Head . . . Above . . . Water

No entry since dropping my mother on her tender little head.  I don't think there's any correlation between my absence and that horrid incident other than the fact that it meant she needed to stay with us instead of returning home after the MRI.  By its very nature, having someone live in your living room, and being the one who must do that living as such, creates controlled chaos and some degree of disruption in all lives connected to the event. Between recuperating and caring, we tried valiantly to catch up with the commercial side of Christmas as the Christ-like aspect was being exercised daily in all of us.  I must declare our attempts successful overall.  And for the first time in remembered history, my husband and children, in cahoots with my invalid mother, surprised me . . . with a sorely needed but most unexpected new digital Canon camera.

Really, this time of year does not stir a deeper faith in my soul, unless it's faith that the checkbook and our patience will hold out.  The way society now practices this particular holiday, Christians actually have to exert effort to insert Christ back into the mix.  Rather ironic though not at all surprising given the historical curve of all advanced cultures.  However,  I see His hand all year round, often in circumstances most uncommon and not likely to make it into the pages of any self-help bestsellers or onto the stage of any sold-out convention.  He works quietly, and often strangely per the human perspective, in my life.  I'm okay with that.

I spent this morning meandering my way through a late Christmas letter to stuff into my also late Christmas cards.  This is one of my favorite traditions during the holiday season.  Making contact via snail mail with pictures and words.  My list is rather long.  It should probably be trimmed.  Sadly, it was trimmed by one this past year as one of Jimmy's friends in Lamar passed away unexpectedly.  He was only in his 40's (or had he hit 50?).  Ironically, one of my oldest correspondents is yet with us at the ripe old age of 102 (or is that 103?).  By hook or by crook, I will GET THESE THINGS mailed this week!  Maybe one year I will address only envelopes to those who actually address envelopes to us, but I'm not there yet.  And though I espouse the act of saving trees and reducing waste, e-mail Christmas cards a [personal] sacrilege to me.  To all of you who read AND sent cards our way: a very large and lusty THANK YOU!  They are scattered throughout the living room and dining room.

We plan on spending two nights and days away from this house come New Year's Eve.  Last night, Jimmy and I decided to make it a non-party celebration.  Just us and the kids and a room at Embassy Suites.  Simple.  Fun.  No schedule.  Maybe hit that sushi place in Franklin that serves it up via a conveyor belt on color-coded plates.  There will be bubbly.  And free breakfast.  And swimming.  Not to mention sleeping in.

I may or may not be back before the New Year hits.  If I don't write before then, have a truly safe and celebratory New Year's Eve, whatever you choose to do.  I hope your Christmas was enjoyable, entertaining, healing, and any number of other appropriate adjectives.

Knowing you readers are out there makes life on a bad day good . . . on a good day . . . better.

A Heady Day

Yesterday, I was sure my blog subject matter was all sewn up after walking my dog for her morning mile.  It harbored a bit of humor and positively reeked of the common man element which makes for a painless read: the leash had become entangled with one of the brown Kroger plastic grocery bags I conscientiously recycle by filling with the fresh deposits Panda reliably drops at some point during our exercise.  To further complicate matters, the ear piece cord from my iPhone was twisted in the mix.  Cold weather and gloves made it difficult to simply unwind the mess.

So-o, in a winner-take-all sort of move -- the kind of hasty irritated action which is often not fully fleshed out in thought and can be loaded with the potential to invite disaster -- I pumped my arm in an arc.  I immediately saw my error but was helpless to withdraw the motion.  The loaded bag of warm elderly pooch excrement effectively worked free of its bondage and rotated around my wrist, before coming to a full and complete stop on the right side of my head.  S-l-l-a-p!  Not QUITE a V-8 moment but definitely stupid enough to warrant a quick look around me for any possible witnesses.  No one.  Fortunately, though the bag's contents were reshaped, the plastic held its ground.  Nary a tid or a bit leaked, smeared, or otherwise erupted.  Phew.  I thanked the Lord for small favors and finished out the balance of our walk.  At that point in my day, nothing more significant had come along to usurp its place.

See.  That would have sufficed for a short but sweet entry.  Open and shut.  Laugh and move one.  But what came next in the day, within hours, actually caused me to temporarily forget that I had knocked myself in the side of the face with a sack of sh- . . . well, you know!

As I've chronicled in fits and starts, my time as of late has been full of travel to Colorado in and around Thanksgiving, nine days, followed by almost full-time attendance to my mother as needed -- a week of overnight stay at her place since the 10th and staccato visits to our house afterward.  As meaningful as my activities have been, and continue to be, they're also quite exhausting.  The body and brain try to keep it all moving forward but fatigue is ever present.  And with fatigue comes a certain amount of decision-making which doesn't fire on all cylinders.  Much like the doggie doo episode.  

It's 2:15pm.  I've pulled into the parking lot of the diagnostic imaging center where mom is to receive her lower lumbar MRI.  We hope to pinpoint the origin of the severe pain in her back and right leg which has transformed into a bit of a bully and a showoff in the overall gallery of pains she's had to endure since her knee surgery almost two weeks ago.  The lightweight seated roller-walker which was the object of an intense week-long hunt comes out of the back seat; I'm grateful to leave the dinosaur of a wheelchair, which has been mom's sole means of conveyance between her recliner and the restroom, in the trunk of her champagne-colored Park Avenue sedan.  Mom must remain off her right leg for two months while her cartilage regenerates in the mini-breaks riddling her scoured knee joint.  So, for the past few days, she's busied herself with mastering the art of backward scuttling between our living room and powder room.  But she can't roll herself safely on the concrete.

Scouting the terrain, I note the handicap ramp is short, steep, and sporting an inch rise between the two joining surfaces.  "I'm gonna have to move fast to get a running start up that thing, mom," I warn her, "Just like we did in the wheelchair at the drugstore."  She is facing me, snug in the seat, gazing up at my face as I grip the handles and get a move on.  I'm slightly distracted by my heavy purse as it refuses to stay on my shoulder as I walk, so I don't sense my error in judgement concerning comparisons between a bulky large-wheeled chair and a featherweight petite-wheeled rollator intended to be walked and NOT ridden.

The second we make contact with the raised lip of the ramp, however, fireworks of realization explode in my brain.  More rapidly than one would imagine possible, several things happen.  The top-heavy roller does not roll -- it catches and topples over, sending my mother straight back, her suddenly very delicate and vulnerable gray-haired head tumbling toward the cold concrete.  My right arm and leg begin to curve inward as I instinctively try to cushion my mother's fall.  I'm not that fast.  There is the sickening crack of her skull against a hostile unyielding surface, echoed by the hard thwack of my knee on the same.  I curl around her, cradling her head, suddenly sobbing in my fear and mortification at what I inadvertently caused.  "Mother, mother, I'm so sorry.  Are you all right?  Are you all right?!  Oh, mother-r-r . . . "  There's no stopping my cries.  Though not for lack of trying on her part.  "Gloria, I'm all right.  Try to breathe.  Calm down,"  she touches my hand, patting it, "You need to go get help for me."

Limping, and still crying, I enter the waiting room and ask for help.  Two gentleman, one dressed distinctively in Harley biker fashion, sporting a beard and longer hair, jump up and follow me out the door.  Seeing mom sprawled out on the ramp, still and silent in the cold, they exclaim their disturbed surprise and quicken their pace.  All the while, I'm informing them of her condition, warning them to take care with her knee . . . and yes, I'm still crying, heaving, unable to calm myself.  This isn't like me.  Only one other time did such tears and panicked wailing overtake me: when my son, as a frightened 5 year-old, ran screaming from the dentist office and almost plunged headlong into oncoming traffic before my terrified eyes.  I could not catch him.  If it had not been for the portly man who crafted dentures in the back of the office moving at superhuman speed and snatching him up at the last possible moment, I would have only two children today.

It takes me several minutes to rein in my emotions once mom and I stand before the receptionist.  I hiccup through our tale of woe, and explode into a fresh round of weeping.  Another employee emerges from behind the counter and embraces me, cooing her sympathies as I shudder.  When I feel sane enough, when I'm reassured that my mother is not dead and will likely live to see another cruise in the offending rolling walker, I set about the business at hand.  Paperwork and searching for her lump.  My stomach turns when my probing fingers find a dent but mom quickly reminds me that there's a matching dent on the other side due to her forceps delivery from back when such methods were employed!  We soldier on.  Because of the bump to her noggin, mom is instructed to endure the test without the aid of medication which would lessen her anxiety.  Can't risk missing the signs of a concussion.  She counts down the agonizing minutes as the giant magnetized tunnel vibrates with the telltale knocking which is a signature of the system.  Lying down flat is not in her bodily vocabulary right now, so this is a bit of necessary torture.

