Fears, phobias and public transportation

Here it is, November already!  My youngest granddaughter, the baby, just turned 6.  How is that possible?  The years are just flying by now.  It stinks.  Summer was way too short, and now we have to slop through another winter.  I'm against it.

I am very much against the stresses of this time of year.  In winter, all I want to do is wrap up in a blanky, drink hot coffee, and read.  And sleep.  Mostly sleep.  Instead,  I must prepare for yet another Thanksgiving and Christmas, holidays that will be interrupted this year by a trip to England.  Yes, I hear your violins playing for me.  What a hardship, going to England.

Well, England in November is no Palm Beach.  And the first few days of the visit, I will be on my own since Dave is going there for business purposes and I am excess baggage until Thursday.  Which means I will have to amuse myself and get myself around solo in a strange country.  Kinda like being in San Francisco, only a much longer flight.

Most people who think they know me don't know that I have been battling two powerful phobias for most of my life.  The first, and strongest, is mazeophobia.  Mazeophobia is the fear of getting lost.  Since I have poor vision and no sense of direction, it seems logical that I would fear getting lost.  Time, experience, and a GPS have damped this phobia down a bit, but it comes raging back to life from time to time... usually because of my second phobia- neophobia.

Yes, I am afraid of new experiences.  While getting lost is NOT a new experience, going someplace I've never been before is.  Which is why I usually go with someone or have someone else drive whenever going someplace for the first time.  That will not be an option in England.

Nor is it an option here, in San Francisco, now that my guide (daughter Kelly) has obsconded to Tennessee for some ungodly period of time.  I have not yet been able to overcome my phobias to venture any farther afield than the bookstore on the corner.  I left my GPS in Tullahoma.  I am doomed.

I haven't figured out the public transportation system yet.  There's so much of it, and it is so varied.  Trains, light-rail, cable cars, buses... lions and tigers and bears, oh my!   I could take a cab anywhere I want to go, but really don't want to take out a mortgage on the house just because I've been outsmarted by Bart, or am appalled at Muni.  (There's a pun in there but only the very old or very movie literate will get it).

ANYWAY, I have spent my whole life overcoming my fears by confronting them, and so tomorrow, I am going to brave the perils of city transport and go out.  I intend to have high tea at the Crown and Crumpet in Ghirardelli Square if it hare-lips me.  Wish me well.  And say good-bye now.  Don't know when - or if- I'll be back.

Tho' much is taken, much abides

I was born in 1949.  I am sixty as of September 12.  I am now the age my grandmother was when I was born.  I was her first grandchild.  If I follow the projection of my grandmother's life, I have only 16 more years left before the end.

If I follow in my mother's footsteps, I will be gone in 4 years.

On the other hand, should I model myself after my grandfather, I have another 29 years ahead of me.  Aside from deafness and a terrifying inability to drive safely, Grandpa was healthy until the day he died.  I share two of the three characteristics listed.  You figure it out.

Or, if I track my dad, I have another 25 years to go.  My dad went off to WWII at the age of 17 and saw and endured things that marked him for life.  At one point, he missed his boat which went down with all hands.  Another time he was in a PT boat with blood up to his ankles.  He was sealed off in a flooding compartment with about half a dozen other sailors and was the only one to emerge alive.  I believe he's suffered from survivor guilt his whole life. He never expected to live to 40.  He never believed in the future, and is both astonished and rueful about being 85.  He is convinced he is going to hell when he dies, and so has decided not to.

You can't help thinking about things like this when you reach landmark birthdays.  Life moves faster as you age and life changes faster than you can comprehend or embrace.  You can feel yourself becoming obsolete.  When the children are grown and the career is over, it is easy to feel unnecessary and to wonder, not if your life has any purpose, but if it ever did.  What has been the point?  The meaning of life, if there is one... is it nothing more than just the day to day living of it?  This is how our thoughts turn when we are no longer young.  We must grow philosophic as we approach the unescapable unknown ending. 

Bette Davis said that old age ain't for sissies.
Woody Allen said he didn't mind dying, he just didn't want to be there when it happened.

The certainty of one's death tinges everything when one reaches a certain age.  Is it any wonder that the majority of the elderly suffer from clinical depression?  It would be so easy to succumb to the darker thoughts and primal fears. 

But you can't dwell on these things.  There's more to life than death.  Life is too sweet even as it is too short to let the shortness of it eclipse all else. 

So I will take a page from Alfred Lord Tennyson, and end here with a quote from my favorite poem of his, Ulysses.  Ulysses is speaking to his surviving comrades at the ebb of his life.  He is chafing at the limits of his strength and the burden of his responsibility.  Ulysses was a hero, but I think the sentiment expressed in these lines is appropriate for all mortals.  Here is the excerpt that most speaks to me:

...you and I are old;

Old age hath yet his honor and his toil.

Death closes all; but something ere the end,

Some work of noble note, may yet be done,

Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods.

The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks;

The long day wanes; the slow moon climbs; the deep

Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends.

'T is not too late to seek a newer world.

Push off, and sitting well in order smite

The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds

To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths

Of all the western stars, until I die.

It may be that the gulfs will wash us down;

It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,

And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.

Tho' much is taken, much abides; and tho'

We are not now that strength which in old days

Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are,--

One equal temper of heroic hearts,

Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will

To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

Have you heard the one about...

I can't tell a joke worth beans. I love a good joke, but half the fun of hearing one is passing it on. I can't do that. I mean, I can pass it on but when I'm done, it's not a joke anymore. Sigh.

I am a very funny person, really, in a conversational, quick retort, punny, smart ass sort of way. I make people laugh all the time. Just not when I am telling jokes. Sigh again.

So I will tell you a couple of stories instead.

These two involve Christmas. I know it's only August, but, God as my witness, CRACKER BARREL already has Christmas stuff for sale. (They have Halloween and Thanksgiving stuff as well. People, we're talking early AUGUST here. It isn't even autumn yet! I despise the blantant cynical merchandising that is forcing the holidays on us earlier and earlier every year). But I digress. I feel comfortable telling these stories because they're humorous and I'm not selling anything.

