tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-40141724031548037712024-03-18T21:33:25.361-07:00Reality TruckA column. A blog. A book.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger392125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4014172403154803771.post-21806732334525433152022-09-15T15:58:00.003-07:002022-09-29T09:46:50.458-07:00How to Survive Your Colonoscopy Without Really Trying <p dir="ltr" id="docs-internal-guid-cf40aa9a-7fff-e8bf-22fe-c0c6afbf854a" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"><span style="font-size: large;"> Do Not 'Go Lightly' into that Good Night</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" id="docs-internal-guid-cf40aa9a-7fff-e8bf-22fe-c0c6afbf854a" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"><span style="font-size: large;">How to Survive a Colonoscopy without drinking liquid chalk </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" id="docs-internal-guid-cf40aa9a-7fff-e8bf-22fe-c0c6afbf854a" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></span></p><p><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"><span style="font-size: large;">U</span>nbeknownst to me at the time, actor Ryan Reynolds and I both went in for colonoscopies on the same </span> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieUptvpyMqmQMznAoL7qFoOoOM_lGACGsTCIBEHcT4TqAMe6RBtxDtTZuVL1gdMdIYiv1KUUwmru064aYH_CeMbxoWQ2KXa_bTwl9LEVklHqPfrNE5jo9iguMS331njK8fg7YAUqaiA30zTGRviOZREoZqWNMiqqJDU7IwOipTbqkDURHJoo10S4rv/s750/Ryan_Reynolds_Loses_Colonoscopy_Bet_Twitter.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="669" data-original-width="750" height="285" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieUptvpyMqmQMznAoL7qFoOoOM_lGACGsTCIBEHcT4TqAMe6RBtxDtTZuVL1gdMdIYiv1KUUwmru064aYH_CeMbxoWQ2KXa_bTwl9LEVklHqPfrNE5jo9iguMS331njK8fg7YAUqaiA30zTGRviOZREoZqWNMiqqJDU7IwOipTbqkDURHJoo10S4rv/s320/Ryan_Reynolds_Loses_Colonoscopy_Bet_Twitter.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />day (different facilities). Deadpool had one polyp removed, and although I don’t like to brag, I had two. He scheduled his after losing a bet with Wrexham co-owner Rob McElhenney. I go in every five years thanks to losing the genetic lottery when it comes to colon cancer (it’s killed two grandmothers and a first cousin, so far). Reynolds’s adventure is on film, and mine (as far as I know), is not. <p></p><p dir="ltr" id="docs-internal-guid-47b831ed-7fff-b865-1795-bcaa8ab957d2" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><br /></p><p></p><p></p><p dir="ltr" id="docs-internal-guid-47b831ed-7fff-b865-1795-bcaa8ab957d2" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">Because of my stubborn inability to drink anything that's not remotely to my liking, this test has always been unnecessarily difficult.</span></p><p dir="ltr" id="docs-internal-guid-47b831ed-7fff-b865-1795-bcaa8ab957d2" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"> (Everyone my age remembers the gallons of sludge poor Katie Couric had to chug down in her kitchen to prep for her on-air colonoscopy on the </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">Today Show</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"> in 2000. Her on-camera-colon stunt was for a good cause in memory of her late husband, but her [reported] $60 million dollar contract might've also helped her choke down that chalky residue of misery and degradation cut with liquid cherry-flavored Pez.) </span></p><p><br /></p><p>Pill Prep for many years used to come with a Black Box Warning acknowledging you were taking your life into your own hands and you'd hold harmless and release anyone who dispensed it to you from lifetime imprisonment. Very few docs would prescribe it, and you more or less had to step into a dark alley, whisper a password, and someone would usher you onto what loosely appeared to be the set of Tim Robbins' 1990 movie, <i>Jacob's Ladder</i>, for your "procedure." (Keep up; we're gonna go fast now.) <br /></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">T</span>his year was my first time at-bat with a relatively new FDA-approved entry called SuTabs. I didn't have to cross any northern or southern borders to buy it, I just picked it up at the usual drive-thru window. No one asked me for a password (I had just watched the premiere of this season's <i>Handmaid's Tale,</i> so I felt ready). </p><p>Now that the whole ordeal is behind me (so to speak), I hesitate to say, Ask for It By Name (mostly because no one's paying me to say that), but sure, go ahead, Ask For It By Name. I strongly suspect it will improve people's willingness to take the test, and maybe save a few lives along the way. (It's the least I can do.) Because while no one in their right mind wants to hold their nose and choke down gallons of rapidly ossifying liquid chalk, almost <b>no one</b> minds taking a few handfuls of pills these days; in some circles, it's probably encouraged. This should in no way be confused with medical advice, obviously. Consult your health care professional. They'll probably say it's fine. If they don't, it's probably better to listen to them instead of me.<br /></p><p>Even with the tablets, you'll still have to prep, but instead of drinking several gallons of the devil's own concoction of salty lime efflent, you'll just swallow a few dozen pills, and a positively unwholesome waterboarding amount of water. </p><p>I am not one to ever engage in (or be amused by) Farrelly Brothers scatological humor, so I'll do my best to skirt the periphery of this whole process with the delicate decorum my mother raised me to display, while still giving you all the necessary information that your doctor, nurse, and pharmacist won't bother with. </p><h2 style="text-align: left;">ACT I: Shop <br /></h2><p>First, you're going to need to go shopping. You'll need supplies for a week or less to get you through the home stretch, to include: </p><ul style="text-align: left;"><li><b>Lemon Sorbet </b>(get Jeni's, or Graeter's, or any comparable "luxury" brand; anything that costs over $10 should be acceptable. If it costs less than that, odds are 50/50 it will taste like Lysol, and that's what you get for not listening; God knows we're all living on a budget these days, but THIS is not the time to economize). </li><li><b>Watermelon Jolly Ranchers</b> (green or yellow are acceptable; reds, purples, and oranges are not. I don't make the rules.)</li><li><b>Lemonhead </b>candies</li><li>Instant cups of <b>Grits </b>(if you're in the south) or maybe <b>Cream of Wheat </b>if you live in the... (I'm not sure where you people live? Minnesota?) <br /></li><ul><li>Could you just buy the instant packets? you ask. Yeah. Sure. You could. But why do you want to make your life hard? Who hurt you? <br /></li></ul><li><b>Outshine Lime Frozen Fruit Bars</b> (no, you may not have the tangerine; well, you can, but later. Right now stick to lemon and lime. </li><li>Assorted Noodles (Ramen etc)</li><li>JellO, Green or Yellow (do NOT get the sugar-free kind; you've had sugar-free gummy bears?) <br /></li><li>Kids' Snack Packs of diced peaches </li><li>Avocados <br /></li><li>Bananas</li><li>Eggs<br /></li><li>Assorted broths (clear only) </li><li>Assorted citrus for your noodles and broth: lemons, limes, ginger to grate, etc. </li><li>Assorted hot teas (no red, purple, or orange)<br /></li><li>Assorted cold drinks (ginger ale, sprite, and if you can stomach them, sports drinks — greens and yellows only, no purples or reds or oranges)</li><li>Powdered lemonades if you like them (I do not). </li><li>Clear juices if you like them, like apple or white grape (I do not). <br /></li><li>A sizeable supply of your preferred bottled water (trust me: your Brita is never gonna keep up with this level of volume). I recommend Voss or Evian, both in glass bottles (obviously). If you're going to drink out of plastic, you might as well just lap it up out of your dog's dish. </li></ul><p>And, in the baby aisle:</p><ul style="text-align: left;"><li>fancy hypoallergenic aloe baby wipes with vitamin E (take them home, and put them straight in the fridge in a bottom drawer nobody ever uses. Don't ask questions, just do it.) <br /></li></ul><p>Now, under normal circumstances, no medical professional would ever advise you to live on white foods, but for a few days or so prior to your test, you'll do exactly that: chicken, turkey, fish, rice, pasta, potatoes, bananas, light soups (chicken noodle, egg drop, etc). Hopefully you're not diabetic. If you weren't before, you might be after this. (Don't ever eat a white-diet without first consulting a doctor, or at least your crossfit guy or yoga instructor.) If you don't want to cook or don't like to cook: DoorDash accordingly. (Although I had one rough evening with Dasher Mutraza who forgot my dinner, but DID deliver the sorbet. So you should allow extra time for errors.)</p><h2 style="text-align: left;"><b>ACT II: Five Days Out</b><br /></h2><p>Begin your white-diet a few days out — I managed about five days. That's a week without my daily brussels sprouts, my broccolini, my steel-cut oats, my nightly bedtime honeycrisp apple ritual with Ambien Walrus, my special cannelini and radish salad — all the food routines I hold dear. It's counter-intuitive, but you're getting all the fiber OUT of your system during this horrible perversion of a cleanse. </p><p>I mostly subsisted on fish, sushi, soups, potatoes, bananas, and avocados. <br /></p><p>This phase was hard for me because I eat a LOT of plants on any given day; your mileage may vary. </p><h2 style="text-align: left;"><b>ACT III: 48 Hours Out <br /></b></h2><p><span style="font-family: times;"><span style="font-size: small;">Stretch your restriction muscles a little. Instead of chicken, for example, just have noodle soup. Have eggs maybe, but skip your usual whole grain toast. Sub in a nice low-residue English muffin. </span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: times;"><span style="font-size: small;">Have a banana. Do not have a salad... or a steak... or a porkchop. </span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: times;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span id="docs-internal-guid-267e2036-7fff-d2f4-309b-2dab1cf74f52" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">When the men in my family go for any prescribed medical procedure, they eat steadily until precisely one minute before the prescribed midnight deadline. At 11 pm, they’re firing up the grill. I accompanied my uncle to his last procedure, and the nurse was trying to determine when he had finished his last meal. He’s hard of hearing and couldn’t quite make out all the questions through the masks. “THEY WANT TO KNOW WHEN YOU STOPPED EATING,” I helpfully shouted into his left ear. He looked at me like he was embarrassed to be genetically related to someone so simple-minded, and clipped out loudly and slowly as if to accommodate my dimwittedness, “I SAID… WHEN… I … WAS…</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 700; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">FULL</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">.” </span></span></span></p><h2 style="text-align: left;"><b>ACT IV: Prep Day</b><br /></h2><p>You're coming into the Home Stretch. <br /></p><p>Granted, you're going to spend the entire day strung out on clear liquids and pills, and no one's even going to offer you a record deal or a new cautionary Hulu series at the end of it, so it's not going to be great.<br /></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEif43UwXxy8_3yfWIeJkbY1oermur2Zhl8FSJTO1nCqzLYKEh1hZbf76VH_NM8-_9uUMcfkFqvJETxzRLtcpMFhkJA6Tzp0rXvuZG_HZdpJqWN_JvSbBevH9SMpVmvHSTj5rsa_sqIO0HrBrg46wZa3BJtI9yGHfAx4OXxpU-d9dG_HC9Q779l2cqI5/s4032/what_is_colonoscopy_Pill_prep.