It is unthinkable to return to the ancient wheelchair in her estimation.  I am ready, willing, and extremely eager to retrieve it for our departure.  Nope!  She mounts her trusty lightweight steed and rides again.  Being the trusting soul that she is where her loyal daughter is concerned, she has me escort  her right off the bat.  But gently.  And with great forethought.  And the purse set down on the sidewalk.

_________________________

In the end, we decided she would return to our house for safekeeping.  My son accompanied us to her apartment in Woodbury to gather a few items necessary to her well-being.  My knee throbbed, resonating with the echoing sympathy pains to my mom's own healing knee, but a cold gel pack and ibuprofen, working in tandem with the Chambord and fresh lemon juice over ice, encouraged the angry joint to lessen its grip on me.  There followed Chinese take-out for dinner with frozen yogurt and brownie chasers.  Our Christmas mood returned with a viewing of "Elf" and late-night chatter with my daughters and their boyfriends which dissolved into silliness and laughter.  Eventually, we surrendered to sleep somewhere around 2am.  12 hours had come and gone since the debacle.

My brothers jokingly accused me of elder abuse and a botched murder attempt.  I'm able to giggle about certain aspects of the event but still can't bear to hear my mom explains how it happened, especially when she describes the watermelon thunk of her head on the ramp.  This morning her neck hurt.  Whiplash, of all things.  My knee is a touch swollen.  Some bruising.  A nice scab embedded with the outline of the corduroy pants I was wearing at the moment of impact.  A soothing haze has begun to drop down over my recollection . . . which is just fine with me.  It won't happen again.  Though my mother is the senior one, I don't think MY heart could take it.

And that, dear readers, is how yesterday went from 'the day I hit myself in the head with pooch poo' to 'the day I almost killed my poor mother!'

Lobbyists

There's a bit of a gauntlet to be walked here at the Holiday House when one enters via the double set of glass doors separating the bare foyer of the building with its one payphone from the lobby with its revamped sitting areas and sign-in table.  During specific times of the day and early evening, one can't help but notice the cluster of residents inhabiting the formal pale green winged-back recliners and the comfortable couch facing the cabinet-housed television.  There are also several ladies who mill about, or hang out, perched on their multiple maroon walkers with cushy seats, hand brakes, wheels, and those handy storage baskets.  (I do believe mine would house a notebook or laptop, dark chocolate, and my iPhone!)  Though singles and doubles do use the space, most times they congregate in groups. There are a minority of males; females dominate this two-story forty apartment complex.

And all heads swivel as new arrivals head toward those clear glass doors which separate the outdoor air and life of Woodbury proper from the indoor air and existence of this largely senior population.  Given the physical condition of many of these folks, its rather impressive to see just how far their  necks are capable of turning as they take immediate notice of the incoming.  A very apparent and sudden silence stills the room as eyes question and smile, wonder and surmise.  If one is not an actual inhabitant returning from an outing, perhaps to the Dollar General or Piggly Wiggly or a physician's appointment, then the three-ring binder on the guest table must be filled out with specific visitor information: name of visitor, name of resident awaiting said visit, date, time in, and, eventually, time out.  The back of the head fairly burns with the intensity of multiple gazes zeroed in on it.  Does anyone ever return in surreptitious manner during an isolated moment to nose through the penned lines, perhaps curious as to who that strange women was who visited such-and-such in apartment 107?  Or to determine when that gentleman caller left because it sure seemed like his car was in the parking lot ALL night!  The now official visitor, while heading off in the direction of the targeted resident, is accompanied by a dwindling trail of whispers as the talk heats back up and the newcomer is enfolded into the topics being tossed about in the Holiday House huddle.

This same gallery of keen onlookers exercise their skills of observation and interaction in more individual ways, too.  If one is not careful in manner and scrupulous in word, feelings can be hurt and dislikes can form.  Just tonight, my mom received an impassioned call from a resident who happens to also be a good friend.  He has an apartment directly above her and rang her up to find out if the music he was playing at 4:45 in the afternoon was disturbing her.  "Music?  What music?" we both wondered as we had heard nothing outside of ourselves, the television, and the lovely voices of my delightful daughters all day.  As his story unfolded, it became clear that a mini-drama had been enacted over the past hour.

The sour-faced women down the hall who huddles outside the north end of the building several times a day to puff on her cigarettes, and who is known for stirring the hornet's nest with not much more than a short stick, spouted that she heard the loud music and was tired of it.  Further, my mom had heard it, too, and [being the night manager and general go-to gal for peer problems great and small] disliked it so much that she was going to have him evicted!  From my corner of the couch, I could hear him, voice enhanced by the speaker button on mom's telephone, intoning passionately of how the CD was a gift from his son featuring his son's music and most everyone who heard it thought it rather good.  His dander was most definitely up; he worried he'd possibly bothered my mom during her difficult recovery.

Mom smoothed his ruffled feathers, clucking a bit over where this woman could possibly have come up with such falsehood and why.  He seemed to recall that the smoker lady stopped caring for him after another person moved in.  No one could ever figure out why.  Mom told him to play on -- later I suggested she should have closed with, "Rock on, Ray!" -- assuring him that 7PM was the cut-off and that she remained unaware of any excessive noise or complaints of such.  Disaster averted.  Lives may possibly have been saved.  No one was evicted.  We returned to our regularly scheduled Hallmark Channel programming.  Or was it Sarah Palin's Alaska?

(I distinctly heard this modern princess of the North say 'yinG and yang' during one of her rambles and I had to wonder if all Republicans display a propensity for these peculiar creative wordisms?  Some of President George W's Bushisms still rank high in verbal antic enjoyment for me!  But then I recalled a total donkey of a democrat I know personally who pronounces THyme for thyme and It'ly for Italy.  And then there was that aunt-by-marriage with no political affiliations at the time who substituted buzzARD for buzzer and KIRrit for carrot.  And until I was called out on it by my favorite uncle as a young teen, I pronounced lingerie as it presented phonetically in text, having never paired the audio version with the written.  It appears to be a simply human thing.  Imagine that . . . )

At present, all ladies and gents of this microcosmic community are safely ensconced in their beds.  The only noise I hear emanates from easily identifiable and non-offending sources.  The hum of the freezer and fridge unit as it works to chill the groceries I added to its dwindling contents.  The soft measured breathing of my mother as she slumbers somewhat fitfully in her borrowed lobby chair.  And the on-and-off staccato of my Dell keyboard as my sore arthritic fingers race to complete this entry in time for a bit of reading -- Jonathan Franzen's The Corrections, a topic for another day if ever I get through it -- before my breathing, too, becomes soft and measured.

Good night to all.

