grand kids?...with considerably fewer teeth? YOU CALL THAT OLD? Wassa matta witchu, Sistah?
Geez, the whole thing made me want to toss back a glass of prune juice, don my Depends, and take to my bed.
Why can’t youth see things through the eyes of age? Logic is not always the clearest lense. Life demands discriminating distortion.
Now, I concede that Mother Nature can be brutal. The passing years inflict little indignities that accumulate in a conspiracy of cruelty that makes us SEEM old to eyes that have seen the earth rotate on its axis only six times. That does not translate to OLD!
I still say Thomas Wolfe was wrong. You not only CAN go home again, you can go back to high school! I know. I did it just last week.
I got together with some old (“old” being figurative) friends and reminisced for several hours about days gone by. The years melted away into viscous puddles of nostalgia and cellulite, as our conversation resembled a simultaneous filibuster. There are potent endorphins in memory. And nobody had changed. We all looked exactly the same…sort of. However, after reviewing the inventories of our combined radical organectomies, we concluded we were only half the women we used to be.
I don’t believe that any woman actually ages beyond 18, in spite of empirical evidence to the contrary. Carbon dating can verify that. We reach that number, and hunker down forever. We all recall like it was yesterday the time when the only thing that needed plucking was our eyebrows. Now, they are the single item on our inventories of hair that exists only in memory. Polite society demands we shave, pluck, and wax our way up from our ankles to our hair line. Every woman owns a pair of Geezer’s Tweezers to remove any pitiful outgrowth from any pitiful orifice failing eyesight can detect. The outrage is that we can still sprout the rogue zit.
Yes, those were the days when it was not necessary to accuse every mirror of having a “fat” defect, or the scale of being in open conflict with the international registry of weights and measures. We had shampoo-commercial hair, and could actually leave the house without waiting for the Metamucil to kick in. Our goals did not include liposuction, nor did we rely on the jello-and-an-enema diet to lose those few vanity pounds. We could sneeze and laugh without panty liners.
We were the mini-skirt generation, with svelte figures that could wear blue velvet and itsy, bitsy, teeny, weeny bikinis and not be arrested for felonious butt flab. Nowdays, due to excessively quivering thigh flesh, and gluteuses (glutei?) that are slightly more maximus, we’re all into “burqa couture.” We’re less chiseled… more serrated. Mercifully, we’re not part of the “pants on the ground” generation…unmercifully, that’s where our boobs are. Our collective centers of gravity have spiraled downward.
I wish the world were a little more more dyslexic…the megapixels of memory can see clearly, but with a kinder, gentler focus. Being among friends of a lifetime makes me realize that no woman is over 18, and no grandma is old. Friendship is a powerful narcotic. We put the “youth” in euthanasia.
I cannot impart that particular wisdom to Necie until she is much older and a grandma herself. She keeps reminding me I’ll be dead by then. No doubt. But my obit will proclaim I passed away prematurely – at age 18. In the meantime, I cocooned her in my arm flab and warmed her with a hot flash. She snuggled down into her favorite solar plexus sink hole as I explained that when she reaches her 18th year of perpetuity, she, too, will understand the complexities of marking out one’s life in female years. Why, we can trace our evolutionary chain clear back to Eve, who died at 18 after 930 years of prolific begetting, multiplying and suckling. Necie listened, while she lazily swatted at my neck wattles as if shooing flies on a summer afternoon. Her small body fits comfortably into all the folds and pockets so generously provided by Mother Nature as a special gift to grandmas who are old. I guess in that respect, I’m well endowed.
All in all, I’m quite content straddling the fine line of youth and age. Lengthening daylight means I don’t don the old “Minnie Mouse” until AFTER the 5:30 news… I am approaching Spring, not Autumn.
Perhaps granddaughters are our best reality check. But nostalgia trumps reality. In June, I’ll turn 18 again. And for the time being, I plan to pluck my big toes, get a pedicure, paint my nails Pepto Bismol pink, and raise a glass of Fleet’s to old times.
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
Two Years and Counting
January 31st is a date particularly momentous to our family. It is the two-year anniversary of Dennis’ surgery, The Whipple. We use capitalize letters, not to deify it, but because that procedure is a very proper noun. Our experience in general, and this day in particular, have been our Yale and Harvard.