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEif43UwXxy8_3yfWIeJkbY1oermur2Zhl8FSJTO1nCqzLYKEh1hZbf76VH_NM8-_9uUMcfkFqvJETxzRLtcpMFhkJA6Tzp0rXvuZG_HZdpJqWN_JvSbBevH9SMpVmvHSTj5rsa_sqIO0HrBrg46wZa3BJtI9yGHfAx4OXxpU-d9dG_HC9Q779l2cqI5/s320/what_is_colonoscopy_Pill_prep.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br />You're going to be happy you shopped though. You can make a lot of courses out of clear liquids if you're desperate: broth for lunch, jello for your salad, and sorbet for dessert. See? Later you can have a PediaLyte popsicle or a Lime Outshine Bar for a snack. <p></p><p>Delicately speaking, sure, you will be making a few extra trips to the bathroom over the course of the evening. But because you've observed the white-food cleanse, you shouldn't need to set up camp. It'll be just you and your aforementioned impeccably chilled aloe wipes. <br /></p><p><br /></p><h2 style="text-align: left;"><b>ACT V: The Last 100 yards (literally) <br /></b></h2><p>A word of advice: even if you're not a morning person, always try to be the first procedure of the day. From the first procedure on, they will be running behind, and it gets worse with every single case as the day progresses. Worse, you don't want medical professionals at their most tired and cranky when they get to you. <br /></p><p>Get in.</p><p>Get out. </p><p>For the same reason: try not to schedule Monday procedures. What are the odds that everyone on that team has fully recovered from the weekend and is happy, clear-eyed, and delighted to be shoulder-deep in guts? </p><p>Don't schedule on Fridays either. If there's going to be a complication (God forbid), it's going to happen in the first 24 hours — after everyone has gone home. Your regular doctor has gone home. Everyone in the scope center has gone home. And the ERs are filled with drunks and GSWs on the weekend. Your little complication may seem significant to you, but it's no match for a gunshot wound when it comes to triage.<br /></p><p>Get in and out on Tuesday, Wednesday, or Thursday, and go early. </p><p>You'll go in, you'll get undressed, toss on a robe, do a semi-thorough history with a nurse who'll pop in an IV and then somebody will wheel you back to "the Suite." (If you are not early, you will sit on the gurney, lightly gowned, for two to three hours.) </p><p dir="ltr" id="docs-internal-guid-989cd2f6-7fff-7c9d-59b9-3c42d27ff3fd" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">The GI guy or gal and the anesthesiologist will introduce themselves, and then you'll go on a little "trip” you won’t remember, to a place you never wanted to go.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">Scope results will be provided to the responsible driver you brought with you. </span></p><p><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">You will be too high to know or care what the medical professionals are saying. </span></p><p><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">You should choose a Driver who’s a Luddite with a flip phone, who’s both unable and disinclined to film you. </span> <br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><h2 style="text-align: left;">ACT VI: Speaking of Recovery </h2><p>A word about propofol. </p><p>Many patients rave about it — "so light," "so refreshing." </p><p>I was not a fan, and do not see the recreational appeal.<br /></p><p>I haven't ever been roofied (as far as I know), but I think it feels a little like this. </p><p>All I know is I woke up with a dull, throbbing headache that lasted all night, and a vague sense of unease that something bad had happened....but that I should remember it wasn't my fault. That I did nothing wrong. <br /></p>Bottoms up! <br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p> <br /></p><p><br /></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4014172403154803771.post-54408032211742963892018-08-12T18:43:00.005-07:002018-09-11T15:21:22.928-07:00How My Childhood Nemesis Turned Out <span style="font-size: x-large;">I</span>t was inevitable that one day I would look up my childhood nemesis on facebook to see how she'd turned out.<br />
The last time I had really thought of her was the last time I'd written about her, which was 1998 (according to google) — long before facebook, twitter, or instagram.<br />
Today, I was reflecting on how our friendship might have turned out if social media had existed back when her family left our town behind in the 70s — if we hadn't had to rely on actual letters to exchange our adolescent barbs — with days and weeks stretching out excruciatingly between every assault. <br />
The first volley was about their new house.<br />
It turned out to be a modest three bedroom ranch in a solid middle class suburb on the outskirts of the large southern city they'd said they were moving to. (It would be as if someone told you they were moving to Atlanta, and then their return address said Alpharetta.) I know it turned out to be a modest ranch because my family spent many holidays at her family's house subsequent to the move. <br />
An entire page of her pale blue monogrammed stationery was devoted, in carefully cramped but bubbly penmanship, to describing their "sunken living room," an architectural marvel I could scarcely imagine. It's where, she wrote, they had decided to put the piano. What I envisioned was something like the layout of a racquetball court, with an observation deck up top where people could stroll and exchange bon mots, before descending to the conversation pit below. (That's not, in fact, how a sunken living room works, but how was I to know?)<br />
HGTV did not exist at the time, nor did Martha Stewart (at least not in her eventual incarnation), and even if they had, that would not explain why 12-year-old girls were exchanging letters with crudely sketched floor plans of subtle one-upmanship, but we were. <br />
I was insane with jealousy.<br />
I had spent many years of slumber parties and sleepovers at their last house, and nothing about it had suggested to me that they were the kind of people capable of the level of sophistication you'd need to possess a sunken living room.<br />
In fact, their last house had been remarkable only for the occasional big-city affectation they had imported when they relocated to our town from Ohio.<br />
For example, they had only one TV. It was located in the "family room," and it was placed inside an "entertainment center." It did not sit on top of another, non-functioning TV that had been draped with towels to keep from scarring the burled wood surface of the non-functioning TV (as a succession of TVs had done at our house).<br />
As they lived in the heart of town, they had cable TV. We lived in what they jovially derided as "the boondocks," and had an exterior antenna that, on a good day, could tune in WBIR, which was CBS out of Knoxville. (ABC and NBC were for fancier households than ours. No Schoolhouse Rock for me unless one of my city friends had a sleepover. PBS? Other than The Electric Company at school, no. Although I knew what they were, I did not grow up with Sesame Street or Mr. Rogers or any of the other touchstones of my generation.) <br />
They did not have HBO (that would arrive much later, at the homes of my high school friends, like the Andersons), but their TV did blare an array of "super stations," that would air late-night, sanitized versions of movies from theatrical release, like <i>The Poseidon Adventure</i>.<br />
Their dad was an engineer (which I thought meant that he drove a train, a notion I stubbornly maintained for quite some time, despite their eventual explanations to the contrary). <br />
Their kitchen boasted "a snack bar," which delineated the kitchen from the family room. They also had a "formal" living room, which was (as was true of the later house apparently), where they kept the piano.<br />
In addition to my best friend/slash/nemesis, their family had a developmentally disabled daughter. We thought of her as what was politely referred to as "slow," at the time, though she cheerfully clarified for everyone she met, "I'm brain-damaged, <i>not</i> retarded."<br />
Later, she would sometimes explain to other kids, in private, "I didn't get enough oxygen when I was being born. And that's why my mom hates me."<br />
Possibly oversimplified, but very probably true. <br />
Their mom suffered from what would probably now be characterized as auto-immune disorders.<br />
What it looked like to us, as children, was what we guessed from the bible could only be leprosy, as her skin was an uninterrupted mass of suppurating sores. In public, she always wore long sleeves and long pants. But at home and at their camper on the lake, she wore t-shirts and shorts and skirts, to the dismay of both of her daughters.<br />
Their dog once pooped on our sofa while they were on vacation and my Dad threatened to have her put to sleep. They always introduced her as a "Heinz 57," and paused as if that description had typically drawn such peals of laughter that they needed to wait for the chuckling to subside before continuing the conversation. <br />
Despite their location in the middle of town, they had ponies. Literal show ponies.<br />
Their backyard had a gate to a pasture they rented from The Catholics who owned the property on which our small private school sat.<br />
(We had horses, but only in the offhanded, agrarian way that <i>all </i>people had horses at the time.) <br />
That's how we met.<br />
Catholic school.<br />
Roughly grades 4 thru 7, which is when they moved away. <br />
We attended the only school in town capable of "accommodating" their eldest daughter's academic challenges, which meant she mostly sat by herself and filled in kindergarten style workbooks while a nun peered over her shoulder and told her she could do better.<br />
Their family was insistent on "mainstreaming" and the girls' parents often fretted aloud to my parents that once they were old, it would be up to the younger, popular daughter to take over their caregiving role. To which my Mom would say, bluntly, "don't kid yourself," or sometimes, "dream on."<br />
It's a long way of saying, in hindsight, I suspect their family had some insecurities. And they manifested those insecurities with manners and behaviors that suggested they thought they were better than everyone else.<br />
(I didn't necessarily disagree, but a grand piano in a sunken living room? Who'd they think they were kidding?)<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">S</span>o, today, I looked her up.<br />
Despite our mutually advancing years, she has barely aged a day. Instantly recognizable, even if she hadn't hyphenated her maiden name with her married name, rendering her easily searchable.<br />
Still sweetly pretty in the cornfed midwestern way she was when I last knew her, and wearing her thick chesnut brown hair the exact same way she wore it in grades four through seven. It was the exact same color as her pony's back then, and it's the same color now. I'm sure the pony is long since dead.<br />
Most of her profile isn't public, but a few photos are. In one, she's belting out a tune in what appears to be community theatre. In another, she's cuddling in a quilted brown recliner with her soft, bald, bespectacled husband who has kind eyes.<br />
In 2013, there's a photo of her mom, in long sleeves and long pants, with a banner attesting to her prowess as a grandmother.<br />
In 2011, she appears to have found Jesus in some vaguely non-denominational way (as a child she was Presbyterian but that was only because our town wasn't large enough to have any Lutherans). She favors bold floral prints in her church attire, and has "checked in" at some point as listening to Rush Limbaugh. <br />
Her few visible posts are articulate, and everything is spelled correctly.<br />