Go-Litely Into The Twilight Years

The 'Drive Medical Go-Lite Deluxe Padded Seat Aluminum Rollator Walker with Loop Brakes.'  Today's elusive holy grail.  I didn't even realize the things were called anything other than a walker.  That some models are wheeled and others simply stoppered perhaps registered in the fuzzy not-pertaining-to-me part of the brain.  And it certainly didn't occur to me to consider such things as color selection -- marbled, blue, burgundy -- and size -- wider seats, distance between the floor and top of the seat, height of the handles -- and quality -- hard plastic seats or cushy, soft over stiff hand grips, flimsy wheels versus veritable four-wheeler models.
But beyond ALL of that, the thing which I never entertained was the possibility that my aging mother's arthritic but still fully capable hands would one day need to grab hold of one of these useful contraptions.  I mean, aren't they most often utilized by elderly people?  Senior citizens?  Old fogies with one foot in the retirement home and one foot at least near the grave?  This is my mom we're talking about here.  Yes, I've noticed her appearance is now devoid of any vestiges of middle age, much less youth, as of a decade or so ago.  That she's 72 has not escaped my notice.  
But this is the woman who kneaded homemade bread dough while listening to Don Williams in our cozy apartment kitchen in Alaska when I was a little pig-tailed girl.  The woman who took us on long drives on isolated country roads to admire the open space and its natural scenic beauty.  The woman who cooked up batches of fat-rich suet for the winter-hungry birds in the mountains of Idaho.  The woman who up until recently would have to hang up during phone calls because a neighbor was in need of assistance for minor and major emergencies in her apartment building.  Not to mention the apple cakes, oatmeal bars, veggie-laden soups, and big big bowls of my husband's favorite potato salad which make regular appearances in our home courtesy of her very capable self.  It's inconceivable that she'd ever have to adopt the accoutrements which stereotypically signal the need for assisted living.  
Yet just this morning, I stood in the foyer of a Woodbury business, folding a fancy-schmancy rollator  in order to lug it out to the champagne-colored Buick Park Avenue parked just out front.  It's basket -- likely to be filled with prescriptions and the like -- was tucked under my arm.  At one point, I had to call out to the informational flier to ask that it not take flight on the breeze because my mom likes her official paperwork.  All of my hopes for the immediate future were pinned on this contraption.  I envisioned my presently pain-ridden mother regaining her ability to mobilize herself with some level of independence for the next two months of 'no weight bearing on her right leg' per the doctor's orders.  I saw a day, sooner than later, where the back of her slender neck, the delicate section just above the neck of her t-shirt and immediately below her dark gray wavy hair, would not be a primary viewing point for my caretaker's eyes.  No more clunky ancient wheelchair wearing out a rut in the carpet between the chair in the living room and the bathroom.  She would tote herself around on the impetus of her one good leg, partnered with the miracle walker.
That was this morning.  Tonight, the tired old house wheelchair is still sitting in the small kitchen near mom's front door.  I've tripped over it several times in the dinner hour.  In place of the walker, there is a yellow return receipt entwined with mom's refund cash.  The thing was too tall.  With mom positioned properly on its throne, her feet came near to dangling.  In order to roll herself around, she would've had to remain a perpetually posed ballerina from the knees down.  Can you say major muscle cramps?!  But I did my homework.  Whipped out the ol' tape measure and checked the dimensions of two other residents' well-used walkers.  Researched online.  Made a phone call or two.  Tomorrow, one of my daughters will hang for a bit with Grandma Sharon while I take a quick trip to a neighboring burg in search of the Drive Go-Lite Deluxe Rollator . . . 'cause that IS the one.  Our hopes are renewed.
In two months, however, she's ditching the ambulatory assistance for her own legs.  I'm making sure of that.  Maybe, maybe, we might save it for possible future use.  Knee replacement?  But this daughter may yet be in denial because she does not wish to see her maternal one remain dependent upon a device which robs her of one of those unspoken levels of personal freedom, thus slowly diminishing the adult capacity of a person and steadily returning them to a place which mirrors the helplessness of their infancy.   

The 'Kneed' To Explain

So, I'm still not actually back on the homestead.  I made a brief weekend visit with the family over the weekend after returning from my 9-day sojourn in Colorado before donning a temporary nursing cap for my mom in her moment of 'knee-d.'  (Now THAT was a whole lotta prepositional phrases for one sentence, eh?)

I've not blogged since Tuesday last; I've not posted since the Monday before that.  Withdrawals have set in, plaguing my brain.  But physically and emotionally, there's simply been NO time.  For my big trip out West, I had to board an early plane in a timely fashion, pack and unpack -- multiple times, drive and visit . . . and drive, attend hours upon hours of repetitive court hearings, visit some more, find time to engage in somewhat meaningful sleep, eat wonderfully tasty and filling food prepared by loving hands, and make my way with minutes to spare at DIA.  Returning home entailed preparing a couple of meals for my own family with loving hands, taking time out to catch up with the kids, and trying to glimpse my lately over-worked husband in between the office and bed!

At present, my duties revolve around a 72 year-old left knee with multiple holes drilled in it to encourage new cartilage growth to replace the significant amount of meniscus which had to be cut, shaved, and discarded.  My maternal one must quickly adapt to the Drive brand, deluxe, one-button, folding walker bestowed upon her after yesterday's early morning arthroscopic procedure.  Until the initial pain resolves, I'm her go-to gal.  Probably 4 full days.  She must remain in the raised position for 3 days, applying continual rounds of ice for 36 to 48 hours; I'm insisting on the larger number.  This has led her to state that I think I'm the boss of her knee.  Well, I might have also insisted that she not investigate any tender areas around the joint when she pointed out a nearby sore spot.  "Let's not inadvertently inflict any further trauma on the area!"  And then there's the hourly foot flexing she must repeat to avoid blood clotting issues.

She lives in a small two-story apartment building for individuals in a more mature stage of life.  One of the communication methods involves taping notes and cards to the doors.  Or slipping them beneath the doors.  Or leaving bags of fruit and other goodies on the doorknobs.  I've retrieved a few items in this manner and delivered a card via Scotch brand just across the hall.  Several concerned neighbors have kept the phone ringing with questions after mom's progress and offers of help after Nurse Gloria leaves.  Though I'll check in weekly, I feel some measure of relief in knowing she'll be in good hands.  She has given to those around her and now they hope to reciprocate.  A nice system, eh?

We've watched several DVD episodes of 'The Closer' and caught the exciting season opener last night.  Brenda Lee Johnson helped distract from the intensifying knee pain for awhile.  Thanks for that, chief!  Mom records programs she hopes to share with me during my visits: today it was 'The Nate Berkus Show.'  They were gut-wrenching hours centered around Dolly Parton helping Nate put together a nursery for a man with four children whose wife died unexpectedly five weeks ago after delivering twins AND Elizabeth Edwards (the wife of the philandering presidential hopeful who developed an incurable form of cancer in 2004) assisting Nate in designing a living room for a woman who lost a young daughter to a terribly debilitating disease and became severely depressed.  Dolly sang with the renowned style and heart for which she is known -- my tears were as plentiful as the sensitive Nate's own!  And after listening to Ms. Edwards expound so hopefully on trying to survive until her children graduated high school, we had to hear later in the afternoon of her unexpected passing.  After the emotion of my travels, coupled with the arrival of a specific feminine ailment, the stress of mom's surgery and subsequent needs, plus being away from my family for so long, that was about all I could handle without blowing a gasket.  I needed air.

I cleaned up.  Got mom situated after another round of ablutions and actions -- she's a compliant and cheerful patient, even in the midst of pain, and she's gonna master that dang walker.  Then I left the building to test the winter chill, feel the sun on my face, run an errand for my ward, and grab a cup of hot coffee with a side of ice cream cone at the local Mickey D's.

We've successfully conquered a day and a half.  Mom has the more difficult job here.  I'm easing the way as she adapts to this temporary but significant life transition.  Everything will be affected, from meal preparation to no driving to maintaining body cleanliness.  A couple of months may soon feel more like a half dozen!  If you have any ideas, feel free to share.  Right now, her arm and chest muscles are sore from carrying herself the short way from the living room to the restroom.  We joke that her left leg may become a hyper-developed mutant limb whilst the healing one may wither into an atrophied stump.  But really, we simply want to everything to hold out, work together, and unite for the whole.  Go! Team Mom Sharon!

The Time Has Come

Why do I wait until the midnight hour to blog?  How many chores must be checked off the list before I allow myself to do the one thing I've wanted to do the entire day?  The one thing I thought of as my audio CD pulsed in my right ear during the two hour highway cruise from Pueblo to Lamar.  Well, one of two things, the other being the Sweet Chili rice chips to satisfy my salt craving.  Thank you, open 24-hour Super Wal-Mart just down Olive Street!

The reason for this little 9-day sojourn in the land of sun, snow, and southern wind, has arrived.  While the rest of  you handle your 9 to 5, or whatever else it is that fills your day, I'll sit through an all-day court session meant to absorb the testimony of doctors on both sides of the fence in the pursuit of a legal and just decision regarding the future of my sister.  As I forgot to grab a new purse notebook, the Holiday Inn Express phone notepad will perform the duty of recording my musings during the proceedings.  My sister will arrive under police escort and enter the courtroom with a sheriff's deputy.  We're hopeful that we can spend the breaks and lunch hour together; my short chat with the most excellent sheriff of this town, Jim Faull, didn't yield certainty of this though he promised to try.  Remodeling has left available spaces up in the air.

While I find Lamar's eateries leave much to be desired, there is a Thai place near the railroad tracks which actually merits both mention and mastication of said cuisine.  After cruising the Main Street strip of this 'burg -- checked the hours for the 'Perk' coffee shop and looked in on the old house on the 700 block -- I stopped in at the Thai restaurant to quickly study the menu in case I had to place an order with a runner.  Crystal spring rolls and moo goo gai pan is what I'll request. 

I'm too tired to think clearly.  Such a shame.  But 6 o'clock will trigger the alarm into action much before I'm ready and fully rested.  Court starts at 9AM.  Gotta squeeze in a modicum of exercise, eat my flax with brown rice and almond milk, and spiffy myself!  Oh, and leave time for what I hope is an invigorating cup of coffee in some manifestation pleasing to my palate and brain cells.

I'm safe.  It's quiet.  It's windy.  My gut is putting up a mild protest.  Perhaps it's the reduced-fat Pringles and microwave popcorn I also consumed during my salty phase of the day.  I'm off.  This content does not reflect what I hoped to write earlier in my thoughts.  But I'm nodding off mid-sentences.  Words are not flowing.  Sorry.  Good night.