Ordinarily, we would acknowledge the occasion and allow the day to slip quietly into the past. But it must be duly noted. It was a pivotal moment then, and has gained greater propriety now. This second anniversary presents a statistical shift in the landscape. From this point forward, the numbers become, if not kind, at least less unkind. The chance the cancer will recur drops dramatically. Now, the over-all odds are still arrestingly wretched, but two steps ahead and one step back is still progress.
I can chronicle the events of this episode, but not necessarily capture its soul. It is good to be free of bondage to the ghosts of past adversity. But it is not an easy task to revisit that day, nor re-live it.
However, if history makes men, men can also make history. One must look back before moving forward. So, here goes.
The Whipple operation (or pancreaticoduoemenctomy) is generally regarded as one of the most extreme surgical procedures in medicine. This complex abdominal operation is performed on a limited number of patients with cancers involving the pancreas, duodenum, and bile duct. It is not to be entered into without a great deal of thought. Not doing it is unthinkable.
Strangely, on that morning two years ago, I was not filled with dread or anguish. I was confident Dr. Mulvihill had not only the skill for this exquisitely precise operation, but a fierce determination. He was going to battle, armed and dangerous.
While Dennis was being prepped, Dr. Mulvihill reviewed what was about to take place with lavish and mind-numbing detail. He presented an auspicious inventory of every possible contingency that might arise during the course of the next 9-10 hours, and an equally ponderous list of preparations for every conceivable scenario – including buckets of blood for hemorrhage and “harvesting” body parts should the need arise. If his intention was to ensure we were clear on the concept…mission accomplished!
Dr. Mulvihill did not mitigate the peril, but I found this oddly comforting. Obviously,
neither of us likes surprises. These were the times that tried our souls. We had to confront the realities before we could deal with them. The Whipple was our only hope.
The truth was stark and sobering, but it helped us maintain our equilibrium. There was a curious solidarity within that pre-op huddle.
As Dennis was wheeled into the operation room, we watched an enthusiastic Dr. Mulvihill nearly sprinting, in spite of his cane and broken leg, eager to get this procedure under way.
When those doors closed, I felt a certain peace, assured there were multitudes surrounding us all, buoying us up.
The hours of that day passed, but we had no sense of time. At one point, Dr. Mulvihill came out to report he had achieved three negative margins. However, because the tumor was wrapped around and attached to a vital artery, that final margin was elusive, and he had to proceed with extreme caution. Nicking that vessel would be lethal.
Such a situation would have exceeded the expertise of most surgeons. But Dr. Mulvihill delicately continued to peel away malignant tissue the width of an onion skin, until the lab results returned and revealed no evidence of cancer. He got the final negative margin.
Ancient scripture tells us the world was created in six days. Then came the Sabbath, a day specifically designed for rest from the labors of the prior week, and preparation for the week to come.
And then Monday dawned – the first day of the rest of eternity – a day of promise, opportunity, inspiration, pristine possibility.
January 31st 2008 closed for us with four negative margins…and Dennis in Recovery. The world had not changed…only our perception of it. I don’t know the exact calendar date of that first Monday following The Creation, but I like to think it was February 1st.
Love,
The Clot
Ordinarily, we would acknowledge the occasion and allow the day to slip quietly into the past. But it must be duly noted. It was a pivotal moment then, and has gained greater propriety now. This second anniversary presents a statistical shift in the landscape. From this point forward, the numbers become, if not kind, at least less unkind. The chance the cancer will recur drops dramatically. Now, the over-all odds are still arrestingly wretched, but two steps ahead and one step back is still progress.
I can chronicle the events of this episode, but not necessarily capture its soul. It is good to be free of bondage to the ghosts of past adversity. But it is not an easy task to revisit that day, nor re-live it.
However, if history makes men, men can also make history. One must look back before moving forward. So, here goes.
The Whipple operation (or pancreaticoduoemenctomy) is generally regarded as one of the most extreme surgical procedures in medicine. This complex abdominal operation is performed on a limited number of patients with cancers involving the pancreas, duodenum, and bile duct. It is not to be entered into without a great deal of thought. Not doing it is unthinkable.