She got married in 1989, around the time I would've been finishing grad school.<br />
If she has, or has ever had, a job, there's no mention of it on facebook — no mention of where she works or if she works and what she did.<br />
She has two beautiful daughters. <br />
She and her husband appear to make an annual trip to a Big City (one year New York, another Chicago), augmented by an every-other-year vacation at a Florida beach.<br />
She has 569 friends. Number of friends we have in common: zero.<br />
She doesn't acknowledge being from Ohio, and, in fact, lists the town where she went to college as where she's from. <br />
She seems to have remodeled her kitchen in 2016.<br />
Her father posts blizzard photos on her wall and jokes, "where's the global warming?"<br />
They all appear to live deep in the midwest now. <br />
She favors wine-flavored organic gummy bears, and self-identifies as a foodie.<br />
She watches Fox News, and in 2013 briefly flirted with Weight Watchers. <br />
Sometimes she sits on an exercise ball.<br />
There's no mention that she has now, or ever had, a sister.<br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4014172403154803771.post-58022288479591461012016-09-14T23:30:00.000-07:002018-08-12T16:35:39.287-07:00Close the Drawer"Honey, could you close that drawer back?" Mom asks, gesturing to the nightstand, which I'd left open after taking out that night's round of insulin and pills for her for bedtime dosages. <br />
"Sure, just one second," I said, positioning her knees across the grooved wedge pillow I had ordered on Amazon to elevate her feet and reduce the edema in her legs that was getting worse every day. <br />
"Ed's friends had this daughter," she continues.<br />
"Uh huh," I say absent-mindedly, unspooling the compression bandages I was using to wrap her legs with before she went to sleep.<br />
"47 years old."<br />
"ok," I said. <br />
"She left her dresser drawer open one night?" she adds, almost as if it's a question I'm supposed to know the answer to.<br />
"Uh huh," I respond.<br />
"Tripped over it in the dark."<br />
"Oh yeah?" I ask, my voice muffled from my position speaking into her mattress from the floor, halfway under the bed, looking for one of the bandages I've evidently misplaced.<br />
"Killed her dead," she says, without a trace of drama.<br />
"Uh huh," I grunt in response, crawling back out, so I can reach the hot pink aluminum flashlight she keeps on the dresser. <br />
"Brain bleed," she concludes matter-of-factly.<br />
"Ah!" I say, locating the now illuminated missing bandage. I retrieve it, dust myself off, and take the two steps back to her nightstand, where I close the drawer."<br />
"Thank you honey," she says. Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4014172403154803771.post-4651159999479844192015-10-01T23:30:00.000-07:002015-10-06T12:05:10.628-07:00Everything that was wrong with my 50th birthday I would never be able to count all the ways in which my 50th birthday was made entirely of suck, and was the worst birthday that I (or anyone, really) has ever had. But I can explain why, and it's all about my superstitious (though wildly accurate) belief that however you spend a monumental milestone (a birthday, a holiday, etc), that is what you'll spend the rest of the year (or decade) doing. The time other people spend planning weddings and baby showers or even Christmas is the time and energy I allocate to days <i>I </i>consider special (whether or not anyone else buys in). <br />
<br />
It's the reason I host a New Year's Day brunch with my favorite
friends and favorite food, because I <i>know</i> that however you spend New
Year's Day is the way you'll spend the rest of the year. <br />
<br />
My 30s were my favorite decade to date, and even if I couldn't pinpoint the exact how and the why, in my mind, the next ten years were inextricably linked with the handful of perfect moments from the 30th birthday party that kicked everything off (my favorite band playing "Pamela Brown" on my deck — for example — their amps plugged into a random and endless succession of orange extension cords that threaded through the window and into the shag-carpeted "Rumpus Room" that I never, ever got around to remodeling the entire time I lived there). <br />
<br />
I had something more modest in mind for 50 — no band, no amps, just a couple dozen of my favorite friends and my favorite food (from a venue I'd decided on this time last year) — and that isn't the way it played out. No friends. No food. <br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-quf-ruBkZj1f52ArQ6_DNhLTFSY6niq7z23awP4bZJcx5GQ6d6O-1hyagiDWBU6L_wCQaMyhY2J2krRCl_TotUl0sQFP2u94xwLugXTTTkNtuyG4bwImR1VcfHEnlYtgKHp-r2FBSUU/s1600/bird.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-quf-ruBkZj1f52ArQ6_DNhLTFSY6niq7z23awP4bZJcx5GQ6d6O-1hyagiDWBU6L_wCQaMyhY2J2krRCl_TotUl0sQFP2u94xwLugXTTTkNtuyG4bwImR1VcfHEnlYtgKHp-r2FBSUU/s200/bird.jpg" width="200" /></a><br />
I stumbled across this dead bird lying on the welcome mat outside my office door first thing this morning — the poor little guy appeared to have bashed his brains out on the glass — which seemed like the perfect metaphor for this whole miserable day, until....<br />
<br />
Until, that is, I ran across this random post from a random stranger on Facebook, dated January 1. I don't know this person, and none of my friends know this person. I was searching for a specific article by my favorite TV critic (who just happens to have the same, very common, first name), and this is what popped up. <br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgutL7elxIsDRaf1RC62kdOyOSe1pybHiss_zPWWxuFGsvYLpysAGQfCdP2W2_MYE013i67Z23FdJhVXkTRgS6yblLvnr0mfg_0QY_SBsS3-3ZV38uG0nYLKzoGt8SYQCdEbt8y3mOStpg/s1600/Screen+Shot+2015-10-05+at+7.44.20+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgutL7elxIsDRaf1RC62kdOyOSe1pybHiss_zPWWxuFGsvYLpysAGQfCdP2W2_MYE013i67Z23FdJhVXkTRgS6yblLvnr0mfg_0QY_SBsS3-3ZV38uG0nYLKzoGt8SYQCdEbt8y3mOStpg/s320/Screen+Shot+2015-10-05+at+7.44.20+PM.png" width="320" /></a></div>
As one New Year's Day indignity stacks on top of the next, and then the next, for him, what I am accidentally thinking as I read it is how impossible it is for me to see his post as anything other than a tone poem that completely summarizes the utter despair and disappointment that characterized my birthday.<br />
<br />
None of the the things he wrote are specific to me... and yet, <i>everything</i> he wrote somehow speaks to the universal in all of us, doesn't it? Religions and political parties have been founded on less:<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<ul>
<li>...I was nowhere near drunk.</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>...I'm wondering if I have a small ulcer. </li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>...I put up a new shower rod. It looks nice. I was glad that it wasn't hard to put up. </li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>...the tarp came loose from where I stapled it up the last time. </li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>...I have to re-do the Advent wreath, but I'll worry about that tomorrow.</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>...I don't get paid until Saturday. </li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>...the electric bill and Christmas wiped me out. </li>
</ul>
</blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<ul>
<li>... you all take care and may God bless. </li>
</ul>
</blockquote>
<br />
I'm trying not to take the whole episode — the worst Birthday anyone's ever had, in the history of time — too hard (and by that, I mean I will never forgive or forget one single second of it).<br />
<br />
Certainly, it's not like I won't get another milestone —a do-over — in no time at all, when I turn 100. <br />
<br />
All I can hope is that my favorite band will still be around to write a new song to commemorate the occasion, and they will call it, "The electric bill and Christmas wiped me out." <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4014172403154803771.post-37984148275185438672015-08-12T20:30:00.000-07:002018-08-12T16:40:23.410-07:00Mom's review of the new Rick Springsteen Movie The best part of the new Meryl Streep movie is Mom explaining to Linda
who Rick Springfield is, "you know, from the E Street Band?"<br />
Mom, that's
Bruce Springstee<span class="text_exposed_show">n. </span><br />
<span class="text_exposed_show">"Whatever." </span><br />
<span class="text_exposed_show">And he
isn't FROM the E Street Band. That's HIS band. </span><br />
<span class="text_exposed_show">"Who cares." </span><br />
<span class="text_exposed_show">She pauses before finishing her review, "Poor old Rick Springsteen is the BEST thing about that movie." </span><br />
<span class="text_exposed_show">I don't disagree. </span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4014172403154803771.post-23529425358206131442014-11-03T14:21:00.000-08:002014-12-02T15:28:41.248-08:00Paying RespectsToday I went to a funeral for my cousin.<br />
<br />
Her 90th birthday was last month ("celebrated" would've been too strong a word for it, as she spent this birthday, like the past three, <a href="http://realitytruck.blogspot.com/2011/06/bye-bye-birdie.html" target="_blank">in a nursing home</a>, with very little awareness of her surroundings or the comings and goings around her). At 90 (forty-plus years my senior), she always seemed more like a beloved aunt than a cousin. Her mother was my (great) Aunt Mary, my grandfather's sister. I am not sure if that made us second cousins... second cousins once removed? She was my mother's first cousin, so that would make her...I'm still not sure.<br />
<br />
She wasn't sick. She didn't die after "a long illness." The home had given us a few days notice that she wouldn't be with us much longer. It gave my Mom and one other cousin time to go and hold her hand and say their goodbyes. I asked several times, out of some morbidly unhealthy curiosity, "but what's <i>wrong</i> with her?" People don't just...die... to my way of thinking. Not even at 90. But of course I'm mistaken. Nothing was wrong with her. She'd stopped eating. Her body was shutting itself down -- worn out. It was the end of a very long process.<br />
<br />
A decade or so ago, she sat down, and stopped getting up. Eventually she was "confined" to a wheelchair, and then eventually, more recently, to her bed. She wasn't paralyzed. She hadn't broken anything. She just sat down. Her mind went shortly after she gave up on her body. Chicken, or egg? I have no idea.<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTOFnCnEKOEpk1zF9brWgOzKzHzUprn7Atwz1KESl2B9QNRWzhmJW-r3EgzlfJlRoZ-Db4e4Fy0y6VsvS5-58O_uJVzFYQxl0lQHZwXz1WoXGtMiTGXXvYretYrapFexZfdVKnRoJ7ok8/s1600/payingrespects.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTOFnCnEKOEpk1zF9brWgOzKzHzUprn7Atwz1KESl2B9QNRWzhmJW-r3EgzlfJlRoZ-Db4e4Fy0y6VsvS5-58O_uJVzFYQxl0lQHZwXz1WoXGtMiTGXXvYretYrapFexZfdVKnRoJ7ok8/s1600/payingrespects.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
She and her husband had sold their rambling ranch house years ago and downsized to a very modest cottage. When he died, she downsized again to a small apartment on the seedy side of town. I was only there twice, accompanying my Mom who regularly did her grocery shopping and dropped off home-cooked meals.<br />
<br />
The upstairs neighbors in her complex preyed on her, at first stealing small things from her apartment, and eventually graduating to medication, and then thousands of dollars via stolen checks. Law enforcement wasn't remotely interested. She had no children to step up to oversee her care; she'd outlived her parents and all of her siblings. Eventually, after a herculean struggle, my mother got her into a clean, well-kept facility where, even penniless (though she was unaware of that), she was afforded the relative luxury of <a href="http://realitytruck.blogspot.com/2011/06/bye-bye-birdie.html" target="_blank">dying in a clean bed</a>. <br />