Let us now travel back, back, back in time to 1983. A whole century ago. (I'm not wrong about that. 1983 was in the 20th century, 2009 is in the 21st...). My darling husband has been disappointing me gift-wise for about 15 years. Every year at the appropriate time, I give him a list of things I want for my birthday, or for Mother's Day, or for our anniversary, or for Christmas. Every year he apparently shreds the list and buys me something practical. Like a toaster. (I asked for Obsession perfume for every occasion for FIVE STRAIGHT YEARS before I finally just broke down and bought it for myself. Think about that. I asked for it at least 20 times and he didn't take the hint).

So, my birthday rolls around in September, like it does on an annoyingly annual basis, and once again, the Clueless Gifter strikes. I open my present and nod resignedly. Yep. It's a Dust Buster. I am beyond disappointed this time. I am pissed. "I don't know why it is, but you never give me what I want. You only give me what you want me to have," I snarl. "Do me a favor. Forget about getting me anything for Christmas this year. Don't put yourself out."

That was a very ungracious thing to say. Saying it was a mean thing to do. Damn, it felt good.

Anyhoo, Christmas starts looming on the horizon and the hubs starts asking me what I want for Christmas, and I rub salt in the wound. "Why ask me? You never get me what I ask for, so why set me up for disappointment?" Later queries are met with the set reply "I don't want anything."

Christmas day dawns and the cherubs are up at the crack of it, tearing and shredding their way orgiastically through the wretched excess that is Christmas in the Lapczynski home. Dave unwraps and is pleased with his gifts. There is nothing for me under the tree.

There is nothing for me in my stocking, either, which hangs forlorn and anorexic all by itself. The bloated stockings that were filled for Dave and the kids have long since disgorged their bounty and are scattered amid the debris. Mine just glowers at me, empty and humiliated. "Big mouth," it says to me in a rather wooly, sarcastic voice. "Idiot. Well, you got what you asked for. Moron."

I do not respond. I have enough emotional turmoil going on, I don't need to get into it with a snarky sock. Nor do I cry or make a fuss. In fact, I do my best to act as if I am oblivious to my giftless Christmas. I am just struck by the irony that the first time the man ever gives me what I have asked for is when I have asked for nothing. I sit on the couch in a brown mood, watching the kiddies and trying not to think about putting anti-freeze in Dave's coffee.

Then, from behind me, a gorgeous strand of pearls descends into my lap. And another. And another. "Babe, I didn't intend to be mean. I just wanted to shower you with pearls this year."

Boy, did the man get laid that night. Merry Christmas to all.

Jump ahead to 1990. My beloved son is in the high school band which is in the Christmas parade. My hubby and I are watching the parade with another married couple and we wind up in front of Arnold's Furniture Store. The band passes us by and I turn to look in the window and see the most beautiful painting in the most beautiful frame I have ever seen. I nudge my girlfriend and point it out to her. She agrees that it is stunning. We both bring the picture to the attention of our husbands, who make the required and insincere murmurs of praise and accord.

On the way home, I tell the hubs that all I want for Christmas is that picture. I have been completely captivated by it. He nods. Christmas morning comes, and of course, I do not get the picture. Hubby apologizes in a rush when he sees my well-disguised disappointment; he had gone to Arnold's the very next day after work, but the picture was already gone. I was disappointed, but I also was sincerely touched that he'd made the effort. AND he had gotten me a very, very nice gift, so I didn't want to seem like an ingrate.

Later that day, we go to see the married couple with whom we had gone to the parade.

Yep. You guessed it. SHE got the picture for Christmas.

I can't begin to describe the combination of rage, jealousy and shame about the rage and jealousy I felt at that moment, but I can relive it at will.

Jump ahead yet again to the year 1993. By this time, our married friends have divorced. My girlfriend is in need of cash and calls me. "I know how much you love the picture. Would you be interested in buying it?" Hmmm... let me think. Do I want the picture? Hmmm... I have been avoiding her bedroom for three years for fear that seeing it would compel me to strangle on the spot. I have plotted several burglary scenarios which I abandoned because the picture, being the only thing taken, would be a dead give-away... and my friend was in and out of my house all the time, so where would I hang it?

"I might be, " I say cagily. "How much are you asking?"

She sells me the picture for $50. And you say there is no Santa Claus. (yes, you do, I've heard you).

Here's a picture of the picture.

Now, really, weren't those amusing stories? Aren't you glad I didn't tell a joke?

Home Sweet Home Away From Home

Imagine this whole space filled to the window sills with packed boxes. Sadly. I don't have to. I may have been spared the packing, but the unpacking more than made up for it. We were downsizing from three bedrooms to two, and yet, miraculously, in about a week we were able to cobble together a comfortable living space.


Here is a shot of the livingroom/ office area of the great room. Dave's office is the lower left hand side of the photo. My little office space is hiding behind the first pillar. We have some really great views. You can't see from this shot, but the Bay Bridge can be seen through the second window from the right.

And here it is, the Bay Bridge. It is so cool watching boats and ships leave and enter the bay. Below is the view from the kitchen side of the great room. That's AT&T Park, home of the Giants, a view that makes Dave SO happy.

Looking down toward the street from the diningroom end of the great room. We watched the 4th of July fireworks from this table and had an absolutely perfect, couldn't-be-better view of the pyrotechnics.

This is the view to the left of the diningroom. There is usually a flotilla of sailboats out in the bay. Not when I am taking pictures, of course.

Dave's office was still a work in progress when I took this. There is a balcony out the sliding glass doors.


This is one of the views from the balcony. If I'd panned left, I would have seen the Twin Peaks. They really do look like earthwork boobies.

Part of the hallway leading to our bedroom. To the left (unseen) is the laundry room. Behind me (unseen) are the bathroom and linen closet.


Our bedroom, also at this point a work in progress.

San Francisco is a wonderful place. Our apartment is a wonderful place. Our views are so wonderful the movers took numerous cell phone pictures of them. The view from THIS window is of... AT&T Park. GO, GIANTS!

Chocoholics of the world, unite! You have nothing to lose but your figure.. your teeth...

Chocolate is good. Milk chocolate is REALLY good. White chocolate isn't chocolate at all and is deserving of our contempt. Dark chocolate is supposed to be good for you; since it doesn't taste anywhere near as wonderful as milk chocolate, that's probably true. I have had just about every kind of chocolate in the world and can say with complete confidence that there is no such thing as bad chocolate.