Strangely, on that morning two years ago, I was not filled with dread or anguish. I was confident Dr. Mulvihill had not only the skill for this exquisitely precise operation, but a fierce determination. He was going to battle, armed and dangerous.
While Dennis was being prepped, Dr. Mulvihill reviewed what was about to take place with lavish and mind-numbing detail. He presented an auspicious inventory of every possible contingency that might arise during the course of the next 9-10 hours, and an equally ponderous list of preparations for every conceivable scenario – including buckets of blood for hemorrhage and “harvesting” body parts should the need arise. If his intention was to ensure we were clear on the concept…mission accomplished!
Dr. Mulvihill did not mitigate the peril, but I found this oddly comforting. Obviously,
neither of us likes surprises. These were the times that tried our souls. We had to confront the realities before we could deal with them. The Whipple was our only hope.
The truth was stark and sobering, but it helped us maintain our equilibrium. There was a curious solidarity within that pre-op huddle.
As Dennis was wheeled into the operation room, we watched an enthusiastic Dr. Mulvihill nearly sprinting, in spite of his cane and broken leg, eager to get this procedure under way.
When those doors closed, I felt a certain peace, assured there were multitudes surrounding us all, buoying us up.
The hours of that day passed, but we had no sense of time. At one point, Dr. Mulvihill came out to report he had achieved three negative margins. However, because the tumor was wrapped around and attached to a vital artery, that final margin was elusive, and he had to proceed with extreme caution. Nicking that vessel would be lethal.
Such a situation would have exceeded the expertise of most surgeons. But Dr. Mulvihill delicately continued to peel away malignant tissue the width of an onion skin, until the lab results returned and revealed no evidence of cancer. He got the final negative margin.
Ancient scripture tells us the world was created in six days. Then came the Sabbath, a day specifically designed for rest from the labors of the prior week, and preparation for the week to come.
And then Monday dawned – the first day of the rest of eternity – a day of promise, opportunity, inspiration, pristine possibility.
January 31st 2008 closed for us with four negative margins…and Dennis in Recovery. The world had not changed…only our perception of it. I don’t know the exact calendar date of that first Monday following The Creation, but I like to think it was February 1st.
Love,
The Clot
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
Blueprint for the Decade
The New Year is barely two weeks old. Dennis and I are putting the finishing touches on our blueprint in anticipation of the next dozen months. Our goal is to shape them before they can shape us. (Of course, this may involve thought capability with greater intellect than a TV test pattern, but we’re up for the challenge.)
January is a splendid time for quiet reflection following the high-octane holidays. Extremely excessive mirth-making engenders centrifugal-force fatigue. There is something slightly diabolical about a six-week stretch of gluttony, insomnia and unmitigated jolliness.
So, we are dedicating this drowsy month to ordering the “Yonder, matter unorganized.” I crave a grid on my life. I want right angles in my brain. I need thoughts that intersect with rationale at 90 degrees. I demand cosmic harmony and all the planets in alignment. Is that so wrong?
I suppose this entails making a catalog of resolutions for self-improvement, but honestly, I’m SICK of lists I have to check twice. I don’t care whether, at this point, I’m naughty or nice. Besides, I have rationalized that resolutions are for megalomaniacs, whose whole point in life is the quest for perfection. Tempus fugit. I haven’t got time to wait for perfection. So, I am renouncing narcissism. I no longer want to focus on fixing me. I want to fix the world…a much simpler task.
Where do I begin? Take mass media…please. Talk about the land of the wee-brained, barely conscious nit wits. Gossip is confused with news. Human beings are regarded as entertainment, and megalomaniacal (there’s that word again), ethically-regressing celebrities determine our thoughts, our behavior, our looks. “Celebrity” is an art form with its own toxic karma.
However, I do confess to the guilty pleasure of watching Rod Blagojevich, Simon Cowell, Mark McGuire, Richard Heene, Tiger Woods, and the whole 2008 presidential campaign conducted by celestial intervention…but I have to be in mindless “giant sloth mode.” And sometimes in the tedium of the deep, dark winter months, I particularly miss the awesome presence of Anna Nicole Smith.
Oh, there are things I would like to see happen in 2010. For instance, my extreme hallucination would involve a suspension of the “Alfalfa Prohibition Policy,” so I could join the Mo Tab.