The Sins of the Flesh

A conversation between two thighs:

"I heard you had Jerry's homemade tortillas for breakfast today!  You know he uses lard, don't you?"

"Well, yeah, everyone knows they're just not the same without lard.  The texture.  The flavor.  I'm made of animal fat.  Lard IS animal fat.  Where's the conflict?  Don't tell me you expected me to go the 'canola oil and whole wheat' route!  Besides, I heard you had a late night snack of red wine, corn chips and salsa, AND dark chocolate.  What kind of combination is THAT?!"

"A better combo than elk sausage, a fried egg, THREE -- yes I know you went there -- tortillas with butter and honey, TWO CUPS of coffee, one of Aunt Marie's pumpkin cookies . . . AND that sinfully lusciously tart lemon bar that Laurie bought!"

"Did you even bother to TASTE the depth of citrus in that bar?  That's vitamin C, baby.  There's vitamin A in the cookies, courtesy of the pumpkin.  And, and, and . . . you would have hated me later if I hadn't eaten Jerry's homemade tortillas.  That offer doesn't come a'knockin' very often.  Be honest.  You know I'm tellin' the truth!"

"We-e-ll, you might be right with that one.  But surely you didn't need the to consume all of those starches at one sitting?  Why not save the baked goods for later?  I mean, must you be such a piggy-wiggy?!  At least I used the knowledge gleaned from countless TV shows and health  magazines -- my splurge was anti-oxidant rich."

"I KNOW you did not just slander my good name.  If you want to nitpick, I'll take you on a little walk down memory lane to visit a few highly memorable binges.  You can conveniently blame it on 'PMS' or 'cravings' during THAT TIME OF THE MONTH but let's just call an excuse an excuse.  Shall we?"

"Why are you being mean to me?  I only brought up the tortillas for your own good.  You know how you get when you overeat.  We'll all pay for it later.  No one more than you.  I'm simply reminding you to take it easy.  Why must I always be the voice of reason?!"

"Why?  You wonder WHY?  I'd say it's the wine, you imbibing imbecile.  Reason, my hind end, er, OUR hind end!  You're perhaps better read and better with words but we're the same, dearie, two sides of the same lower torso.  What's mine is yours and vice-versa.  If . . . "

"Don't you . . . "

"This is . . . "

"Hey!  Down there.  You two thunder thighs!  Get a grip and stop crying, for the the love of all that's sweet and creamy!  I want you to shut up and pay attention.  Own what you ate.  Quit your bickering and help me . . . sque-e-e-ze . . . into . . . these jeans.  And I'm telling you RIGHT now that if this zipper doesn't go all the way up, you'll be squatting and lunging until you're speechless!  And you'll forget you ever consumed a single solitary morsel of chevre cheese, pasta al dente, or well-seasoned New Zealand lamb chop!"

Thank-fully DONE!

In 2 1/2 hours, we have Turkey Day lift off.  The official start to Thanksgiving 2010.  Travelers from faraway lands -- well, most likely neighboring states -- will unload their coolers bearing favorite pies and savory side dishes, and disgorge their mini-vans of children and suitcases, all in the name of gathering together for family, festivity, food, and fun . . . not to mention varying degrees of friendly friction.  Cooks will collaborate on buttery mashed potatoes and disagree on the proper way to chop green onions for dressing.  As my own history can attest, there will be copious amounts of laughter with tears of punctuation.  Legends will take shape to passed down in years yet to come, from table to table, in fine oral tradition.  "Pumpkin pie is so-o-o-o romantic!" will live long in my heart, courtesy of oldest brother, Kevin.

For me, tomorrow will start with a 3AM alarm, followed by a 4AM car ride to Nashville's airport for a 6AM flight on Southwest that which whisk me away to DIA in Denver, Colorado.  The Starbuck's on the other side of security -- can you say 'full-body scan' without a serving of 'pat down?' -- had better be open for business because there's a tall extra-shot soy latte with my name on it!  Brother Mark is hosting the meal at his family home; Sister Laurel will also be there.  I can't recall when last I shared a holiday with my older siblings, or Side A of the record as I like to call them.  Good stuff!

I must be turning over some kind of new leaf, or at least flipping the old leaf: it's not even midnight, and I am totally packed.  Completely.  My two bags weighed to ensure they don't cross the 50-pound free threshold.  (I asked my husband to step on the scale as doing so myself could cloud my mood right before a trip!)  Clothes laid out.  Push-ups executed.  Last-minute laundry dried.  Balancing cold weather choices with milder weather pieces.  Birthday gift items for Rebekah's 40th cushioned.  Riding boots polished.  My apron is making the journey in the spirit of joining right in.  Did I mention that I even squeezed in a quick session, as quick as it can be anyway, of biscotti-making?  THAT'S packed, too.  Can't arrive empty-handed. 

I opted out of a few extra-curricular activities which always seem to trip me up and add time to the equation, including balancing the checkbook with the latest statement and receipts.  It'll still be there, waiting for my calculations by pink pen, upon my return.  I did water two non-flowering African violets, but I did NOT repot or rearrange any plants: I can conjure up two pre-trip scenarios where I was up to my elbows in potting soil out on the back patio AFTER the stroke of 12AM whilst all the normal people in the house were heavily sawing logs.  Oh, and I ditched the genius idea of yesterday concerning a dog brush, scissors, and our double-layered heavily-furred Husky-mix.  However, in the spirit of admission, I will cop to drying a batch of the sourdough bread cubes for Ashley as she does not realize how long it takes to deplete moisture from several different loaves.  

Beginning the process upon waking this morning takes partial credit for this remarkable feat -- the filling of mini toiletry bottles, the gathering of socks and undies, the counting of lysine and calcium caplets, the crucial commandeering of my husband's Neti pot.  It's liberating to realize there's nothing left to be accomplished other than this blog entry.  Usually, I'm rolling the last t-shirt or tucking the final cotton ball at 2 or 3AM.  Tonight, my final act was to quickly chew through two cups of raw spinach while chatting with my kids.  That was 10PM.   Hey, my day was such a blur that I forgot to eat any vegetables.  It didn't feel right.  Yes, I realize it's all a bit OCD, but I consider myself to have come a lo-ong way, baby!

My brain is fried.  My body is fatigued.  But I'm excited.  I'm counting on adrenaline to get me good piece down the way on the morrow.  Until then, let's see if it's possible to achieve 3 hours of sleep.

What rituals does everyone else practice in preparation for a trip?  I'm interested to know.       

Who, me?!

While breaking up a fight in the dryer between my daughter's oxford-blue work shirt and a pair of stubborn skinny jeans, I tried to latch onto a statement my older levied at me with all due affection in an earlier phone conversation.  What, exactly, had he said?  What was the wording?  I'm forever losing thoughts and dropping words in that porous gray stone of a brain in my head.

The Italian parsley I earlier purchased at ye local Super Wal-Mart needed my attention -- a snipping of the stems; a cup of water in which to set the drooping bunch of fragrant herbage in order to perk it up for Ashley's Thanksgiving attempt at my favored homemade stuffing recipe. You see, the entire family will be without me for the first time, ever, during this delicious holiday of gratitude and belly delights, and they're dining elsewhere without any of mom's traditional dishes to grace the table.  Hence, my eldest child's desire to cube and dry the sourdough, rye, and whole wheat breads for mixing with a slow-sauteed blend of grated carrots, minced mushroom, green onions, sliced celery, garlic cloves, and a sprinkling of chopped walnuts -- in butter and extra-virgin olive oil, of course -- before adding the secret blend of dried herbs, a touch of spice, and the chicken stock.  But this is all a stimulating culinary digression as I again attempt to raise from the depths of my pitiful short-term memory that handful of winsome words my '5th fave' bro tossed my way .  Oh-h-h . . . it had something to do with what I do . . .

Pots and pans from last night's adventure with beef stew call for scrubbing.  I contemplate this chore before the distraction of a text on my iPhone engages me in a short discussion with aforementioned daughter.  The subject matter? What, pray tell, is the exact potato-to-broth ratio of the previously concocted stew which is scheduled to make a second appearance on the Valdez table tonight?  This results in a quick interaction between my ergonomically designed peeler, four small Yukon golds, and boiling water.  As I direct dried dishes to their proper resting places, I again ponder.  Did my elder  sibling-scribe -- he's two years into penning his own book --  compliment some talent of mine?