1. Forget the snobbery of European chocolate. Ditto Whitman's and Stovers. Hershey chocolate is the best in the world. Period. My mom would buy the really huge bar and she and I would surreptitiously break off and share chunks of it late at night when everyone else was asleep. Cherished memory.

2. Another cherished memory involves a hot summer night with Mom and I in our filmiest nighties watching Johnny Carson and trying to stay cool (we were both night owls), and a Good Humor truck, looking spectral as it moved through the muggy weather, a haze highlighted by street lamps surrounding it and the two of us dashing into the night to buy Chocolate Eclair Ice Cream Bars, nibbling on them slowly to make them last. That is the run-on sentence from hell, but memories should have a stream of consciousness quality to them, I think.

3. The most over-rated chocolates in the WORLD are Belgian in general and Dove in specific. Don't get me wrong, I'd eat them in a heartbeat. I mean, c'mon, they're chocolate...but they ain't Hershey chocolate.

4. Purity Dairy makes the world's best chocolate milk. AND the second best chocolate ice cream.

5. The world's best chocolate ice cream was/is? made by the Stroh's Brewing company. Yes, yes, a brewery in Detroit. Here's a link to the Wikipedi article, which is pretty darn interesting.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Stroh%27s_Ice_Cream

I love ice cream. I think it is the most perfect food especially when it is chocolate.

6. The second best chocolate in the world is Ghirardelli. It's so good that San Francisco actually has a "shrine" to it called Ghirardelli Square. You can get the world's greatest hot fudge sundae there. FYI: fudge is a form of chocolate. It is entirely edible.

7. Nestle's makes the best semi-sweet chocolate chips, and their Tollhouse recipe makes the best chocolate chip cookies.

8. The best chocolate in a Whitman Sampler is the milk chocolate caramel.

9. The best chocolate in a Russell Stover candy box is the milk chocolate caramel.

10. All the best candy bars are combinations of milk chocolate and caramel.

Being a diabetic has seriously impeded my chocolate consumption. However, since I am a diabetic, I know the nature of my demise. It will literally be death by chocolate. I shall kill myself with kindness...and as much Hershey's chocolate as it takes.

And awaaay we go to San Francisco

Our lifestyle confuses people. Living in two places at the same time is confusing. Since 2004, Dave and I have bounced back and forth on a semi-regular basis between a house in the south and an apartment on the west coast, for business reasons. I have had to explain our split domicile way of life, often more than once, to just about everyone.

The explanation goes like this: Our permanent address is our cozy home in Tennessee. Our apartment in San Diego has been our home-away-from-home since 2004 and we go there a lot because corporate headquarters are there.

However, Cubic has a big contract in San Francisco, so, come the third week of June, our California apartment will be in SAN FRANCISCO. We are moving from San Diego to the city on the bay. Which does NOT mean we are giving up our home in Tennessee. It is, after all, our home.

When I tell people we are moving but will still live in Tullahoma, they don't get it. That's because when NORMAL people move, they LEAVE one address and relocate to a different singular address. Normal ain't us.

We have leased a beautiful two bedroom apartment on the 15th floor of this amazing building in the downtown area. We have views of the Bay Bridge and AT&T park from our livingroom.

Here are some pics for you.

See the roundy bit on this building? Our apartment is in the roundy bit.

Here's the floorplan. Notice the roundy bit. It is entirely windows.

This sales model is on the 5th floor, so the view is not so cool. See the pillars? See the windows? This is the roundy bit from the inside. This is not our furniture. I downloaded this pic from the comples' website. Imagine what the view is like from 10 stories higher.

This is a partial view of the kitchen, again in the model.

And across the street: public transportation of every kind, a Safeway, Panera Bread, Starbucks, Borders books, the public library, our bank and a wonderful nail salon. Down the street: O'Neill's Irish Pub. And the ballpark.

GOD! THE SACRIFICES WE MAKE FOR THIS COMPANY!!

See, this is what I don't like about...

I hate travel. I hate traveling. I don't mind being places that aren't home. I hate the process involved in getting there.

Today is Wednesday. On Saturday, the hubby, the daughter and I will be going from San Diego to San Francisco along the Pacific Coast Highway. It will be gorgeous, the hubs enthuses. The scenery is breathtaking. We'll make a two day road trip of it, see Big Sur and Santa Barbara and Carmel. You'll never forget it.

Since at no time has Disneyland figured into this scheme, it just sounds like two days in a car to me. I hate traveling by car. (Well, in all cases but one of recent memory, I hate traveling by car.
I had a GREAT time when Kel and I drove up to Michigan to care for my father.)

I hear that San Fran is a wonderful town. Tony Bennett left his heart there. I hope it's been refrigerated all this time. I am looking forward to being someplace less desert-like with a wider choice of activities. It should be a nice place to visit, and I will have Kel with me while the hubs works his standard 12 hour day. If it didn't involve traveling to get there, I would probably be excited.

But here's the drill. I have to pack. I have to keep track of my meds, my insulin, my cell phone. I will have to sleep in yet another strange bed in another place that is NOT home, as in there is no place like. I will have to do all that in reverse order to get back to San Diego and almost immediately again to return to Tennessee, where my cats, my friends, and my son's family live. I get to live there from time to time myself. Dave hardly ever does. He doesn't mind travel.

What a dope.

MY DAUGHTER IS TRYING TO KILL ME!!!

So here we are in San Diego. By "we", I do not mean Dave and I - Dave is either in San Francisco or Seattle, due back sooner or later. I mean my daughter Kelly and I. I haven't been out here since Thanksgiving of 2007, so things here have changed, like they do, and I have forgotten how to get places, like I do. Kelly has been my chaffeur and tour guide. With Dave gone, Kel and I have been Ladies Who Lunch.

This is where the murder plot comes in.

I didn't suspect anything when she took me to a wonderful Italian restaurant in Powway called Domenic's. It's a small place but cozy and charming. And the food... MAMA MIA! We shared a bruschetta. We each had a bowl of impossibly delicious minestrone. I had ravioli. Kelly had chicken parmesan. The portions were spot on; we were sated but not stuffed when we left the ristorante. Que bella!

Look here to peruse the menu fantastico. http://www.domenicsristorante.com/

Okay, I can forgive her Domenics. We were hungry, neither of us had breakfast that morning, and it was early afternoon. We needed to eat. Today, however, her cunning plot to kill me with kindness was so blatant that even I saw through it. She took me to Extraordinary Desserts in San Diego, on Union Street. There I had a glass of tea...