<br />
Her funeral was lovely. Like many in her demographic (and there are more 90-somethings every day, many of them, like her, in graduated care facilities that start out as assisted living and inexorably wind their way around to assisted dying, though no one really refers to it as that), she had selected the service, and paid for it all in advance when she was widowed.<br />
<br />
We know it was just what she wanted, because she had picked it out. We could all see so much of her in the funeral; there was more of her in the details there than I think anyone had seen of her in the last several years. The casket was a beautiful shade of blush pink. The casket flowers were pink and white. My mother had displayed a few family photos on a draped folding table, and she also spent a full Sunday baking so that the guests -- 13 or so of us -- could fondly enjoy our cousin's recipes and reflect on the feasts she used to serve.<br />
<br />
Our priest, coached by Mom, touched on it briefly in the service, but he didn't know her in her heyday. She was the ultimate hostess, and my first introduction to entertaining for the sake of entertaining, and even as a little kid, I soaked up inspiration from her as best and as fast as I could. <br />
<br />
When she and her husband moved back here to retire, they brought with them their big-city California ways, and I, for one, had never seen anything like it.<br />
<br />
Taco salad? In the <i>seventies</i>?! That was revelatory stuff! Tamale pie. Hummingbird cake. Pizza rolls. Are you kidding? Take everything that's great about pizza, and then roll it up. Man, I was <i>in. </i><br />
<br />
She had retired from a lifelong career at Swanson's, and her knowledge and appreciation of food was unparalleled, even in a family of food lovers like ours. As far as I could tell, those two were living the life -- they built their house to order, with niches like the first butler's pantry I had ever seen off the kitchen (extra fridges and freezers, all filled to bursting) and a dining room with a wall-to-wall hutch that displayed a dizzyingly comprehensive collection of Murano glassware alongside a pink china service for (at least) 20 which made it to the dining room table regularly, not just for special occasions. They had Cable TV before anyone had Cable TV, and despite our parents' stern reprimands that it made us rude guests, my brother and I invariably monopolized their remote and flopped down on our bellies on their brown shag carpet to watch the early days of MTV in front of their giant stone fireplace.<br />
<br />
Every visit to her house, no matter how casual, spontaneous, and unanticipated, was accompanied by an unfurling of the culinary red carpet. "Here," she would say, offering a spoonful of some amazing concoction, "taste this. See if it's fit to eat," accompanied by a sly grin. She knew it would likely be the best thing anyone had ever tasted. Of <i>course</i> she knew. <br />
<br />
She didn't have kids and as far as I could tell, had never had any inclination towards having any, though she was incredibly loving with us. My freshman year in college, she would send me back to the dorm with shopping bags filled with Tupperware containing everything from her homemade banana pudding layered with real whipped cream to foil-wrapped loaves of zucchini bread and brownies, stacked on top of Pyrex square pans filled with her famous 9-inch apple pie which (in a nod to their time in Wisconsin), incorporated cheddar cheese in the crust. Savory <i>and</i> sweet? Get. out. She was determined that I would have enough to share -- unaware that I lived in a building filled with anorexics and bulimics, alongside WASPs who dined exclusively on the white food that they considered nothing more than necessary sustenance. I would've never told her that, partly because I think it would've broken her heart, and partly because I suspected that information might have cut into my haul. Maybe my rations would have been sensibly reduced. Instead, I thanked her profusely on behalf of my dorm, and then gamely spent my Sunday evenings methodically plowing through coolers that would've easily fed an entire football team like it was my fulltime job, savoring every crumb. <br />
<br />
This is the territory my mind wandered to during her funeral, tuning out the Jesus-y parts, and lingering instead over memories of her Swedish meatballs, her lasagne, and her Shrimp Oliver. <br />
<br />
Where ever she is (and I hope it includes a reunion with her husband and her dogs, and maybe a Viking Range), I think she'd be glad to be remembered for her culinary legacy, and glad to know that some part of her lives on every time we serve her tamale pie. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4014172403154803771.post-81442509773989918492013-09-18T18:43:00.003-07:002013-10-11T15:11:12.929-07:00Things You Can Do In Memory When A Good Man Dies <i>Love isn't something you feel, it's something you do.</i><br />
<div style="text-align: right;">
<b>--Six Feet Under </b></div>
<br />
My San Francisco cousin wrote one of the nicest things on my Mom's facebook wall when my stepdad died. "I can't believe he's gone," (a pretty conventional sentiment), adding, "He was such a <i><b>do-er</b></i>." It's a small thing, but nothing could sum him up any better. <br />
<br />
When
the obituary came out, they somehow left off the
designated charities we had picked for official Memorializing (the supportive-housing cancer dorms we stayed in, the
Animal Rescue his daughter-in-law volunteers at). The fact that
they were left off means several people have called, wondering how they
can remember him. We'll have the Obit (the correct one) printed out, but
because the Wake isn't til this weekend (we delayed it to coincide with
what would have been his big annual camping trip, because flights had
already been scheduled for that), there's a lull. A vacuum. I barely know what to do with myself. <br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFlIYakmbKAe-9t6a0fTHCFBUXKVDM1u9Gc593ssKjC5ns8_66KVZpH9PQaSjvxgBc3Ht_AkZAEnYUWO7lqBgyRy8hkZjb3ydEkPbEsSKdc1ndJ0umje8VLUe1si9xrOsNYVmMEM2pJhk/s1600/holdinghands.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFlIYakmbKAe-9t6a0fTHCFBUXKVDM1u9Gc593ssKjC5ns8_66KVZpH9PQaSjvxgBc3Ht_AkZAEnYUWO7lqBgyRy8hkZjb3ydEkPbEsSKdc1ndJ0umje8VLUe1si9xrOsNYVmMEM2pJhk/s1600/holdinghands.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">sometimes he held my foot when our hands got tired </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
The first six months of the year was the battle to get him diagnosed, and that was followed almost instantly by<a href="http://realitytruck.blogspot.com/2013/08/if-theres-anything-i-can-do_26.html" target="_blank"> the battle to get him enough care</a> to die in a little peace with a modicum of dignity. One of the last things he said to me in his final weeks was, "you have been a big help to me. Thank you for helping me." The only answer I had was, "thank you for letting me." It was an honor. But now that taking care of him isn't my job anymore, I fill the void with worrying about exactly how he wants to be remembered. As long as we serve beer at the Memorial, wherever he is (looking up, as he would say, with a conspiratorial wink), he will be happy. He brought it up dozens of times at the hospital, so it's safe to say it qualifies as a dying wish. Baptists will be alienated, my Mom fears, but if I have to serve it out of my shoe, there will be beer. <br />
<br />
The first job was Cremation. I picked the funeral home because they had an onsite
crematorium, and I didn't want him outsourced. The funeral director
assured me he would personally remove his pacemaker (because I'd seen
the <i>Six Feet Under </i>episode where that delayed a service) -- and
he confirmed that it isn't an old wives tale -- a pacemaker really would
blow the oven "sky high," as he put it. Removing it "personally," sounded surprisingly graphic when I reflected on his choice of words later, but I appreciated the guy's straight talk. I complained just enough about the price to feel like I was appropriately honoring my stepdad's memory, that I was truly his daughter. When our bereavement specialist ticked off the array of options, I would proudly respond to each one exactly as he's taught us all over the last two decades, with "does that cost extra?" and then I would rub my thumb across the flats of my fingers in his universal gesture, always accompanied by a grin, for "how much?" My answer for every price quoted was a furrowed brow and a contemplative pause, followed by "seems high" (though it killed me to do it; it only seemed right). <br />
<br />
I picked up the cremains as soon as they
were ready (a nice young guy came in on the weekend to get them for me),
and I drove them to my Mom's house Labor Day weekend. I wanted him to be home for the Holiday. And I knew how much he hated waiting around for a ride. I didn't have any music in the car that I thought he would've especially cared about, so instead, I listened to David Cross's "<i>Shut Up You Fucking Baby</i>" all the way there, because he would've liked it. <br />
<br />
Mom burst into tears as soon as I walked in with the ashes, but rallied
immediately. She went into her room and came back out with her lipstick on, wearing his
favorite pink dress. We wore a lot of pink at the hospital because he
said it was so cheerful. Unconsciously, I had put on a t-shirt for the ride home that was the exact same pink that she was wearing. We probably looked a little feeble-minded, but so what. "Come on," she said, putting her game face on,
"Let's take him to the potluck." I dutifully buckled him back into my
back seat (just as I had done dozens of times in recent months), and we
took him to Church, where we stowed his ashes on a corner niche shelf
overlooking the soft drinks for one last meal. <br />
<br />
He'd volunteered in that
kitchen for the last 20-some years -- every potluck, every pancake
supper, every Valentine dinner, every chili cook-off. In their Church,
the menfolk do the cooking and the dishwashing for special events. Although my mother was the cook in the family (three square meals a day, or "three hots and a cot," as he would put it), he was famous for two things: pancakes, and a yellow bourbon cake with chocolate bourbon frosting. I tried to make it one time for a birthday and it didn't turn out, but I am a terrible baker. I plan to print up the Recipe and share it with everybody at the Wake. One of my baking pals is attempting to convert it to cupcakes to serve.<br />
<br />
Just as when he was sick, everybody wants to know if there's <a href="http://realitytruck.blogspot.com/2013/08/if-theres-anything-i-can-do_26.html" target="_blank">anything they can do</a>, so just as before, I'm making a list (in addition to the cupcakes, and all the chores I have shared out for food prep and decor). Some things on this list are very specific and unique to him, but I imagine for anyone who's grieving a loss, there will be some variation on this that would be just right. <br />
<br />
The first thing I would tell people to do is this: <br />
<b>Make somebody some world-class pancakes (or whatever it is you're famous for).</b> <br />
If you really cannot boil water, get famous for buying something. Be the guy who always brings that world-class pie, or donut, or kung pao chicken. My friend Jason makes Grief Brownies. He had barely cleared U.S. airspace, returning from a long work trip out of the country when I got his text: "how many people will there be? I will deliver them Friday." Everybody needs a Signature something, and it should be the best. If you can't make it, buy it. If you don't have one, get one. And then show up with it when you're needed. <br />