Let's see . . . we were talking . . . the airport . . . marriage . . . writing inspiration . . . I parked the GMC Yukon in the driveway of our suburban home with its 2-car garage, 3 1/2 baths, naturally lit spacious kitchen, with a fireplace and bonus room.  I emptied the compost bucket.  Fed our wayward cat his late lunch.  Let our senior dog outside.  Organized the recycling bins.  Realized the bird feeder was empty.  Carried in the groceries from Trader Joe's. Wondered when I would find the time to finally pull the withered heirloom tomato plants left over from this summer, not to mention the expired morning glories and hummingbird vine.  Reminded myself that our two highschoolers would need rides soon from practice. Hoped the husband would arrive home from work early enough to help deliver Thanksgiving food baskets to families in need.  And, rediscovered my misplaced coupon holder for the third time in as many days.

Somewhere between the groceries and the coupons, my observant and admiring second-from-the-oldest brother said to me, "Gloria, you have become quite the domestic goddess."  Everything in me wanted to say he was wrong, it wasn't so, that's not me . . .

Then, I remembered that batch of pumpkin biscotti I planned to bake for my Colorado trip.  And that aggressive oxford-blue shirt I wanted to iron for my daughter.  And how my toenails needed painting before Thursday.  And my neighbor stopped by to drop off the waffle iron and plate he borrowed earlier in the week.

Wow!  Is that my PICTURE in the dictionary right next to the definition?   

Happy Birthday Eve To Me-e!

When I woke up this morning, my age had already advanced to 41 in Japan.  At least calendar-wise.  But here in the 'Boro of Middle Tennessee, today is my last full day as a 40 year-old.  Otherwise known as my birthday eve . . . part and parcel of my new found practice -- begun last year -- of celebrating birthday month.  A neighbor friend kind of eased me into it, having exercised the option within her own family for years.  It's a spiffy idea.  Feel free to adopt it and pass it on.

Besides a few posts on Facebook and a humorous message on my iPhone voicemail service, much of the actual celebration has been internal.  Some measure in the form of a retrospective life review; a larger measure manifested in a simple gratitude which has managed to overtake both my brain and my heart.  As much as it scares me to believe, as much as it pains me to say, I've got it so very good!  And even in the midst of the painful curveballs which seem to endlessly hurl from the unseen hand of a relentless power pitcher, I've had it pretty darned good for quite some time. 

When I suffer, I suffer within the safe confines of this American democracy, which, regardless of its flaws, is still one of the best governments in the world.  When I hurt, I hurt with the support of numerous fellow burden-bearers who willingly ask to share the load.  When I suffer a crisis of faith, the Christ at the center of my faith does not desert me.  While my children vex me to no end at times, they yet love me through calls, hugs, and declarations of earnest affection.  While my baby brother still struggles in his life, he is able to share each and every day with me.  While my finger joints now assert their slow age-related breakdown, our insurance continues to assert its coverage of Vanderbilt-worthy rheumatologists.

Though I slept poorly last night, I can laugh when my husband recounts how I tossed, turned, moaned, groaned, twitched, kicked, covered, uncovered, and otherwise made peaceful slumber in our bed an impossibility for him.  My hardworking husband who went in to work on Friday late morning and did not return home from a team work project until 4am wishing, hoping, and praying for nothing more than sweet oblivion beneath his comforter.  Though the elephant residing in my sinus cavities (thanks for the turn of a phrase, Melba!) has evidently signed up for an extended stay, I could still taste and revel in the extraordinary flavor of the best, BEST, hot chocolate ever to pass over my palate -- Starbuck's salted caramel hot chocolate.  Thanks, Ashley, for the treat.  Mmmm mmm.  And, though another of Gary's birthdays will pass without benefit of my company in the flesh, he will soon enjoy the Nike Free Run black running shoes AND Nike socks we ordered together, him thumbing through his catalog, me cruising the web on the Mac, headed his way courtesy of Zappos.com.  And, I DO have the privilege of sharing Rebekah's 40th birthday with her on the 28th . . . ALL DAY!

I about tripped a breaker switch in my head, ticking off the list of lovely people I've collected along life's merry way.  How much love is one person allowed to receive from others?  Because I'm quite certain my mailbox is full -- and it ain't junkmail!  And I return the affection a hundredfold.  It may sound maudlin, but remember something . . . this is me.  I feel things.  Constantly.  Deeply.  Truly.  No drama.  No exaggeration.  Simply unadulterated emotion for the beautiful things in this human existence which so effectively ease the ugliness of plight and pathos.

The evening wanes under the light of an almost full moon.  It's gorgeous.  Earlier, I walked along the stone garden path my family (and Ashley's boyfriend) helped create, admiring the yellowed fallen leaves from the Kwanzaan cherry tree I planted last year.  To my left, the Forest Pansy redbud spread its poetic bare branches across the entire corner of the yard, hovering above the active hub of fauna activity I call a bird feeder.  Our cat considers it a snack bar.  Fortunately, cardinals and sparrows appear to have short memories.  From my hand, the purple line of Panda's leash trailed away from me into the darkness ahead. Her distinctive furry bulk gently swayed as she pulled me beneath the weathered cedar arbor I painstakingly chose almost 7 years ago while designing our landscape.  I marvelled at the pleasure which has been mine each time I raised the blinds and took in these natural sights.  Winter, spring, summer, and fall.  Flowers and vines have climbed, flourished, withered, died; only to regenerate in that endless cycle of growth.  Neighborhood children have run through the grass, searching out the wonderful fireflies at twilight or the evasive butterflies in the noon breezes or the fascinating caterpillars which breed on the heavy heads of the dillweed plants.  Neighbors have enjoyed heirloom tomato salsa spiced with jalapeno and cilantro from the beds along the fence.  My son earned many a dollar one weekend selling all manner of produce to passers-by.  My yard is a haven.  A true blessing. 

I could go on.  But I run the risk of redundancy.  Or overkill.  My point is clear.  Whether in birthday month, or out, whether I'm comfortable with it, or not, things in my life are pretty good.  And I'm not taking any of it, or anyone, for granted.  Now I must be gone.  There's a distracting pile of presents on the dining room table.  It's 54 minutes to midnight.  It'll be my birthday then.  What is the etiquette on a problem such as this?             





 

These Are A Few Of Her Favorite Things

Oprah’s favorite things aired today. Regardless of your feelings about Oprah – and there are plenty of those to go around – you’d be hard pressed to find fault with her annual 'Favorite Things' show. Her always- surprised-into-tears-and-laughter crowd is an amalgam of fans who’ve landed on her radar by virtue of their character, merit, and giving ways. Oprah’s theory is to give to those who have given so unselfishly of themselves as a way of life.


It’s cathartic. I’m genuinely pleased for, and a tad envious in the most non-harmful of ways of, these audiences of elated men and women.  Some who may be on the verge of a possible coronary infarction. To me, there’s absolutely nothing better than showering people with unexpected giving. They ask for NADA and quite literally get everything! Women turn to hug one another in wide-mouthed astonishment with each gift announced by their generous hostess. Some appear to be in shock and most likely are. In today’s show, there was one handsome gentleman, a tall slender black man of a certain age, who repeatedly raised his hands heavenward in supplication, mouthing “thank you, thank you” over and over.  He was so sweet to behold every time the camera panned him. I think I love him.

And these people are most likely taking home a good many gifts they’d never think of or ask for or even need: say, the brownie pan called 'The Baker’s Edge' whereby every brownie has that chewy yummy edge that everyone tries for when they grab out of the display plate. Or the pricey $55 each perfectly scented candles for every room in the house in a set of eighteen. Or even the specially designed 25th Oprah show Ralph Lauren cashmere sweater with matching lap blanket. Books, cameras, diamond watches, and we’re not even halfway through the show.

But what’s so wonderful is that every one of these people are truly grateful for every little thing. Their tears are real. Their hearts are full . . . as will their arms when they leave the studio. It’s a perfect way to start off the holiday season in the right vein for the viewer. Because what it ultimately reveals is the joy experienced by the giver as they hand out to the unsuspecting around them. As thrilled as every audience member surely is – hard not to be – Oprah is just as tickled in her role.  She revels in exposing the episode's surprise identity at the beginning at the onset as she pulls off her cover gown to reveal her Santa-sequined dress beneath. She’s breathless with anticipation as she uncovers each new thing to their childlike eyes. She painstakingly categorizes every good and lovely thing ever bequeathed to her as something most excellent for her next 'Favorite Things' show.

Personally, I think I’m most excited about the Container Store gift: a new closet system for enhanced organization. The closet of my dreams! Wowser, as my mom says. And they’re dishing out the Nike Free Run shoes to their entire families! That’s what Gary wants this year for his birthday.  Oh, Oprah?!