...and a devonshire Napolean. Look HERE to see the (attempted) murder weapon. http://www.extraordinarydesserts.com/

OMIGOD! The bottom layer was strawberries, blackberries, and raspberries and the Napolean was topped with an edible flower and a huge strawberry. It was served on a plate of strawberry and raspberry sauces swirled together.

We're doing Chinese tomorrow. It's been nice knowing you.

Home again, again

My dad's cat Snoopy, curled up in HIS recliner with his favorite toy on his favorite rug.

Yes, it is his recliner. Hey, the cat has his own room! But he's not spoiled.

Just back from spending a month with my old man. While there, I got new easier-to -negotiate stairs to his front door installed, replaced his lift chair, got home health care arranged, paid off his hospital bills, took him to the dentist for a replacement crown that my brother Bill financed, to the eye-doctor for new glasses, and hooked him up to Contact Life-Line. With tweaking, these arrangements should allow him to live relatively comfortably in his own home with his cat Snoopy for some time, I hope.

And the arrangements WILL BE TWEAKED if my sister has anything to do with them, and she will. But that's all right. I hoped the arrangements would make her life a little easier too. She and Dad need to thrash them out together. They do not need to include me in the tweaking- I am alternately 750 and 2,000 miles away from them.

The month went quickly and Dad and I got along quite well, as we always do. We cohabitate well, which is a blessing. His cat Snoopy and I, however, do not.

Snoopy hates me. He's not fond of women in general, an attitude I am sure he picked up from my dad, but he LOATHES me. My daughter Kelly was able to get him to tolerate her and even play with her. Before she left, Snoopy was even letting her pet him, albeit in that surly condescending sneering way many cats have toward contact with humans. Me, he bit.

Repeatedly.

He also hissed, spit, scratched and slapped.

What a guy. Here are some pictures of the little shit. Enjoy.

Snoopy, draped along the back of Dad's chair.

Snoopy, playing nicely with Kelly.

Snoopy, drinking my water.

...and sometimes your dream crawls on its belly like a reptile

Dragonfly Arts will happen.

But not just yet.

My 84 year old father fell and fractured four lumbar vertebrae in October. (Those of you kind enough to follow this sporadic blog may remember that I went to visit my dad in October of last year. Due to bad knees and a poorly recuperated broken hip, the man could barely walk).

I wasn't home from Michigan a week before he slipped out in the dead of night to drive across the state to meet up with his drinking/gambling buddies in the picturesque town of Plymouth. He met them in a bar, of course, and they spent the night doing what they always do, migrating from one favorite watering hole to another until they ended at Denny's (or some place like it) for coffee and breakfast.



Apparently, Dad, who still thinks he is in his 40's, was surprised at how painful the trip had been on his ancient body and so popped a couple of pain pills. On top of alcohol. And then he fell down went boom.



He spent Thanksgiving in the hospital and Christmas and New Year's in the physical rehab facility and is there now. If all goes well (or ill, depending on how you look at it), he will be allowed to go home Feb. 20. So I am heading up to MI... in February... to spend a month with him and gauge how well he does at home. All of his children feel he should go to Texas to live with Bill and Anna, who actually want him to do that. It would be so good for him if he would, so I am sure he won't... unless I can figure out some way to get him to see reason while I am up there.



Sorry. I had to step away from the computer for a second. I was suddenly overcome with laughter at that last sentence.

Sometimes your dreams have wings

I have many, many things in my life that bring me joy. (Notice I said "things"- I'll post about people who bring me joy another time.)

I have my homey "cottage" that we call Parva Domus.

I have my wonderful pool. Closed now for winter, of course, but this last summer, it attracted dragonflies which from time to time would light on the tips of our fingers if we lifted our hands high enough and stood very still.

I thought this was magical. Dragonflies are the familiars of faeries. They travel and live together, and some faeries change into dragonflies to escape detection. You should NEVER ever harm a dragonfly, both for its own sake, and because it might be a transmogrified faerie. Just assume that anytime you see a dragonfly there is a faerie close at hand.

I collect faeries. (Not real ones, of course- I am NOT Lady Cottington, thank you). I collect figurines of faeries. I have almost 150 of the lovely things, and they bring me great joy.

Scrapbooking also brings me great joy. I have made scrapbooks for my father, mother-in-law, husband, daughter, son, daughter-in-law, niece, god-daughter, and all four granddaughters, and am working on three at once right now.

(Okay, Kate, either string these altogether, or get off my damn keyboard.)

Please excuse my computer. It's fallen into the habit of being rude to me on an almost daily basis. Here's the string:

My love of faeries led me to my love of dragonflies. The dragonfly became my personal symbol. It has also been the symbol of my paper crafts, both cards and scrapbooks, made with love for friends and family.

The dragonfly is the symbol of transformation and creativity. It occupies two realms, water and air, and is equally at home in each. The dragonfly is symbolic of the expression of hopes, dreams, needs and wishes.

NOW, it is the symbol of my new business, which is a scrapbooking service. Lots of people just do not have the time to put together a scrapbook. They may even have the book, paper, embellishments and photos sitting in a drawer or on a shelf somewhere, silently reproaching them as dust settles and no pages are made. I take away the reproaches and create works of art. Hence the name of my new business, Dragonfly Arts.

Scrapbooks are labor-intensive projects. Good scrapbooks require good paper, good layouts and imagination. My scrapbooks may be pricey, but they are better than good. They are art. I know this because my clients tell me so.

Need a scrapbook for some special occasion- or OF some special occasion? Let me help. For a fee. You provide the memories. I'll provide the art.

Scampers and Patches

Since May, my life has had to be severely modified due to the surgery to my neck. The surgery was a success, but I am no spring chicken. To ensure the complete ossification of the bone transplants, I must wear a bone growth stimulator (BGS) 4 hours each day. The device may be stimulating the growth of bone but wearing it is tedious and depressing. The one UP side to wearing this infernal device is that it seems to attract the cats. Even Tiger, who is generally aloof, has been sleeping beside me or on my lap. The device sets up a magnetic field that is conducive to bone growth. It is also conducive to cat cuddling.