<br />
The second thing I would recommend is:<br />
<b>Feed a stray dog, and if circumstances allow, adopt it. </b><br />
All of my parents' dogs are rescues, and all were brought into the house under my stepdad's strong and grumbly protestations that he absolutely, positively, for sure, would never have another dog. In fact, he would probably just go ahead and divorce my Mom if she even brought up the subject of saving another dog. Roy is their third. He has one eye, and a wrecked voicebox from where he was either beaten, or possibly hit by a car (the vet is just guessing). <br />
One of my stepdad's old camping pals, Bob, visited us at the hospital every few days. He showed up almost as soon as we'd made it from the ER to a room, and my stepdad's face just lit up, in surprise and delight. "How did you know I was here?!" he tried to shout (though his voice was gone).<br />
"You're on The Internet," Bob yelled back proudly (his kids had been relaying our medical status updates via facebook).<br />
In the midst of all the smothering and mothering and fretting that my Mom and I subjected everyone to, Bob was an oasis of pure testosterone as the two of them traded old drinking stories, swore outrageously, and compared notes on what their girlfriend Rachel Maddow had said the night before on MSNBC. <br />
I did not know that Bob owed his cat to our family until he told the story of my stepdad insisting that Bob and his wife adopt a stray cat that had been lurking around their campsite many years ago. Bob had no need for a cat; didn't want a cat; and was certainly not in the market for a cat. But my stepdad had apparently been insistent. He's the one who fed the cat everyday, knowing she would keep coming around, and guessing, correctly, that she would wear down their defenses.<br />
Eventually, Bob acknowledged they should just give the thing a name, once the gender could be determined. Pops tipped her over, announced "it's a girl," and that's how Bob and his wife came to name her Miss Kitty and take her home. <br />
A week later, Bob dutifully took her to the vet for her shots, registered Miss Kitty with the receptionist and waited for the bill. The vet tech who brought her out, overcome with curiosity, asked Bob, "Miss Kitty?" then suggested, "You might want to pick a different name."<br />
Bob was halfway through explaining about <i>Gunsmoke</i>, before he thought to ask, "why?"<br />
"Because," the tech told him unceremoniously, "this cat is a boy," flipping him over to illustrate. My stepdad had misdiagnosed him, and has insisted in the many intervening years since, that the cat just hadn't been "mature" enough for his expert assessment. <br />
I was riveted as to how this story might turn out. "Do you still call her Miss Kitty?" I asked, thinking how great it would be if they did.<br />
"Naw," Bob said matter-of-factly. "Now we call her Buddy."<br />
<br />
<i>The third thing I would suggest in memory of my stepdad: </i><br />
<b>Fix somebody's bike or lawnmower or flat tire, or loan them your jumper cables (with no expectation they'll be returned). If you're not handy, buy them a really good flashlight or a Triple A membership. If you can't fix their lawnmower, cut their grass.</b><br />
<br />
My
stepdad was known to his favorite nephews as Uncle Fix-It, and always
described by his beloved late aunt as "handy as a pocket in a shirt."
That was her sales pitch to my Mom when she fixed them up (though I
don't think she ever admitted that's what she was doing). My mom,
then-bitterly divorced from my Dad, was spending the winter at one of her girlfriends' places in Florida. He was newly widowed and drowning his
sorrows nearby. Mom's toilet broke, and when she went to the neighbor's
to get a plumbing recommendation, her neighbor said, "Let me call my
nephew. He's handy as a pocket in a shirt." She did, and the rest is
history. That was Christmas and they got married Memorial Day weekend.<br />
His aunt was as good as her word. <br />
He spent an entire summer re-roofing my first house with the guy who would become my ex-boyfriend. (Presciently, he assessed him as "a con man.") He rebuilt the furnace, ripped up the old carpeting, helped sand the floors, and pumped out the basement when we had a 40-year biblical flood. He was the one who had to come inside and break it to my that my dog Travis had died suddenly and in perfect health (maybe a snake bite, nobody knows). <br />
He changed my oil, fixed the starter on three cars in a row (apparently, I'm hard on starters), and repaired a lot of pepper grinders that I would've just thrown away (I am also inexplicably hard on pepper grinders). All the useful presents I ever got for Christmas came from him -- a solar-powered weather radio and TV, a flashlight you can handcrank when the batteries die, safety kits for the car. He rehabbed every closet I ever had with extra shelves, more rods, and custom shoe organizers. Just this past Memorial Day weekend, he came over and hung extra spice racks in the pantry and added towel bars in the bathroom. "You have too much shit," he observed matter-of-factly, surveying my closet. "I don't have <i>any </i>shit," I protested proudly. "This is it. I have gotten it all pared down to <i>just</i> this."<br />
He got a hard time for recycling and repairing absolutely everything -- things most people would've just thrown away -- but he always had an answer. "I might want to buy something with that money I'd be wasting." <br />
To his literal dying day, he never lost his curiosity about how things work, asking the docs in great detail
what his new PleurX drain would do. "It will make you feel better," one of the residents patronizingly told him. "I know <i>that,</i>" he said good-naturedly, "I'm just wondering how will the vacuum equalize the pressure and not collapse my lung?" A bit of a Luddite, he nonetheless loved my iPad and iPhone and could play with the maps feature almost endlessly. <br />
When he was staying in that same hospital 20 years ago for bladder cancer, he actually repaired one
of the ultrasound machines for them, <i>mid-procedure</i>. "Gimme that thing," were his exact words when the tech couldn't get it to work. <br />
Whenever my Mom and I would leave the hospital, he would say, as he always did, "be careful."<br />
"Yeah, yeah," we would say, as usual.<br />
"No, I mean it," he would say, almost frantic. "I can't help you from here." <br />
"Well you bought our Triple A," Mom would reassure him. "That's good enough." <br />
<br />
<b>Get flowers for somebody who's around to enjoy them. Not just for funerals. All the time. Not as an either/or. "In lieu of" is a stupid phrase. You can do other nice things <i>too</i>. But order the flowers.</b><br />
This is the subject of minor controversy in our family. Neither my dad or stepdad ever bought my Mom many flowers. In fairness, they widely quoted my mother's token protest, "they're a waste of money."<br />
But unless you have a tendency to blow the grocery money on hookers and florists and leave your children <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSiZjVS0_LaXO4X3-hj8PvsbgN-1hyaKxgHFir5cqCPN9-an3cgZlbIsh-7Sav6TLJoQ5osIcrMY7UT47uNYE6D-Db-utu7uN-NDhr0v-0F3rw3_vGDk_5iQMUkXTRbtx0yqhsIp1hUxY/s1600/orchid.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSiZjVS0_LaXO4X3-hj8PvsbgN-1hyaKxgHFir5cqCPN9-an3cgZlbIsh-7Sav6TLJoQ5osIcrMY7UT47uNYE6D-Db-utu7uN-NDhr0v-0F3rw3_vGDk_5iQMUkXTRbtx0yqhsIp1hUxY/s1600/orchid.jpg" /></a></div>
starving, flowers are never a waste of money.<br />
As much as my stepdad complained "just another thing for me to mow around!" he loved them as much as Mom and I do. He planted a million of them, at home, and at the Church, where he spent countless volunteer hours, mulching and digging and mowing. <br />
Mom cut flowers at our dorms and in the V.A. gardens and brought them to our hospital rooms every day.<br />
When we arrived at the V.A., we were greeted with a beautiful orchid from Tom and Michael, who'd thoughtfully sent it ahead on their way to their summer vacation cruise. Of course we didn't know then we only had four days left. <br />
Never one for sentiment, it was a little surprising that my stepdad immediately asked us to take a photo of the orchid. "Can you put that on the internet?" he asked.<br />
"Sure!" I said.<br />
"Can you tell Tom and Michael it's <i>from me</i>?" We facebooked it to them immediately on their Caribbean adventure.<br />
<br />
When he died, nobody sent my Mom flowers. <br />
There wasn't a traditional funeral with a traditional visitation and maybe her pals were relying on her "philosophy" that they're a waste of money. (Hell, for all I know, they just gave her the cash, figuring all new Widows have a tough go of it, but I doubt it.)<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBYRu4k_5MgIjx9B7EoIhnSajgB8Co-f8zjvj54OfsT9M-b1eKJr0aogHK09QduSaCQnquVhAFDLxp5TO0KkTpgO4A9xVFiL3s5-xnfiNfUsRykEjGJcSYF1xEawwIUpPjoH0elKlBdig/s1600/OrchidNote.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBYRu4k_5MgIjx9B7EoIhnSajgB8Co-f8zjvj54OfsT9M-b1eKJr0aogHK09QduSaCQnquVhAFDLxp5TO0KkTpgO4A9xVFiL3s5-xnfiNfUsRykEjGJcSYF1xEawwIUpPjoH0elKlBdig/s1600/OrchidNote.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">He wanted to make sure the food gays saw his orchid.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
A couple days later, a lovely bouquet arrived from his nephews. These were the same nephews who all switched their facebook profile pics to a photo of him. I was beyond touched, even moreso when I zoomed in and realized the photo they'd selected was one of him flipping off the camera. That's about right. She'd raved about the arrangement, so when I showed up with the ashes, the first thing I asked was, where were the flowers. I wanted to see them.<br />
"In the garage fridge," she said. <br />
Maybe this is a new custom? Another Episcopalian thing I'm unfamiliar with (like no one bringing her any food).<br />
No.<br />
She was just "trying to save them" for the Memorial, hoping they'd last.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;">O</span>ne day at the V.A. hospice, a giant arrangement (about as tall as I am) showed up in the family kitchen/lounge for veterans and their families: a tower with dozens and dozens of green and pink and red roses. No fillers. No carnations. It had to have come in on a hand truck or dolly. The nurses told us a Bride had sent over a centerpiece from her wedding, thinking it might brighten the veterans' days. God bless her.<br />
That's my recommendation: almost everyone gets flowers for some special occasion, whether it's a wedding or an office Christmas party or a conference. What a great idea to take them to a V.A. or a nursing home, where the residents probably don't see them often.<br />
Whenever a veteran dies at the V.A., the nurses drape the body with a quilted U.S. flag for the last ride out to the hearse. Not especially sentimental myself, I have to admit it's achingly touching. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPl5TEPxe86XSt_EBxVjJvrW94DbzzZZV-uiimwu-FfUJNNBOTwxIvf_Gd4Khf8J84HNmXu6UihrsI0QqZB9e_ASCfViw5vO-wn90Nnt3OkagKyng6Zcm7eSMbkydPSnHpsqNoTGxJ5sU/s1600/flag_gurney.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPl5TEPxe86XSt_EBxVjJvrW94DbzzZZV-uiimwu-FfUJNNBOTwxIvf_Gd4Khf8J84HNmXu6UihrsI0QqZB9e_ASCfViw5vO-wn90Nnt3OkagKyng6Zcm7eSMbkydPSnHpsqNoTGxJ5sU/s1600/flag_gurney.jpg" height="200" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">That's a real rose on his shroud. I stole it. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Unimpeded by sentiment, as much as I hated to judge (and know my mind should've been on weightier things), I was also dimly horrified to notice they top this quilt with a plastic carnation.<br />