Obviously, most of us folks can’t offer 5 years of free Netflix service with the accompanying 3D World Sony televisions and Blue-Ray players to the ones we love. But we can express our appreciation in ways just as significant if we tap into what we know about those in our sphere of influence. Step outside of ourselves and what we want -- that seven-day cruise which roused more screams than anything else in the entire lineup qualifies for me . . . Alaska! -- and take note of the hobbies, needs, dreams, likes, and dislikes of our own people.  Or the those at a local shelter.  Or a family in your church.  Or a child tagged on a Christmas tree.

If you need help getting that party started, I am uniquely qualified to assist.  Let me see.  Sushi, reading, audio books, gardening, walking, laptop accessories, writing, product for colored hair, coconut and lemon anything, watching movies in the theater, opera performances, MAC laptop, Peking duck in New York, a new bicycle, world peace, iTunes card, college tuition for three kids, a professional organic yard man, a Japanese maple tree, the chance to meet Julia Roberts, a family farm with property and houses enough for my mothers and Gary, my own study, a publisher/editor.  That's MY 'take note' list, in case you didn't catch on.

Oh, and there's the iPod, followed by the iPhone, Dell laptop, brown leather riding boots, bangle bracelet from Africa, Maya Angelou 'Phenomenal Woman' poetry book, Starbucks mug with the word COFFEE written in several languages, wooden little Angels, Heirloom tomato plants,  declarative letters, Marjolein Bastin calendars, Better Homes & Garden cookbook, power tools, built-to-order shoe rack, sparkling Rose wine, rocks from various regions, Manchego cheese, handmade pottery, Scrabble Deluxe board game, and my mom's high school senior ring, little hand imprint in plaster: my short list of favorite things I wouldn't mind sharing with the world.

Now, go forth and spread your joy.  

Sports Cornered

A cup of hot Tulsi tea has made its way down the gullet in an effort to relax and fight off this developing head cold that I evidently inherited from my son.  Sigh.  Bummer.  My mission is to heal myself -- shake it off before heading out to Colorado on Thanksgiving Day.  Our old home state where I'll spend nine days bouncing between two families, my side and the hubby's side, with two intense court days regarding my younger sister sandwiched in between.  I'm still searching for a partner to help absorb the particular burden of that experience.  But that's another story.  So is the fact that on "Dancing With The Stars" (am I really subjecting myself to this?) Sarah Palin's daughter, who has improved but is NOT an entertaining dancer to watch at all, remains as a finalist for next week's showdown, but Brandy, who is graceful, elegant, and a pleasure to view in motion, was voted off.  Popularity is a fickle fancy which requires something less than talent.

Let's talk sports coaches for a moment.  My opinion of sports has always been a bit unfairly colored by the glut of attention which historically seems to be focused on professional athletes and their games to the exclusion of other worthy pursuits which have the potential to actually build a stronger foundation for our presently wobbly nation.  Teaching comes to mind. 

But in the past two years, I've come to realize what my husband has tried to tell me for awhile: time spent participating in organized athletics during childhood can have a positive effect on the future of the child.  The lessons of teamwork and pushing oneself, not to mention learning to balance studies with extracurricular activities, all while keeping fit and taking instruction from a superior, are useful later in life.  And it isn't necessary to continue an active role in sports to reap those benefits.

It's been the coaches who have swayed my opinion on the matter.  And not just the coaches who are willing to work with the parents to do what is best for the student.  Though I definitely prefer their ilk to the more contrary and sullen instructors who feel the best place for a parent is not the inbox or the telephone, especially if that parent happens to be a woman.  Both types have managed to push my son to challenge himself and decide where sensitivity ends and responsibility begins.  Both types have caused me to question what I held to be true and nudged me to accept other possibilities besides those of my own contrivance.

In one particular instance, 7th grade baseball, I thought that both me and my boy might not make it to the end of the aggravating season.  I'd met Brillo pads less abrasive than the guy in charge!  But we endured sometimes quite major rough patches.  And we adapted without compromising character.  By the beginning of the following season, the two of us felt like old pros, and the words and attitude which once vexed us so, slid right off our backs.  Unfortunately, we didn't see the end, much less the official beginning, of that season, but the blame was all on the attention-seeking head-butting 8th grade STUDENT as opposed to the gifted and hard-working ATHLETE.  The only role the coach played was the appropriate rule-following role.

Now in 9th grade, the high school arena, organized sports exist in an entirely new plane.  I attended the football meeting in May with trepidation, only to experience immediate relief the moment the coaches opened their mouth!  Shocker.  Especially where football was concerned . . . brutish game that it is.  They expected big things of these boys, and not just on the field but in the classroom.  And they also expected more than just fundraising from the parents.  They wanted our INPUT.  The freshman boys went on to win every single game in their season and clinched their championship game: a first ever.  Under the tutelage of the same coach, my son has decided to try his hand, both hands and legs, arms, feet, etc., at wrestling.  He comes home quoting practical advice from the coach.  Plus, he's working harder than I've ever seen him work on his fitness.

I recently had to e-mail over a grade issue, finding myself in a pickle because I'd rashly promised my son he'd not continue in sports if he went below a 'C' on his report card.  Without a hiccup of judgment, this man, who is a teacher first, winner of championships second, worked out a system whereby my son sat and studied during practice and ran afterward for not attending practice.  In this way, Zachary could see what he was missing by slacking off in the classroom.  The coach realizes that most of these boys will need to pursue money for college via grades as opposed to sports talent, especially in wresting.  This move endeared the coach to both me and my husband; it also ticked my son off, but he's found a way to put the entire episode in my shopping cart at the checkout stand, if you know what I mean!  Coach is blameless and yet is giving a major assist in character building for a kid who will surely one day become an outstanding young man; mom shoulders the well-aimed angst, patiently awaiting the faraway day when that selfsame outstanding young man will thank her effusively and earnestly for being so impossible back in high school.

And where will I place my gratitude on that well-deserved day?  Right up there with thanking the Lord for the endurance, grace, and restraint required in the waiting, I'll be thanking not only my son's teachers, adult relatives, and youth leaders, but his coaches, too.  It really does take a village, folks . . . and a shiny metal whistle to boot!  

 

Lost and Found . . . and Found

When I was a little girl, I was sure of one thing I clearly needed to be a complete kid: a dog.  THE dog.  One of those companions-of-a-lifetime dogs whose memory would be burned in my psyche long after the myriad adventures and lessons we would swap, one with the other.  A dog to which long declarative odes and essays would be penned in effort to capture our forever bond.

Long after the nights I would spend sleeping at her side under the winking stars -- I also was quite clear the dog should be a female.  Long beyond the glorious afternoons we'd share racing through grassy fields dotted with wildflowers and splashing in creeks full of darting fish.  Long past the point of her death and burial near the red ferns -- having owned the beloved friend for the duration of her life from puppy hood to senior mutt.  I yearned for my own scruffy Old Yeller, my own courageous Little Ann and Old Dan, my own heroic Lassie.  The animals of those stories were real to me.  With these depictions of emotional highs and lows, and their classic descriptions of coming of age under the tutelage of a wise four-legged teacher, came a certainty that this was how a child's life should be experienced.

And, as I've written before in this blog, I did, in fact, live out my own versions of this youthful dream turned reality.  My Bonnet with her babies, my Cassie the Turkey killer, my Rosie the mop . . . and presently, my arthritic gentlelady, Panda.  Two parted from me too soon to other homes; one was put down before her time due to disease; and the last will hopefully fade away as she naps in the sunshine spot of her choice in our Tennessee backyard.  The book lore and my deep-seated needs were matched by the actuality of ownership.  My dogs most definitely filled to brimming the room in my girlish heart reserved for them.

With the onset of full-fledged adulthood, however, no such certain hopes manifested to match my canine-for-life-era-completion scenario.  I felt unable or unwilling to specify a replacement.  Not beast.  Not man.  While I engaged in romance, I did not linger in the wings awaiting my prince charming and the royal brood we would raise together . . . though he did arrive, albeit in a black Toyota truck as opposed to on a midnight stallion.  And our union has produced a self-proclaimed queen and a self-soothing princess; the young prince remains in training.

If anything, the adult years resulted in a decided lack of certainty that anything could capture, much less encapsulate, the grown-up experience.

However, on Thanksgiving of 2007, a stray scrapper of an orange kitty wandered onto our property and marched right into the collective family heart.  Without my consent, he inserted himself in the mascot role of my life.  His often immature indoor antics, counterpointed by the confident independence he exuded out-of-doors, mirrored the duality of my existence above and beyond adolescence.  Only, I didn't realize any of this until he went missing earlier this week.

In an effort to be pragmatic where this feline -- who my son and one of his pals named Fabio -- was concerned, I pounded it home to my kids that his lifestyle clearly left him open to danger and a resulting shorter lifespan.  We should be prepared if ever we lost him.  As he came to us an outdoor fellow, we allowed him to continue in that vein: his personality was already so deeply rooted in wayfaring, hunting, and the love of excursion.  Not to mention that his dander was more manageable on a part-time basis for us allergy-challenged individuals.