I have been mostly homebound since May, so the cat bonding has been both gratifying and comforting. In October I went to see my dad for a week and to help him celebrate his 84th birthday. (The BGS went with me, of course. I am an obedient patient.) Even my dad noticed that the BGS seemed to affect my mood. Not in a good way.

When I returned home, my baby kitty Scampers was sick again. He had pneumonia in August, an abscess in September, and now he was ailing again. He'd been back and forth to the vet so many times he didn't even resist the trip on October 27. On October 28th, he died. The pneumonia had been pneumothorax from a punctured lung. The abscess had developed from the infection from the puncture. The infection destroyed his liver and kidneys. Scampers was only 15 months old when he died. There really isn't a word for how I still feel about losing my little fellow. Heartbroken doesn't even come close.

Today I learned that my calico cat Patches is dying of kidney failure. My once Fat Kitty has been losing weight, which I actually thought was a good thing and the result of changing her diet. Two days ago, she began crying through the house. I took her to the vet. He kept her overnight, and broke the bad news to me today. She will stay in at the vet's over this weekend being treated for renal failure. She can't be cured, but maybe we can buy her a little time. And watch her slowly die at home. She is only six.

Now I feel paranoid about the health of my boys, Hobbes and Tiger. To say I am depressed is to understate my mood by orders of magnitude. I have just finished my four hours with the bone growth stimulator and I spent those hours crying like a baby. I don't think it was the device that was depressing me.

Happy birthday, Bilbo and Frodo

September 22. Today is the shared birthday of Bilbo and Frodo Baggins, hobbits extraordinaire and dear old friends. For years, I have celebrated this august occasion... no, wait, this September occasion... by nestling in and rereading the glorious "Lord of the Rings" trilogy by J.R.R. Tolkien. (I was six when "Fellowship of the Ring" was published, which, I guess, makes me older than Middle Earth).

I thought this year I would watch all three Peter Jackson films back to back rather than reread the books. The films are magnificent and I have seen each of them 17 times or more in the theater. On one occasion, I had the theater all to myself and drove home in the dark with my imagination still firmly in Middle Earth. I could live and be happy at Bag End. I would fit right in. I am almost as vertically challenged and nearly as round as the average hobbit.

But I have decided to honor my own tradition and crack out the well-worn books that I have re-read at least 30 times now. I always find something new or rediscover something dear every time I read them. Few works have ever so completely transported me out of myself as this one does.

The last couple of years I have been studying "The Silmarillion". You can't really read "The Silmarillion", you must ingest it. It is a rich, dense cheesecake of a work and must be taken in small bites. Tolkien was a scholar and this is his scholarly back story to the Ring trilogy. I particularly love his creation story "The Music of the Ainur". In it, Iluvatar directs his host, the Ainur, in song. The music they create is miraculous, comprised of not only the sound of voices but the sounds of all things that organize noise into music.

The song Iluvatar directs is full of beautiful transcendent harmonies- and one deliberate disharmony. The disharmony is the work of Melkor. Again and again he derails the song , sometimes leading some of the Ainur to lend their voices to his but more often confusing the other singers into silence.

Iluvatar redirects the song down melodic paths he envisions time and again. When the song is ended, he reveals to the Ainur what their music has created. It is the world. In the beginning was the word - but in this creation story the word is sung.

There is always a discordant entity in all creation stories, perhaps to explain the imperfections of the world and its inhabitants, perhaps to show the exercise of free will. There must be a villain or there is no need for heroes. And like most villains, Melkor does harm but does not triumph. Despite the efforts of Melkor, a place has come into being and this place will serve as home for the children of Iluvatar, Elves and Men, the Firstborn and the Followers.

We meet Galadriel for the first time in "The Silmarillion" and learning her history makes her return to Elvenhome at the end of the quest in "The Return of the King" all the more poignant. We see how dwarves came into being, and Orcs, and Sauron. Tolkien created the mostly fully realized other world I have ever encountered in literature.

Today, however, is September 22, so I will once again invite myself to the long-expected party and wish Bilbo and Frodo, uncle and nephew, bearers of the Ring, the happiest of birthdays. I will gasp at Gandalf's fireworks and refill my beer mug as often as I can get away with. I will eat like a hobbit and put even more meat on my bones, for dark times are coming when food and drink will be scarce, and I will wage war against evil side by side with my friends from the Shire.

But that comes later.

See you at Bag End tonight. Wear your party hats.

The first 40 years are the hardest...or so I hope!

In our church, parishioners take turns hosting the Fellowship Hour that follows the last Sunday service each week. Early in each year a sign-up sheet magically appears, and it's amazing to me how quickly the available dates get filled. This year, I noticed that one of the Fellowship Hours fell exactly on August 10th, Dave's and my anniversary, and so, like the dummy I am, I signed us up for it.

Did I mention it was our 40th anniversary? A rather significant number, I thought. We married young, obviously, though he is MUCH older than I am (he was born in June, I in September... of the same year.) We missed out on any big celebration for all the five year milestones from 25 to 40. We had planned to go to Michigan to celebrate our 25th anniversary with our families there but something prevented that from happening: I was hired as a full-time, tenure-track instructor by Motlow College. Kinda hard to start a new job in Tennessee if you are in the Great Lake State, so I didn't attempt it. Jeez, was that really 15 years ago? It seems much longer.

Anyhoo, I remember my mom and dad's 25th anniversary party. My sibs and I threw it for them. My sister got us the use of the community room of the apartment complex where she was living at the time. We split the cost between the five of us, and Sue and I prepared most of the food ourselves. Aunts, uncles, friends, neighbors, they all showed up and everyone had a great time. No one got drunk, there were no fights, and for one day, at least, Mom and Dad seemed to really like each other. It was very nice.

I hoped our 25th would be as nice. It wasn't. I missed out on love-fest, which made my new career start off on a bittersweet note. (The purely bitter notes would come later.)

I was not up to travel after the surgery or we could have gone to Michigan to celebrate our anniversary. Instead, I signed us up for the Fellowship Hour. Who better to celebrate an occasion like that than with your parish family and friends?

So I ordered a ton of food from Kroger and actually ordered a wedding cake that kinda sorta looked like the one we had had 40 years ago. We could both eat sugar back then, so we ate our wedding cake. THIS cake we just glared at.