I quietly removed it. While we waited for the funeral home representative to arrive, when nobody was looking, I walked down to the lounge and quietly stole three roses (two pink and one red) from the back side of that bride's centerpiece. I put those on top of his quilted flag. (Because sometimes you have to improvise.)<br />
("How much?" I could imagine him saying, rubbing his thumb across the flats of his fingers. "FREE!" I would've told him, and he would've winked, "the best kind.")<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">O</span>ne of the things I notice people saying a lot after somebody dies is how much it reminds them to tell everyone around them they love them, while they can.<br />
Whatever.<br />
You could all sit down and
watch more Oprah re-runs too, I guess.<br />
Most people agree it's nice to hear "I love you," I suppose, and it is, but talk's cheap.<br />
I have no memory of whether or not my stepdad ever said those words to me, or whether I ever said them to him. Maybe we did. I don't know. Probably. But I do know he re-built my sump pump, and pruned my dogwoods (almost beyond recognition), and fixed my water heater. And I know I kept Sweet n Low in my purse for him for the last 20 years (though I think artificial sweeteners are horrifying), and that I fought for his life every day for the last six months as hard as I would fight for my own. I spoke for him when he wasn't able to. When that battle was lost, I fought for the best, most peaceful death that could be managed, and <a href="http://realitytruck.blogspot.com/2013/08/if-theres-anything-i-can-do_26.html" target="_blank">when that didn't go so well</a>, I just held his hand. <br />
<br />
You
could <i>tell </i>more people "I Love You," but no one in my family ever does. Because it isn't
something you feel, it's something you <i>do.</i> How are you fixed for cupcakes? Kung pao chicken? Has the grass been cut? Are flowers on the way? <br />
<br />
My stepdad was a <i>do-er.</i> When a good man dies, DO something. Send flowers. Make pancakes. Cut a widow's grass. Do their laundry. Go get their oil changed and fill up their tank.<br />
<br />
Go have a "piping hot cup of coffee" or an "ice cold beer" with someone while they're around to enjoy it.<br />
<br />
When you pay respects, pay<i> respect. </i><br />
<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4014172403154803771.post-83609599075547273792013-08-26T14:01:00.003-07:002013-09-07T19:54:25.317-07:00If There's Anything I Can Do...<br />
<br />
It's been a bad year for Dads. Two actually: 2012 and 2013. Two dads. This time last year was when my Dad began to seriously fail (we just didn't know it yet, because he was continuously being misdiagnosed with kidney stones, when in fact, he was actually having strokes). I didn't fully appreciate then just how long the list of Things Worse Than Death can get. (Now I do.)<br />
<br />
Christmas was the longest, loneliest six weeks of my life -- hanging out by his hospital bed from Thanksgiving through New Year's, realizing slowly that he would have no other option than to be warehoused in longterm care for the rest of his life. Had there been a plug to be unplugged, I would have pulled it, beyond confident in his wishes (<a href="http://realitytruck.blogspot.com/2010/06/six-feet-under.html" target="_blank">expressed out loud</a>, a million times, over 70 years)- but that is so rarely how medical care actually works. Almost nothing is black and white; everything is gray.<br />
<br />
We were extended dozens of kindnesses. Three friends took the brunt of it: rotating sitting duties (no mean feat), patiently transcribing the delirium-induced things he would say, so they could repeat them to the residents (but not to me), for medically diagnostic purposes. Our friend who runs a downtown restaurant fed him all his favorite foods, and would sit by his side and laugh with him about the hospital fare. My friends visited. His didn't. He is fundamentally alone. An only child, he has no brothers, no sisters, no parents, no aunts or uncles, no wife, no nieces or nephews, or cousins. He had people in his life he treated like sons and daughters -- and I know that's how he thought of them -- but they never showed. My Uncle (unrelated to him) looked out for him as best as he could, for as long as he could. <br />
<br />
For a family in which the chronic refrain is, "Please don't let me outlive my mind," <a href="http://realitytruck.blogspot.com/2011/06/bye-bye-birdie.html" target="_blank">quite a few of us </a>seem to do it. And for everyone who's quick to smugly point out "well, that would never happen to me... not as long as I have [a gun] [a prescription] [access to carbon monoxide] [a cyanide capsule]," I have two words: "Big. Talk." It'd be rare to encounter any finer southern family more heavily armed than ours is, but the first symptom of outliving your mind is.... <i>You don't know it's happening. </i>That's the thing. <br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdEa04exuDJCcrYhmTU1Ev5P5Gub-hwbphOUKeq_FzRBd2BSlZdh2dum_9oy6iGJuVoHo7wzY4uH1hT3ehF5SD73jKPjeWOXHlDix5NpYRfr9NQBK9QaPLKU8dxEqQ89Qb5MEHqRYugf4/s1600/hospitalsocks1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdEa04exuDJCcrYhmTU1Ev5P5Gub-hwbphOUKeq_FzRBd2BSlZdh2dum_9oy6iGJuVoHo7wzY4uH1hT3ehF5SD73jKPjeWOXHlDix5NpYRfr9NQBK9QaPLKU8dxEqQ89Qb5MEHqRYugf4/s1600/hospitalsocks1.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dad, at Christmas (2012)</td></tr>
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As Dad told his doctors every time he tried to check out of the hospital because he wanted to catch a helicopter and go shut down the tobacco factories before they killed any more kids with secondhand smoke, "I'm <i>not </i>crazy, I'm <i>just</i> optimistic." (He is correct, medically speaking. He is not crazy, or mentally ill, not that there's anything wrong with that. Vascular dementia, or multi-infarct stroke-related dementia, means he's doing the best he can with what brain he has left. As the docs patiently explained it to me, as they began to painstakingly solve the layers of his case: imagine all the same blockages that were there when he had his triple bypass, only imagine them in the brain instead of the heart. There's no bypass for the brain.)<br />
<br />
It's not like Alzheimers. He has all his memories. Every one of them. But he has no executive reasoning ability. He can't operate a microwave or a stove because that's a two-step process. But he doesn't know that he can't. He just thinks all microwaves are broken. The world he lives in could best be described as reality-adjacent. It borders the world the rest of us live in, and sometimes, they are just giant concentric circles. He can see us. He can look out the window and see the road to his house (sitting empty), but he's paralyzed as to how to get there. There's a phrase for dealing with losing a loved one a piece at a time like this -- "ambiguous loss" -- but I don't think I'd call it that.<br />
<br />
It's a little frustrating when people ask me, "did he know you today?" Of <i>course</i> he knows me. He knows everything and everyone; he just doesn't know how to get along in the world anymore. I feel like I know what they're imagining -- it's turned up in enough made-for-Lifetime movies -- but the horror of his daily reality is so much different. <br />
<br />
It's a much longer, more complicated story, but that's the Readers' Digest condensed version -- there are millions of words in progress (someday I'll write them) -- and it doesn't include the months of predatory ER crews who would repeatedly treat and street him, even when we begged them for something as simple as a CT scan, a basic test that might've at least clued them in on the difference between strokes, septic shock, and kidney stones. It was the worst experience of my life, and the greatest failure of my life that he is living out his days, imprisoned and warehoused and absolutely fully aware of just how miserable his existence is. Imagine Jack Nicholson's character's frustration in <i>One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest</i> and you have some idea.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">A</span>ll that's to say I was distracted at Christmas when my stepdad was due for his annual esophageal cancer followup. He nearly died of it in 2009, so I assumed these annual followups were pretty aggressive: a scope or two, a scan of some kind, perhaps some bloodwork, maybe a chest film. I assumed wrong. Pretty tragically, as it turns out. He had an endoscopy that (erroneously) proclaimed him cancer-free a few weeks before Christmas, but by January he'd lost his voice. As rare as it is to hear one doctor disparage another doctor, it's significant that the reaction from our current oncologist (after it took us six months to get to him) was, "how did this guy miss this in December?! <i>Was he not even looking?" </i><br />
<br />
There was a lot going around during last winter's cold and flu season, but the fact that he lost his voice instantly worried me anyway. I'm no doctor, but for this particular round of hoofbeats, I <i>did </i>hear zebras, not horses. First, it didn't sound like ordinary laryngitis; he sounded like he was being strangled. Second, he is an <i>esophageal cancer </i>patient, so anything going on in the head/neck area merits a close look. When he visited here in February to have his defibrillator replaced (he outlived the battery on the old one, which gives you just one small example of his tenacity), I said, "hey Pops, while we're here, let's go downstairs and take advantage of some of this world class medical care. They could look at your throat." He brushed me off brusquely as usual, "Geeeeeezus Christ, I can go see MY doctor, he's <i>right</i> on my way home."<br />
<br />
"Well sure," I said, exasperated as usual. "Why <i>wouldn't </i>you leave the FIRST WORLD doctors we've got up here to go see if those backass third world quacks down there have some leeches they could put on your neck or something?"<br />
<br />
"Shut. Up." my mother loud-whispered across the cafeteria table. "Stop looking down your hoity-toity snooty nose at us with all your first world bullshit. <i>Stop</i> calling us Third World." ("I'm not calling YOU third world," I'd try to explain. "I'm not looking down my nose at YOU.")<br />
<br />
Unfortunately, he did go see his own doctor. Who gave him round after round of antibiotics for "bronchitis."<br />
<br />
This went on for months and months. His voice deteriorated by the day, and he did too. He went from lively and vital and cutting his own grass and putting out a garden to sleeping all day in his recliner, exhausted by a hacking cough. He went to an ENT guy. He had a CT scan. He had a PET scan. The docs eventually read them. By this point, no one could miss the tumor that was completely obstructing his throat. They all agreed he should be referred up here for University care. Then... nothing. No referral. No returned phone calls.<br />
<br />
I yelled at him for tolerating their indifference, their negligence. But he's from a different generation than I am. "<i>You can't piss these doctors off,</i>" he cautioned me.<br />
<br />
"Pissed off?" I'd rant. "<i>More</i> pissed off than sending you home to starve to death in your recliner?" I'd ask, outraged. "Because that's what they're doing now. How much <i>more</i> pissed off are we worried about making them?" He was afraid of making them mad, but he also genuinely liked them and thought they liked him, which I can only characterize as some sort of medical Stockholm syndrome. <br />