For almost three years, this cat has never missed a meal of his own accord.  He might show up at lunch and find no one home to fill his bowl, but he always showed up.  If we failed to secure him inside for the night hours, we could be assured his eager meowing on our covered back porch would greet us in the AM.  Though others in our neighborhood feed him snacks, shower him with attention, and sometimes allow him entrance into their homes, our Fabio the Kitty knows wherein his home base lies.

Until this past Monday evening when he downed his kibble and squeezed past arriving Bunco ladies to return to his meandering nighttime ministrations.  Come Tuesday morning, his face was absent from the lower left pane of glass in our back door that is hopelessly smudged with his nose prints.  For the next fourteen meal times, I reassured my eldest daughter and myself that he would return.  Even without benefit of the ID which was attached to his second lost collar.  Even though I walked my dog through the hay field across the street, skirting the treeline and searching the ground for that familiar creamsicle-colored carcass while watching the sky for circling carrion feeders.  The experienced-with-loss realist in me grappled with the hopeful dreamer on a daily basis.  Every morning, I awoke too early with thoughts of him immediately tripping through my mind.  One very late night while praying, I began to cry as I recalled every trifling and amusing aspect of this animal who so often annoyed me as much as charmed me.  It bothered me, somewhat, that one so acquainted with loss could be bothered by the disappearance of a cat.  Hadn't I prepared myself for that eventuality? 

Online, I posted status updates of his continued no-show on Facebook, created a 'missing' ad on Craig's List, and disseminated e-mail alerts.  My sister-in-law who lives across town texted or e-mailed each day, along with my mother-in-law in Colorado, to express concern and query after him.  I trolled the local animal shelter; I called out for him during my morning constitutionals.  And in a typical gesture of last hope,  my daughter and I created a flyer to inundate local mailboxes.  If I could have secured a spot on a milk carton, he'd have been there, too!

So yesterday morning, with the help of my son and my very loyal friend and neighbor, Betsy, we dispersed every last one of 150 flyers in the vicinity of Fabio's territory.  We even had a possible sighting which proved fruitless but rather entertaining courtesy of the small boy who tried to aid in our search.  We ran out before a full canvass could be completed.  The very last paper in my possession was deposited in the newspaper niche of a house where I knew the owner had five or six cats of her own roaming her yard; I passed up six other houses on her block, guessing that a fellow owner would probably pay more attention to the MISSING ORANGE CAT heading shouting up at her.  For the purposes of knowing the back story -- because I'm a beginning, MIDDLE, and end sort of gal -- this would prove a smartly tactical move on my part.

In the late afternoon hours, while I snapped pictures of my husband's fellow EmDeon employees playing a beanbag game called Cornhole (oh, how I detest that name) on our back lawn, with their wives and children milling about in the fading light, my iPhone rang with an unfamiliar number.  I missed the call.  But I sure did get the message!  In a detailed recording, the fellow feline owner on the aforementioned corner lot that I pass on my dog's mile walk almost every day, proceeded to regale me with the joyous tail, er, TALE, of finding Fabio in a roundabout way.

The long and short of it is this: it appears our highly curious cat (curiosity did WHAT, exactly, to the cat?) followed a TV cable guy under the house of this woman's neighbor.  Unbeknownst to the repairman, our sneaky fellow was left behind when the access door was shut and locked.  For five days, the underbelly of a stranger's home was Fabio's sensory deprivation pit.  As I've not yet spoken with the people, I'm not sure if they were out of town last week or his plaintive cries were simply muffled by excellent insulation.  But for whatever reason, the homeowners happened upon him yesterday and walked over to ask if he belonged to the woman with multiple cats of her own.  Having checked her mail earlier that day, the story of Fabio's dilemma, not to  mention the image of his countenance, was fresh in her mind.  She quickly called me to alleviate my concern.  Knowing cats as she does, and having seen him at her place many times over the years, she knew he would now return home.  They fed and watered him and sent him on his way.

Twenty long minutes after that phone call, an orange and white blur streaked through my kitchen and straight to the pantry.  A series of pitiful yowls broke through the noise of the potluck party.  I scooped that slightly slenderized version of the Valdez mouser into my arms and nuzzled him whilst crooning my own series of pitiful words.  Because he was the topic of ongoing conversation with various cat-loving guests throughout the day, his arrival was a triumph for the entire cast of computer engineers and their families.  Fabio's return was the post-dessert entertainment.  And the bestest early 41st birthday present a girl could ever ask for!

He's none the worse for wear.  After being treated to a generous serving of his own food, and helping himself to the fish liquor left in a bowl on the kitchen counter from the cod used in our fish tacos, Fabio literally begged to be released to the call of the wild.  But that's a big negatory until Ashley returns home with his new stretchy collar and freshly-minted ID tag.  Until then, I have a companion on my 'sickbed' (as I'm passing this female-day in the semi-reclining under-the-heating-pad position), purring away in the general vicinity of my size 9 1/2 feet. 

I couldn't be any happier in this stolen moment of unspoken adulthood need.  That wee space reserved for an ornery orange tomcat with a propensity for trouble and charisma in equal measures?  TAKEN!  Thank you very much.




  

The Baked Goods

Cakes, arthritis, co-dependency.  My top 3 areas of research as of late.  I wonder how often they turn up in the same sentence in the entire history of writing.  Any statisticians in the readership?  Could prove a mildly interesting Vegas alternative for the betting crowd.  Or, maybe not.

In pursuit of building a bigger, better, tastier birthday cake, I broke out my updated version of "Joy of Cooking" and perused the section devoted to the anatomy of a cake.  Learned more about the differences between whipping and mixing, and time differentials with handheld electric mixers versus their countertop behemoth cousins, than I ever truly needed to know.  And, evidently, those were NOT the facts I should have committed to my ever-failing memory before making this year's mouth-watering coconut-lemon curd confection for Sarah.  The paragraph on not adding too much batter to one pan, and inadvertantly leaving out half of the leavening, would have saved my entire day efforts AND costly ingredients.  Sigh. 

Doubling the recipe and finding myself one pan short, I filled the three pans at my disposal with the divided contents of the missing fourth pan.  A gamble, I knew.  I sensed the baked results were a bit on the heavy side.  But I pressed on.  The completed construction was visually perfect.  Unfortunately, the sawing action required to cut down and through the layers was our clue that all was not as it seemed.  Though I completed a slice on principle, Sarah and her boyfriend were entirely unable to do much more than lick the lemon curd layers and nibble on the buttercream frosting.  The cake itself was almost entirely void of the lovely air pockets which create lightness of being: it was as if several hundred cakes decided to compress themselves into one dense thunk! of cooked chewy batter.  THREE TIMES OVER!  A fossil could have been hiding in the depths! 

We played our own little bet-free guessing game as to its weight, taking into consideration the covered glass serving dish: I emerged victorious with 13 pounds!  At least I could own that one small triumph.  It took me a week to screw up the courage to throw it out.  There were several episodes of hefting it from the GE Profile fridge so that I could simply gaze in disgust at the failed attempt and wallow in self-pity.  In between those moments, I dug out lemon curd with a pickaxe; chipped away at the coconut-flavored covering; and, sent a few substantial slices over to my sugar-craving neighbor who insisted it couldn't  be THAT bad.  Wonder what he thought when he had to lift it out of the front loader with his bad back?! 

Because I've never erred in such a manner as this since my newlywed flub nearly 22 years ago with the backward recipe of buttermilk GRAVY and biscuits -- envision if you will a sweet young wife, eager to pleasingly fill her new husband's stomach with a hearty breakfast, both of them sitting at the table, forks having endured several increasingly hesitant trips from plate to mouth, before the despairing man finally breaks, "Babe, I love you, but I can't eat another bite of this!" and pushes the offending muddled melange away, with the cook quickly following suit in embarrassed relief -- I demanded a replay from myself over the weekend.  I'm pleased to announce that I got it right.  (Only one snafu marred an otherwise out-of-the-park second attempt: it appears a weighty feline, coincidentally himself weighing 13 pounds, trod on the towel-covered corner of one layer.  Thus, a perfectly flavorful cake with gorgeous texture but of flawed physical presence!)  This morning, my son crowed that it was, and is, simply "the best cake ever made!"  As far as marriages go, coconut and lemon are a perfect culinary match in the dessert world.