Our daughter flew in from San Diego for the occasion. Several of my dear friends came to the service, as did my son and his family. Kelly and Dave did most of the heavy lifting in getting the food set up. Mama stayed with them in the parish hall while I went to mass.

The only glitch so far had come early in the day when I arrived with Mama and the wedding cake and found two women setting up for fellowship hour. The good ladies had gotten their dates mixed up. Their attitude suggested that they expected me to pack away my goodies and get out of their way, but I explained the realities of perishable, non-freezable foods, an expensive three tiered cake, and that fact that it was my 40th anniversary and I had signed up for this date months ago. They very graciously packed up their goodies and stored them in the church freezer but the whole rest of the day, I felt like I should be apologizing to them. Don't ask.

Once that little snafu was sorted, I left the set-up in Dave and Kelly's capable hands and joined friends and family in the church. Mama did not come with me. Mama stayed with Dave and Kelly.

Marcia and her whole family, looking handsome one and all, filled a pew. Shelia was there. The Gilliams and the Simms were due to show up after the service. I started feeling the stress lifting and fell into the service. I love the service. It helps you get your head and heart straight for the rest of the week.

Time came for communion. I was sitting fairly close to the front, so I was among the first to go to the altar. I took communion and returned to my pew feeling peaceful and blessed.

God as my witness, I did not know Mama had come into the church. I did not see her from the altar as I returned to my pew but I certainly saw her as she made her fragile, pathetic, Sarah Bernhardt approach to the altar. She was calling upon all and sundry to help her up the aisle. She loudly asked for Wilma to help her up the steps, which, God bless her, Wilma did. She went to the altar. She stood to take communion. She turned, sat down in the choir pew, and blithely listened to Nelda on the organ.

Jim, the dapper usher, looked dumb-founded but I was already on my feet, headed for Mama. I helped her out of the choir seat, helped her down the steps, and guided her to my pew. She was, from start to finish, the center of attention, which, of course, was the point. As Father finished feeding his flock, Mama made the periodic comment... "I'm blind as a bat"; I really must investigate sonar for Mama.

No harm, no foul. The congregation is used to, if not on to, Mama. We repaired to the parish hall. That's when it hit me that maybe hosting the coffee hour on your special day is not the smartest thing in the world to do. The hall was packed!

But the hall looked lovely. Dave and Kel had worked almost two hours to set everything out, make the coffee and punch, etc. I had brought from home a decorative ceramic church, and a bride, groom, and minister I had ordered from Miniatures.com to serve as the centerpiece on the cake table. The cake was gorgeous. Three tiers, two of which disappeared so fast I thought Houdini was in the crowd. It was really pretty. You will just have to take my word for that.

Why? Did any of us remember to bring a camera? Of course not. Fortunately, Sandie and Robert swung by after their service ended, and Sandie came prepared so we do have some very nice pictures of the tail end of our "party".

After clean-up and pack up, we all headed to the house and jumped in the pool. Dave grilled steaks and brats and Mama ate like she'd never seen food before. We all had a great time. The only sour note to the day was this: we got no cards or emails or calls from anyone in my family. My dad, my sister, my brothers... not a word from any of them. We did, however, get a great deal of affectionate attention from our kids and grandkids.

We have great friends. We really have made a life here in this tiny little town in middle Tennessee. We have been here 28 of our 40 years together. This is home.

Now, I will share some of Sandie's shots with you. Remember me telling you about the bride and groom, etc. for the centerpiece? Well, sometime during the proceedings, the young thin groom was replaced with George (from my dollhouse).

You will notice the groom is not longer young and slim, and, yes, that is a beer in his hand. One of the little old ladies at the Fellowship Hour was offended by that, but the priest thought it was funny. Who was the jokester, you may ask? Well, I won't reveal her name, but her initials are Kelly Lapczynski.

Here I am, almost done with my part of the clean-up.

Mama, being helpful.

Thank you to all our friends and family- especially Kelly, in her starring role as waitress/scullery maid- for making the day so very special.

No subtle knife, no amber spyglass?

When the movie "The Golden Compass" was being previewed in theaters, I had never heard of Philip Pullman or his triology "His Dark Materials". The previews of the movie looked so fascinating that I sailed down the Amazon... like you do... and ordered the books. I am so glad I did. What a great read! What a terrific writer! I am motivated now to go back and reread "Paradise Lost". Now THAT'S impact- have you ever slogged through "Paradise Lost"? Well, Pullman did, and then stood it on it's ear in "His Dark Materials".


I love this kind of writing. The wonderful thing about fantasy and science fiction is the genres let writers create and explore all sorts of new worlds and take us with them while they do. The best fantasy/sci fi is written by scholars - J.R.R. Tolkien, C.S. Lewis, Arthur C. Clarke, Isaac Asimov- who pull from their knowledge base to add richness and depth to their stories. Often, the best work is catalyzed by a single question, such as "What if...?" The value of this type of writing is that it challenges readers to think about the world in new ways or encounter new worlds in old ways, by way of a ripping tale. Great fantasy challenges you to think.


"His Dark Materials" is great fantasy, and the movie "The Golden Compass", produced by the Brits, was wonderfully faithful to its quirky universe. I loved it almost as much as the book. Others must have, too. The movie did well; despite an $180 million budget, it grossed $364 million worldwide and won an Oscar for best achievement in visual effects.

I have been looking forward with tremendous curiosity to the next installment, "The Subtle Knife", because, frankly, I can't imagine how it can be made into a movie. But there is some uncertainty that the second movie will be made at all. You see, only $70 million of the gross for "The Golden Compass" was made in the U.S. Fundamentalist Christians and the Roman Catholic Church hammered "The Golden Compass" as heretical, unholy, and dangerous and it seems that their campaign against the movie did, in fact, serve to limit the U.S. gross.

It will be sad if low grosses in the U.S. prevent the next two books from coming to the screen, and even sadder if religious reactionaries are responsible. I don't get it. Just what is it they don't seem to understand about the word "FANTASY"? (As in the opposite of reality). Why are they so afraid of the power of imagination?

I hereby advise you all to go out immediately and buy the triology "His Dark Materials". Don't worry about the books destroying your faith. If your faith is so fragile that a work of fiction can undo it, you have none. Do I think the work is heretical? Damn straight. Sometimes a little heresy is just what we need. The work is also beautifully written, extraordinarily rich and thought-provoking. It is also a ripping tale! Go! Read! If God didn't want us to explore all possibilities, He would have made us different than we are.