<br />
On Father's Day, I gave him a flyer for an upcoming car show and told him I'd treat him to some rides (in planes and cars) to celebrate a nice father-daughter day. He looked a little panicked. "Don't buy the tickets yet! If I'm too sick to go, I don't want you to waste your money." He'd survived five bouts of cancer at this point, and he'd never said anything like that, so I took him seriously. <br />
<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">check-in for stepdad, July 2013</td></tr>
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A few weeks later, on my <i>other</i> Dad's birthday, my stepdad and I spent the day of the car show looking at pics of it on twitter and facebook from his hospital bed, two doors down from the bed my other Dad had at Christmas. I joked, "I can't believe you're standing me up! Let's just sneak outta this place and go look at some muscle cars." <br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;">A</span>fter months in the third world, it turned out that what the backass third-world quacks had missed in December eventually grew to be a golfball-size tumor in his throat and (although they likely came along later) a couple more dime-sized spots on his lungs.<br />
<br />
Oddly, they weren't anxious to make those referrals to get his medical care transferred up here. Uncharacteristically, he called them every few days. He even went to visit. "I'm pretty sick, Joe," he'd say, to one of his "friends" who worked for the docs. "Can you try to help get me in?"<br />
<br />
My Mom wrote notes to his doctor and hand-delivered them, begging for help, and both of them were told, "don't call us, we'll call you." The actual words to him were, "You don't need to keep coming down here. You <i>don't</i> need to keep calling us. We will let you know when we find out something." His response to my daily nagging was, "they said they're trying," and every day, I could hear more doubt and fear creeping into his voice. (I told him that I didn't believe or accept that; "trying" would be, "we're sorry. But the first appointment we could get you is in October. We did our best." They did not try.) They did send a bill for $4,000. that's still a mystery to all of us. Maybe that's the price tag for "trying." <br />
<br />
On a Thursday morning, he woke up unable to swallow, or catch his breath. Finally, seven or eight months into this bout (metastatic lung cancer being his sixth -- and final -- cancer, following testicular, bladder, prostate, colon, and esophageal), he landed here through the ER doors on July 18. My Mom drove him. Admitted to the same hospital that had taken such impeccable care of my dad at Christmas, we were unlucky this time and drew a lazy Attending with an immature Resident. They only wasted a week (which isn't much by the third world standards he'd grown accustomed to), but that's a pretty significant percentage of "a couple months" which was the most he had left at that point. We didn't know that then, because they never had a Palliative Care team visit us in the Hospital (even though we requested it). We didn't even leave the hospital with a definitive diagnosis, much less a prognosis. (It took another couple weeks to ferret those out.) <br />
<br />
During that one-week stay, he had neck biopsies, and an ENT surgeon put in a feeding tube. The first ER discharge came at 7 pm on a Friday night ("failing" is a nice way of describing drowning, choking, and smothering because the Attending couldn't be bothered to write a prescription for suction at home). Our discharge Nurse gave us a long list of "if this, this, or this happens, call the Doctor." <i>Who is this mythical "Doctor" you are referring to? </i>I pleaded. There are no doctors down there on nights or weekends, only answering machines. The suffering he went through that weekend is indescribable.<br />
<br />
That Monday at 7 am was our first visit to Interventional Radiology where he was scheduled for a lung biopsy, but his lungs were so filled with fluid that they just drained it, sent it to pathology, and called it a day. They knew what they were seeing anyway; they told us it's called malignant pleural effusion. Had anybody bothered to drain his lungs during the Hospital stay, we'd have already known that we were coming down to a matter of weeks, not months. The Monday morning guy was also the first to ask me, almost as an afterthought, "did anybody give you the neck biopsy results in the Hospital?" No, they hadn't. He was very professional, very matter-of-fact, and he was the first person to even tell us definitively that the tumor was malignant (not that this came as any surprise by then). <br />
<br />
He struggled through a few more painful days at home, and at the end of that week, on Friday, we went to our followups with the surgeon who'd installed the feeding tube; an oncologist; a radiologist; and a nutritionist (he's diabetic). The surgeon was the first person who ever said to us, "Stage 4," followed by the usual, "there is no Stage 5." He was also professional, matter-of-fact. Our old-school oncologist was insulted by the palliative care I asked for... he sees it as an indictment of how he's doing his job. He told us you can have palliative or treatment but you can't have both. (That's not true. I did the homework.) He didn't understand -- or maybe he didn't care -- that smalltown rural patients don't have any other way to access any sort of 24/7 healthcare in towns where the sidewalks roll up at 4 pm, and all the doctors turn on answering machines that say, "if you've reached this recording after 4:30, go to the hospital (a hospital that is, deservedly, in danger of losing its Medicare eligibility). <br />
<br />
At least he treated us. He didn't ignore us. He's the one who showed us the scans, and he's the one who said, "how did this guy miss this in December?! <i>Was he not even looking?" </i>When he says Jump, referrals are made instantly. He got us into the Radiation department the same day, and he got us on his schedule for a followup visit in two days, which I suspect is unheard of. The scheduling girls up front seemed very displeased with him. That was a positively breakneck pace, and I appreciate him greatly for that. It was too little too late, but I suspect he's a good, competent, aggressive doctor. He drew up a program that included radiation and chemotherapy. He was kind to my stepdad, and patient with the fact that he couldn't hear. He spoke to him directly, and frankly. He treated us, because that's what oncologists do. When you're a hammer, everything looks like a nail.<br />
<br />
Thanks to him, for a few days, we got to be just a normal, garden-variety, everyday, ordinary cancer family going to normal, garden-variety cancer treatment. <br />
<br />
"A good egg," is what my stepdad calls him, in addition to "tweedy." He refers to him as "The Professor," and they got along well. After I prodded the Professor on the drowning and choking part at the followup visit, he agreed we should probably have a drain installed to tap the lungs (our radiation resident called it a Denver drain; our Onc nurse corrected me: it's a PleurX drain). The nurse said she would schedule this immediately and call us with the appointment. Right away. We should skip Radiation to get to it, it was so important. Two long days and agonizing nights later, I called back. Had we missed their call? We were told this was urgent. Turns out, she'd called in sick for two days. And all her files (or, as we might call them, "patients") just sat on her desk untouched while she was gone.(When anybody calls in sick at my office -- which is far from a life or death environment -- there's a system in place where work still gets done.) If this had been my doctor, and I hadn't heard back by lunchtime for an appointment she told me I needed, I would just call. But this time I didn't. I waited two agonizing days. Maybe <i>I </i>was starting to worry about pissing these doctors off. <br />
<br />
We were also busy, so busy that bird-dogging them through the endless auto attendants wasn't exactly practical (call this number and press 4, then 7, then 4, then 7, then 77...then say Op-er-a-tor). There were pills to be crushed and sorted for morning, noon, evening, and bedtime. There were suction machines that didn't work and had to get traded in for ones that do. There were six cans of "nutrition" to be administered every day via peg-tube. (It smells like generic canned dog food, so it isn't surprising that nausea is a common side effect.) The crushed medication and the food have to go into the tube, but they can't go in at the same time. (Found that out the hard way.) Mom's oxygen has to be picked up and dropped off. Mom does it all. I just help a little. I make a lot of spreadsheets. There's laundry, laundry, laundry. Always laundry. The "supportive housing" dorm we stayed in provides one set of sheets and a few towels, with a washer/dryer on each floor (and we were incredibly grateful for that washer/dryer). <br />
<br />
For two weeks, there was a radiation appointment scheduled every morning at 10. There's a shuttle -- a miracle shuttle with incredibly nice, helpful, solicitous drivers -- but he had to be accompanied at all times, of course, and he couldn't sit up for long enough to last the entire route. He was only well enough to ride it twice. They tried so hard to maintain their Independence (from me, from everyone), but that couldn't last long. I felt like a parent putting them on a schoolbus... to a classroom I knew would mostly be filled with pain and suffering. There were flash cards and white boards to be made to help him
communicate because his voice is gone. It was hard to talk already and
it's worse now that he has lost his hearing almost entirely. He sleeps
all the time, and when he sleeps he lucid dreams. Sometimes it scares
him.<br />
<br />
So, two wasted days later, it was back to the ER.<br />
<br />
The Onc Nurse eventually came back from her migraine-days-off and told us she recommended we go to the ER since -- not surprisingly on a Friday afternoon -- she now couldn't get us on the PleurX schedule for another week. In fact, she insisted we go. Immediately. On the drive over from the radiation clinic to the Hospital, Mom said, "Just so you know, I'm none too impressed with your First World Medical Care."<br />
<br />
Now I felt beyond helpless. I'd never expected that we'd walk through the doors here into a miracle cure for cancer, but I had expected a system would kick in -- a system where at least we'd stop falling through the cracks. "Go to the ER..." This was the system? <br />
<br />
At 7 pm on a Friday night, we got the drain, whatever it's called. There were no hospital rooms available, so they housed us in the ER for two days. Mom and I slept on a gurney (one gurney -- we didn't each have our own, obviously). We drew our very first kind hospital nurse, Bryan. (He found the gurney for us.)<br />
<br />
Mom ran into our "Patient Navigator" from our first ER visit, and after she gave her the highlights, the Navigator sent a representative from "Customer Excellence" to visit us. I was honest about the lazy Attending and the immature Resident from our first one-week stay. I said there was no chance we would've done anything but fail. <br />
<br />
At the ER, my stepdad got his days and nights mixed up, and so did I. No windows. At one point, he was very agitated that Mom and I weren't sweeping the
broken glass up from the floor (from a lightbulb he broke ... in the
kitchen at home... last summer). He joked about it later, telling everyone "Somehow I lost track of a whole day while I was in here. I misplaced it. That's never happened before." When he was awake, the cancer that has
metastasized to the lungs cause him to cough so violently I think he'll