Well, where have all my words gone?  Surprise, surprise -- to the food.  So much for bemoaning the sudden onset of seeming osteo-arthritis in my fingers over the past two months -- we'll save that for the post-visit-to-the-rheumatologist -- or discussing my emerging understanding of where I end and my much beloved drug-addicted younger brother begins.  Perhaps if they floated in a sea of tart lemon curd or rolled about in creamy coconut yumminess, they would have earned a few more lines.

There's always next time.  Did I mention our cat has been missing for a day and never in three years has this been the case?  My eldest child is beside herself.  I sure hope and pray he's locked in someone's garage or car and the owners have simply been napping away the sunshine hours! 

Partly Cloudy

Somewhere in my box of pictures -- you know? the real physical pictures, 3 1/2 X 5's and 4 X 6's, doubles often for free, jammed into those envelopes that have a separate pocket for the negatives -- is a terrific shot of a cloud formation that my Uncle Zan spotted and snapped quite a few years ago.  It is untouched.  Totally truthful.  Perfectly captured . . . as are a great many of his photos.  He's got a natural eye.  This particular collision of suspended water molecules formed the shape of a fluffy stereotypical teddy bear.  Right down to the button nose and rounded belly with stubby arms and legs protruding from their proper places. 

Though I didn't see the nebulous cuddle toy myself, the picture, and what I know of my uncle, set me on a permanent course of cloud watching.  And not just for the sheer beauty and contrast inherent within their manifestations of brightest white and steel gray and all variations in between.  I'm drawn to their whimsy as I press forward in my hopeful search to discover just one, ONE, instantly recognizable consummately shaped-for-viewing cloud.

It's not that almost every cloud which flits, floats, and flees across the sky lacks just enough shape within their amorphous form to stimulate  my imagination.  Just today I admired a giant bug larva with its mouth agape, first appearing to spew smoke, than seeming to consume the other smaller larvae in its path.  A dinosaur, perhaps a brontosaurus or diplodocus, grazed just below and to the left of the aggressive infantile insect.  And off to the right, a curvy woman bedecked in a manner of dress best reproduced by Impressionists like Manet and Renoir, drawn waists and rump-enhancing bustles, leaned her full-hat- adorned head back in the afternoon wind.  Every time I fly the friendly skies, cities within the clouds unfold beneath my gaze, thrilling me to no end.

But as clear as those images were to me, I guarantee that the moment I sought to reveal their perceived identity to those around me, confused stares and shaking heads would be my reward.  Some folks need to see the obvious: a rare and elusive element in cloud gazing where shapeshifting occurs on the half-second of every second!

The Impressionistic young lady is now absent from the ozone; perhaps she ate the larva or was herself ingested by a prehistoric grazer gone carnivorous.  So much for the friendly skies!  It seems that even in nature, my mind leans toward eating.  Huh?  Imagine that.  I wonder if these leanings have been lately enhanced by my temporary denial-to-self of all things dairy, sugar, wheat, and coffee?  Oh, what I wouldn't give for a lovely crunchy dark chocolate-dipped homemade biscotti accompanied by a steaming Starbucks mug of cafe Americano!  Perhaps tomorrow that very image, so clear in my head right this very instant, will choose to manifest for a hot second in the scudding puffs of marshmallow creme overhead . . .

Until then.

A Halloween Moment

Another Hallow's Eve done and Snickered away.  Frozen Snickers, that is.  I tossed one in the Frigidaire for later consumption.  To be had AFTER the entire tray of brown rice sushi from Kroger; the mineral water and the honey wheat beer; a sample of each mini-candy bar in our arsenal, au naturel; a carrot AND a handful of whole grain Pringles dipped in my daughter's onion dip; that barely-there slice of Red Baron frozen pizza; a wee shot of a custard-style drink reminiscent of egg nog; and sometime BEFORE a cupcake from our neighbors, topped with two of those candy corn-flavored pumpkin-shaped candies, and the four pizza bites I tossed back for good measure.

I was slightly hungry.  At least until that tray of rice-wrapped shrimp with mayo sauce wriggled its way down my gullet -- the rest was purposeful overkill.  After all, the fishies might get lonely!  I'd worked up an appetite, what with all of that last-minute activity to create a festive trick-or-treating atmosphere for the costumed kiddies who annually cruise our cul-de-sacs in search of sweets and treats.  Last year, I discovered a clearance bin of packaged fake spider webs.  They came home with me.  My kids helped me adorn the bushes and house . . . it was all so coo-o-l.  A black light from Home Depot helped funkify things, reflecting in that almost magical way off all things white, including the costumes.  I was hooked!  next year would be even better.  But NOT costlier.

This year, I invested in four bags -- two white, one green, one black -- of the incredible stretching web at a total of eight bucks and enlisted the reticent assistance of my son.  In a rapid flurry of search and create, I demanded creativity and action out of us.  "C'mon!  Think.  What can we use?  Whatever we have.  Let's put it together!"  My kids may be of the opinion that I went a bit manic in my hasty efforts.  It felt a bit like one of those timed-challenge reality shows.  You know the ones where the contestants have to shop, design, display, and use their spaces or foods or products with a few hours or a day or a weekend?  Things get a bit crazy in the making, but it pays off in the end.  And no one fell off the ladder!

We raked a generous pile of fall leaves onto the sidewalk to create crunch beneath the feet of our candy-seekers.  We spun webs from the house to the bushes to the redbud tree, spanning heights and dropping low enough to coerce the taller walkers into ducking.  I transformed a fuzzy black scarf into a spider hiding in the fern.  A military jumpsuit crammed with sweatshirts and blankets, dressed in a Bronco jersey, cleats, and a helmet, kept vigil in a rocking chair near the driveway.  We wrapped strings of orange lights on the river birch. The giant Pink Panther of Zachary's historical ring-toss fame several years back occupied another rocking chair leading up to the front door.  Several monkey teddy bears of varying sizes found their ways into the limbs of several trees on the footpath.  For the second year in a row, my daughter and her boyfriend carved up our pumpkin, creating a classic candlelit jack-o-lantern for display in our whimsical wonderland.

And the visiting kids had a blast.  Touching the stuffed animals; reaching for the gauzy film of the 'cave' they were entering.  The parents complimented the decor.  One harried mom and a lone cowboy dad found themselves caught up in our giant sticky web but escaped without further incident to ring another doorbell with their toddler superheroes and tv characters in tow.  I donned my traditional from-the-closet last-minute costume: I've been a gypsy, hippy, military jet pilot, and teen cheerleader . . . and, now, my husband.  (It seems he's highly useful fodder for this blog lately.)  My neighbor friend stopped by for a visit and couldn't stop laughing at her usually feminine walking partner, bedecked in business slacks (do they make my hips look fat?), button-up shirt, power tie, slicked hair, pen in pocket, and penciled mustache.  The fact that I was in character -- voice an octave lower but not exaggerated, shoulders squared and my chin tucked a bit, feet in a toes-out stance, one hand jammed into my pocket, the other holding a brewsky -- disconcerted her.  Just a touch.  When I invited her into the kitchen, "Hey, babe, how about a beer?  I won't bite.  I don't hit on married women," she hesitated. "I feel kind of strange going in there with you . . . him . . . " she stammered through her giggles, "It's so strange.  You.  Like this!"

She urged me to visit her husband, which I did.  Again, remaining in character.  Sitting.  Legs wide.  Burping as I clutched my beer bottle, by then filled with lime mineral water.  Talking on about work and how much more comfortable thongs were than boxer briefs.  He sat there on his couch, trying to place who I resembled.  "Uh, yeah.  Some say I look like a young Tom Cruise . . . 'You can't handle the truth!'"  He shook his head, "No.  Nope.  More like one of those slick car salesmen."  He took my picture, saying aloud how he thought sleep might be difficult that night after seeing me in my manly countenance.  I told him my work there was done.

All that remains from the bewitching hour is a dull ache in my burdened belly and a living room full of panthers, gorillas, and a half-unstuffed jumpsuit which formerly weighed almost as much as a real man.  I've yanked the tie from my neck.  Returned my husband's good work clothes to his closet.  Washed the feathered mascara from my upper lip though a four o'clock shadow remains behind.  Picked up the helpful boy from his bonfire party -- dropping of his girlfriend at her home in the process by means of another of those wondrous Tennessee side roads which lead to somewhere, anywhere, and back again.  The lights are out.  The candle snuffed.  All of the opened Twizzlers and Twix handed out.  My teeth are flossed and my blog now written.  Except for two things . . .

Did I mention that my fifteen year-old son attended a party last night, too?  Guests were urged to dress for the occasion.  He made plans with a few other boys and donned girl's clothing.  However, his biceps and reluctance to step into character hurt his interpretation; his father was so proud.  I guess cross-dressing runs in the family?

And I'm immensely glad that none of my children trick-or-treated this year.  I don't need the candy!