I would like to see Dennis named the “Sexiest Senior Alive” by virtue of his two remaining chest hairs and six natural teeth.
I would like to get so ripped, I become a total-body human stiletto. Actually, as I take inventory of my present contour, I realize I may have over-shot the mark.
In an effort to mine all the possibilities in a year of possibilities, we reject utterly the whole idea of bucket lists. Such lists seem contrived for the sole purpose of promoting a Jack Nicholson movie. “Bucket lists” should be stricken from the American lexicon, along with “menopause” and “mid-life crisis,” as both implicate approaching termination…and that should never be the motivation for action.
That said, however, Necie is quick to remind me that since we can’t be grandmas together because I’ll be dead by then, we better play with the Zhu Zhu pets Santa brought before I kick off. Hey, that works for me. Children speak without filters. Her reasoning is the consequence of seeing me one morning with only half my make-up on. Talk about Lady Gaga meets Lizard Eye. It was then she was forced to face my mortality and realized our time together in mortality is severely limited.
Ah, but I digress. Perhaps the best way to recalibrate our lives is to focus on the lives of those nearest and dearest. I refer to our cherished grandchildren. Each has gifts. Each has disorders. And each of these must be addressed.
And none more so than Asher…our bellicose little Sasquatch.
We have been trying to decode his genome indicators to unravel the mystery of why he views himself as heaven’s avenging angel, whose sole purpose in life is to destroy the planet. His guiding mantra is Johnny Cochranesque in simplicity:
“If it’s in tact,
It gets WHACKED!”
And it is applied to all things, uniformly, and without discretion.
Now this works nicely, until one unleashes him on society.
The problem is, he doesn’t grasp the concept of retalliation. He has a promising future as an extortionist, mafia thumb-breaker, Gitmo interrogator. But he lacks training.
So, since we can’t seem to persuade him from a life of crime and misdemeanors, Dennis and I have compiled the “Bully’s Guide: Rules of Engagement and Decorum”…this in an effort to prevent him from being knocked on his fantail because of gross tactical miscalculation. It is a common sense approach for the “recreational agitator.”
Here are our suggestions, in no particular order:
1. Select a name that inspires trepidation, when it’s even whispered. “Ashy Pooh-Pooh” is fine when in the bosom of the family, but it won’t cut it in the Big House. “Brutus Maximus” or “Asher The Hun” would strike fear only in victims with a working knowledge of Latin or Roman history. Our personal choice of moniker: Alphonse “The Moist” Dodecahedron. One need have no acquaintance with geometry or the Mafia. It’s the syllables…never underestimate the power of syllables…the verbal equivalent of smart bombs…to confuse and confound the enemy and, like the octopus, erect an oral ink shield that allows escape…so one can live to fight another day.
2. Hasten slowly. Never pick on someone bigger, unless you have a large companion (a big brother, or Grandma) as a body guard. Fact: being the youngest and smallest diminishes one’s “viable victims pool” significantly.
3. Embellish territorial threat displays with decibels. Be loud and proud.
4. Practice the art of the hasty retreat. Velocity counts. However, make sure you’re toilet-trained and continent.
“Runnin’ away while packin’ heat,
Seriously hinders one’s retreat.
(On the positive side, trailing in an odiferous wake may serve to discourage prolonged pursuit…with the notable exception of those with stuffy noses.)
5. Never engage in sustained combat without finishing your sippee. Bullies, like armies, travel on their stomachs.
6. Work the dimples…aka – facial appeasement. This is probably most effective with grandparents.
We’re hoping this credo helps change Asher from an undisciplined, garden-variety hoodlum into a well-oiled, lean, mean, board-certified neighborhood Bully. He will, no doubt, get knocked on his beazer, but at least I’ve done right by him as his Grandma, trainer, and sparring partner.
And so we greet and welcome this year. We have our blueprint. We do not want to stop the clocks. Nor do we delude ourselves that there won’t be issues, challenges, and circumstances we must confront. But engagement is a great purgative for the fears that haunt us. And, inspired by our grandson, we plan to battle for eminent domain this year with the same vigor as “Alphonse, The Moist!”
Love to all,
The Clot
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