Heeeeeere's.....MAMA!

Saturday morning I picked up Mama bright and early. We had a lot of running around to do but needed especially to get to the Credit Union to deposit her treasury checks. She got a $51 tax refund and a nice economic incentive check and was very excited about both. She was wearing blue shorts, a teal shirt, yellow socks and tan shoes. I tried not to notice.

We entered the credit union (which was mercifully empty). Most people go through the drive-through or get their cash from the ATM on the weekend and I had counted on that. I had counted on that because I know Mama needs special handling and because I knew she was going to have to sign the checks. Mama, as she happily told at least 100 people during the course of the day, is "blind as a bat". She told the teller that. She told me to sign the checks. The teller and I told her she would have to sign them. She told us she couldn't write. The teller disappeared into the bowels of the credit union- a not unfamiliar reaction from people dealing with Mama for the first time. The teller returned. Sign or no money. Mama signed, badly. Apparently she is not Mary Richards any more. She is Mary Richabo. No matter, the teller accepted her signature, since she had both ID and an account there. Mama asked for $100, which I put in her coin purse, and deposited the rest in her checking account.

I do not believe that what happened next would have happened if Mama hadn't known she had an audience. A man and two young women were talking outside the credit union as we exited. Mama informed them as we passed that she "is as blind as a bat". They nodded but made no soft murmuring noises. As we got to the curb, I told her that there was a step down. She raised her right foot to knee level and stepped off the curb like Wendy stepping off Captain Hook's plank. I had her firmly by the right elbow but felt her begin to fall and spin. I grabbed for her left shoulder, but she dipped out of my grip, and, with a slow motion rolling fall that would have made Tim Conway proud, she sat down on the concrete. The impact was about that of a butterfly landing on your cheek, but she continued to roll and swivel, as hard to grab as a wet baby in the bath. I got her to sit still and tried to help her up but suddenly she weighed 300 pounds. She couldn't lift her own butt no matter how much I tried to help her. NOW there were soft, murmuring noises from the talking trio and they rushed to help her- surprisingly, THEY were able to get her to her feet- and with many expressions of concern and relief, they helped me get her to the car. She hopped right in, fastened her seat-belt and said "Where are we going now?" I couldn't immediately answer as my heart had stopped.

Mama wanted some new clothes since she has gained 23 pounds since moving to assisted living. (That's a good thing- she was a stick when she first moved in). So off we went to Mama's favorite store- K-MART! She wanted shirts, shorts and one pair of slacks. She couldn't choose anything, since she is a blind as a bat, so I had her feel the fabric and give me her nay or yea based on the feel (and color) of the fabric. We chose three pairs of shorts that varied only in color, three shirts that varied only in color, and a pair of light-weight slacks. Her whole purchase came to $43. She pulled two $20 bills out of her billfold- NOT her coin purse- and dug out $3 in change and paid the bill. Okay, I thought, she had some money squirreled away. Good for her.

She wanted to go to Applebees for lunch. After a very nice meal, she called for a To-GO box and pulled two $20 bills out of a zippered pocket in her handbag-not her coin purse, mind you, her handbag. Obviously she had $80 (at least) squirreled away in her handbag. She insisted on paying for lunch and gave me the two $20 bills.

"I don't need that much money" I told her, trying to give her half back.
"Take it, take it," she said.
"I'll pay for lunch and give you the change."
"No, you keep the change."

No point in arguing. I will slip the change in her purse later, I thought, and then I said "You did very well today. You still have $100 left."
"No, I don't," she said. "I spent it all."
"No," I said, "You had $80 in your purse when we left The Place. When we went to the credit union, you added $100 to that, which is $180. You spent about $40 at K-Mart, and you just gave me $40, so you have $100 left."
"You're crazy."
"Nope."

She stared at me unblinkingly with her owl eyes and then said, "Then you owe me money". I gave her back the $40 and she paid for lunch. The change went somewhere into the mysterious depths of her handbag. I left the tip.

The next stop was the shoe shop to pick up David's shoes. I tried to entice Mama in, hoping she might be interested in a new pair of shoes, but she was starting to tire and stayed in the car. I compensated by purchasing shoes for myself.

We went to Baskin Robbins for an ice cream cone, then drove to the old neighborhood so I could check on the status of our rental property. Mama was tickled as I tooled my PT Cruiser off the driveway and into the back yard to see if all the storm damage had been cleared away. It had. Mama cackled like we were doing something naughty or dangerous or both, so I obliged her with another turn around the backyard and a quick exit back onto the street. If I knew how to do a boot-leggers turn I would have done one. She'd have loved it.

We got back to The Place tired but happy. I helped carry her packages (plus a goody bag I had brought her from home and her doggy-bagged lunch) to her apartment. She looked ready for a nap. I put the food and drink away, pocketed the K-Mart receipt in case we had to return anything, and gave her a big hug and a kiss.

"Love you, Mama, see you soon", I said.

She smiled up at me. "Thanks for everything, David".

Screw entropy!

I went to see the Indiana Jones movie and hate to admit that it was both very good and great fun. Karen Allen is back as Marian Ravenwood and damn, it was good to see her on screen again. She left the Biz and started her own biz making beautiful clothing out of cashmere. You can check her stuff out here http://www.karenallen-fiberarts.com/home.php


I was skeptical about the making of a fourth Indiana Jones movie. I mean, it's been 19 years since "Temple of Doom" and our hero was no spring chicken THEN! (Remember a past rant about "Geriatric Jones"? The one where I posted a recent picture of Harrison Ford? No? KEEP UP, PEOPLE!!! OK, here's the pic again).


"You're not the man you used to be" (sic) says Marian to Indy at one point in "Raiders of the Lost Ark" to which Indy replies "It's not the years, it's the mileage" ...and we all laughed. It was a funny line. And is was true, then. Now... honey, it's the years.

It is not kind what time and gravity do to our bodies. The older we get, the fewer traces there are of us as we see ourselves when there are no mirrors around. We are worn away by time, crushed by gravity. It's as if we desiccate and droop and then fade; our hair fades, the color leaves our eyes; our skin pales; and slowly we fade to black.

Paul Newman, at about 30. So beautiful! With youth he had fire and intensity; he had flesh and juice, smoothness and suppleness, and a sexuality that was primal, immediate, and devastating.




Paul Newman, at 82. You can see vestiges of his younger self still. but would hearts have swooned if he had come to the screen at 82 rather than 30? Being semi-geriatric myself, let me answer that. No. We are attracted to all the things that time and gravity take from us slowly throughout our short lives.


And I guess that is one of the things I enjoyed most about the new Indy film. Shia LaBeouf was on hand to provide the heart-throbs, but Harrison Ford and Karen Allen stole the film. Ford is not as fast or as resilient as he was 19 years ago. Who is? Karen Allen is carrying a tad more weight and a few more lines, but is still beautiful, still endearing. Despite the passage of time and the ravages of being mortal, the chemistry between Indy and Marian is still there, still strong, still believable. So much for "Geriatric " Jones. I came away from the movie feeling there is still time for one last adventure and one last love for all of us.

Throw away all mirrors.

What we are abides and can be seen if sought.

Paul Newman is still beautiful.

Hello, I must be going...or coming out, I can't remember

Hello, I am back after surgery, and on the mend. Thank you for continuing to drop in while I have been laid up. I can't believe it has been over a month since I last posted. Been busy. End of my semester- hectic- ; preparing the Spring meeting of the GFWC Highland Rim District; gearing up for Spring convention for the GFWC of TN. April is a busy month and this year, it all became a literal pain in the neck. Hence the surgery on my cervical spine that has had laid me up and laid me low.

Being laid up as I have been has given me time to think. It hurt, but I did it. And here are the thoughts that have occur ed to me in between hallucinations, sleep-walking and other interesting drug reactions.

I have decided, at this late stage of my life, to finally out myself. Yes, dear readers, it is true. Like Rupert Evert and Lance Bass, I do it with men. ( Well, one man, anyway.) I am sorry to shock you in this manner, but I figured if Doogie Houser can announce to the world his predilections for men, it is probably safe for me to do the same. I hereby pronounce with pride that I am a raging heterosexual! Always have been. Always will be. I am not in the least interested in having sex with women. Lunch, maybe.

Now, if this is more information than you wanted about my sex life... GOOD! Sex is supposed to be intimate, private, based on affection and attraction, and NO ONE ELSE'S BUSINESS. I don't care if Jodie Foster and Neil Patrick Harris are gay. I don't even know these people. I don't want to know when they take a dump or piss like a race-horse or blow their noses. Biological processes are not topics of polite conversation.

I have no idea why this rant popped into my mind. Maybe the man in the bowler hat who has been at the edge of my peripheral vision since I was put on muscle relaxers has something to do with it. Something about a bowler hat just screams man-lover to me. Maybe he's Alec Guinness. I hope he's not Ian McKellen or he'll chew up all the scenery.

But I digress. This sad, fat old heterosexual has been left in the care of the man she loves. Make that left to the mercy of her man. One thing for sure, should I die from complications of this surgery, I will not be killed by kindness. He means well, but he has no bedside manner, groans and rolls his eyes every time I ask him to do something, and bullies me ceaselessly. Apparently, being a bully is the ultimate expression of loving concern. He is trying. He is very tiring. But he means well. Fortunately, he will be back at work tomorrow.

I am going to close this mess now, and try to get some sleep. I am a bit concerned about the goats grazing on my houseplants but feel confident the man in the bowler hat will round them up before they do too much damage. Of all the things to hallucinate about! Do I get Johnny Depp or Gerard Butler? No, I get British solicitors and living cheese factories

Off to get hopelessly lost en route to my bedroom, Better living through chemistry.

Wherein spring arrives and my throat is slit...

Spring is trying to spring in Tennessee, as it always does, with sudden leaps backward into winter and tantalizing forays into summer, with much rain in between. After the drought, you would think the rain would be welcome, but this is Tennessee spring rain, which means flash floods, and people having to boil their drinking water. HUZZAH!! No gift lacks a punishment in this state where spring truly is the cruelest month.

But, hey, spring is the season we live for. Winter wears on grayly and coldly until one despairs of the sun- and then summer comes and again we despair of the sun which now, instead of being absent, is all too present and trying to reduce us to cinders. Spring is the gentle month when the birds return, the trees and flowers bud out, and hope is as thick in the air as chlorophyll and pollen.

So it is in this hopeful season I shall have my throat slit. Alas, a throat cutting seems an inevitable end for an old pirate like myself, but I have hopes of surviving this one. An extremely competent- one might almost say ostentatiously competent- neurosurgeon is going to attempt to repair 30 years of disintegration in my neck (one too many hangings, perhaps- it's a rough life being a pirate), and possibly put an end to the pain. Eight years ago this surgical solution to a drastically deteriorated cervical area would not have been possible. Now it has become almost routine. Frankly, I am more than a little hopeful that all will be well in the end.

Imagine being able to raise my arms over my head, to lift something that weighs more than 10 pounds; imagine no longer having a gooseneck, and horrible muscle spasms. What if the feeling returns to my hands? I have so many hopes and very few fears.

That hasn't stopped me from writing a new will. Hey, I am a realist! But this is the season of hope.

Spring!

This is the blog wherein I channel Andy Rooney (or some other curmudgeon)

Did you ever wonder why Court TV became Tru TV?

• Suppose it was so they could endlessly air mindless, sensational shows like "Most Daring" and "Most Shocking" to amuse adolescent males who are into watching car chases, crashes and people getting maimed?


• Did they call it TRU TV rather than True TV because they have a soupcon of shame? If they wanted to be TRUthful, they would have called it "Shock" TV.


• Who came up with that obnoxious motto: "Not reality - actuality!" God, it's aggravating. One more moronic corruption of the language. Can something be real without being actual? Or actual without being real? According to the thesaurus, these words are synonyms.

Did you ever wonder why Vincent D'Onofrio can approach the size of a grey whale with no negative consequences, but when Delta Burke got fat, she was driven off the air?

Does Harrison Ford look like the 3,000 year old man, or what? I can't wait to see the final episode of "Geriatric Jones, and the Quest for the Fountain of Youth". Did you ever wonder why male actors can find work until they're older than dirt, but a female actor's career is pretty much over at 40?

I think I may be watching too much television. I am actually (really) bringing to care about this crap!