crack one of his frail little ribs. As he loses weight daily, he is
literally disappearing before our eyes.They "trained" us on how to tap his lung with the new drain, and gave us a kit.<br />
<br />
This time they discharged us at 11:15 on a Saturday night. I had so wanted to get him outside during daylight. I thought it would help re-orient all of us. The Attending told us at 8 am we'd be going home. But no one told the nurses. Again, I didn't bird dog anyone. I was out picking up their prescriptions and doing the dorm room laundry. Mom kept asking the Nurses what was supposed to happen next, but by then, Bryan had rotated off shift, and everyone else ignored her (we weren't an emergent, or trauma case by then, which is why we had no business in an ER bed). At 10 pm, after shift change, I finally told the new Nurse, "our attending told us we'd be going home today. Technically, it's today for a couple more hours, but I suspect Medicare won't pay for a day they didn't order." Within minutes, a nurse manager showed up. She apologized for the mixup, and at 11:15 pm, we were on the road. No one screws with Medicare.<br />
<br />
Over that two days in the ER, he had lost the ability to walk. Two weeks before that he could shuffle a little.The next week, he was agreeing to the wheelchair occasionally but reluctantly. We discovered getting him in and out of the car from the ER that even standing had become a struggle. It's a miracle we didn't drop him on his head, but we almost did. Again, we were failing.<br />
<br />
Two days later I took him to the morning's radiation, and he started throwing up violently right after I scanned his little bar code that told them we'd arrived for our appointment. Throwing up is miserable for anyone... but imagine trying to throw up <i>around</i> the golfball-sized tumor that's blocking your throat.<br />
<br />
I held his head over the trashcan. A nurse came out, followed by our radiology resident (who was our one constant ray of light in the wilderness). They took us upstairs to a room in clinic. He's so young, he doesn't filter anything. "This scares me," he said. "Good!" I said. "Me too!" <br />
<br />
"I know it's the worst place in the world," he said, "but I'm afraid we're going to have to take him through the ER."<br />
<br />
I shook my head No. We couldn't put him through that again. Overwhelmed and helpless for the hundredth time in a hundred days. "Wait," I said. I had written down the names of all our ER docs in my "Big Book of Cancer" notebook. And they had told me something about what to do if we failed this time. I just couldn't remember what. I paged through frantically, and I had written this with a gigantic sharpie: "Medicine Team One. Page Medicine Team One." They told me if we got in trouble, to page them. "They said they will come to us."<br />
<br />
He arched a highly skeptical eyebrow, but he must've done it, because a few minutes later, he came back to the room, accompanied by one of our ER med students, who was followed almost immediately by our Resident, and then shortly after that, the very sweet, beautiful supervising Attending from the ER. <br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;">S</span>he gave us the Hard Talk. The Hospice Talk. Better late than never. I told her our oncologist had been very anti-palliative care and that I just didn't want to get crosswise with him. I wasn't in denial. I told her I would welcome a prognosis, with a time frame. I told her our Oncologist said he'd been managing symptoms for all 40 years of his practice and that we couldn't have palliative care and treatment. She said she'd talk to him. They conferred and she came back and told me that he agreed with her that we'd come to the end of the line. She didn't say it like that, of course. She told my stepdad The Professor was very sad about it. (I suspect she was just being nice, because kind as he was to us, I doubt he remembered us. It's a busy clinic.) Radiation could continue for a hospice patient, she said. It was palliative. He might be able to swallow again. Possibly eat a little. Maybe he could speak. Improve his quality of life. But chemotherapy is out under Hospice care.<br />
<br />
"But I'd like to stick with my program," he told her so earnestly that I started crying again. "If I can. My doctors have a plan now, and I'm trying my best to stick with it."<br />
<br />
She held his hand and rubbed his arm and said, very gently, "We've talked it over. And we agree it's time for a new plan."<br />
<br />
Although she obviously meant well, the new plan did not turn out great, mostly because it included a hospital hospice "team" that could only be described as lackadaisical at best, callous at worst. They ignored pain management, nausea, and all the basics I'd seen my friends rave about as they shepherded their parents through this process in recent years. According to Interventional Radiology, they also typically ignored their pages, and forgot to provide their cell phone numbers to staff. (Their big book of hospice had a list of names in the inside cover, but no cell numbers, no pagers.) Their patient-indifferent attitude screamed, "eh, it's Hospice. You're dyin' anyway." The social worker was a hack (and that assessment was confirmed by a social worker pal who tried to talk to her on the phone).<br />
<br />
When I say "pain management," let me be specific: they gave him hydrocodone which is, I believe, Tylenol with codeine. That's what the dentist gave me after I had my wisdom teeth out. It made me itch, and it didn't dull the pain, so I threw it out. I can't imagine that it is up to the task of end-stage cancer. With a lot of daily insistence on my part, they eventually tried oxycodone, but that gave him hallucinations. <br />
<br />
On our last Thursday there, they gave him Haldol (they frequently did things like that while I was out of the room), which (likely) caused the urinary retention that forced him to leave with a catheter (and yet another opportunity for infection). If we'd had a choice, and they weren't a monopoly here in town, I would take <i>all </i>my dying business elsewhere. <br />
<br />
The Friday we graduated from Radiation meant we could leave that hospital (they wouldn't let us stay; we weren't sick enough to be "appropriate" for inpatient care). They hadn't committed any crimes, at least -- our newly adopted minimum standard -- just garden variety carelessness and apathy. As a crew, they just seemed terribly ill-suited for the line of work they were in. The techs (paid at the lowest-rung of the food chain) were generally the kindest and most helpful people we encountered; the Nurses were perfunctory (with the exception of Bryan); and the doctors were a mixed bag. The surgeons were great; the last supervising attending at the ER did her best to get us through a complicated system; and our radiation resident is hopefully the future of medicine. I took the time to write a lengthy letter of recommendation about him before we even left, and sent it to the "Customer Excellence" contact I had met. He was extraordinary. <br />
<br />
From there, we moved to the V.A. hospice. <br />
<br />
I realized just how obviously indifferent the hospital hospice team had been to him when he said he was looking forward to the V.A. Nobody looks forward to the V.A. "I'm done being brave," he told our last hospital Nurse (the first time he's said anything like that in 60+ years of cancer bouts). "They take care of soldiers there. I think maybe they will know how to make me comfortable." <br />
<br />
By and large, he was right. At least it was better.<br />
<br />
V.A.s are notoriously described as an embarrassment to our armed forces -- but even though they're visibly understaffed, they seem to know what they're doing, and more importantly, they seem inclined to do it. Their resources are obviously limited, but they're clearly accustomed to doing a lot with a little. The nurses are harried, but most of them don't let that interfere with kindness. They answer every question honestly and directly, and they don't seem to feel that offering information is an intrusion on their process. There are a few bad apples, as there would be in any giant medical facility. One Nurse told us her background is "in factory work," and it shows. She spent 10 minutes counting blood pressure pills in front of us while my stepdad was writhing in agony...a few feet away from her cart. Again, let me be specific. What he said was (and he has no voice, so "croak" would be more accurate): "PLEASE. HELP ME. HELP ME NOW. PLEASE. I AM BEGGING YOU."<br />
<br />
I asked her, tersely, "could you <i>please </i>give him his pain medicine and <i>then </i>go back to counting?" She snipped, "you're the boss."<br />
<br />
Another told us brightly she'd been off work for a few months, "and it's surprising how you forget everything!" <br />
<br />
But this will be our last stop. We have to make the best of the cards we're dealt, as he puts it. <br />
<br />
Our corner room is huge -- two bays of windows -- with the most beautiful view of the entire campus. Even one of their brochures, obviously written for military families, gives caregivers permission to let go of the battle terminology, and they're right. The fight is over. <br />
<br />
He is a DNR. Every time a hospice doc asks him about his wishes, if his heart stops, he always gets a little ahead of them: "torch me!" (He is really adamant about being cremated.) He wants a wake, not a funeral. "And there'd better be plenty of beer!" He tells that to his retired Priest every time he visits. As a veteran of the Korean conflict, he has been asked several times if he would like a military service, or a military burial alongside his brothers, he's blunt and firm, "No," he says. "I guess I'm spending eternity with the Episcopalians." But when the hospice chaplains ask him, "religion?" he unfailingly shrugs and answers, "None for me, thanks. But I don't mind if you do."<br />
<br />
"Anything else?" they ask, that might be in accordance with his religious views? "No Voodoo," he told one of them. <br />
<br />
On his first day at the V.A., he was very proud of completing all his radiation and wrote optimistically to me, "tell them I think by next week I will be able to eat real food." Then he specified, <b>"With. My. Mouth." </b>and underlined it, giving me the thumbs up signal.<br />
<br />
But he knows his time is very short. "<i>How</i> am I gonna step out?" he asked our radiation resident, before we left the hospital. "That's what concerns me." He explained that he'd watched both of his brothers die, fellow veterans, one of them begging his younger brother to please get the gun and shoot him. Told that it will be the lung cancer, he said, "so that's the same road I'm going down?" He seemed deflated, but then shrugged. "I guess you never quite think you're finished. No matter what." <br />
<br />
"How long have you guys known this will be my last hurrah?" was one of the last questions he had for our resident. "Since the day I met you," our resident answered him honestly, and respectfully.<br />
<br />
All of that -- however many thousands of words that is -- is my long way of saying I have a lot of experience -- a full year's worth -- of people saying, "just let me know if there's anything I can do." <br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;">I</span>t always reminds me of the little-seen Mary Tyler Moore movie, <i>Just Between Friends</i>. In it, she's clearing the dishes at her husband's wake (Ted Danson), and all the departing guests approach her with, "<i>if there's anything I can do</i>..." She nails one of them with, "run the vacuum cleaner?" at which, the lady laughs awkwardly, "isn't she <i>brave</i>? you're just so <i>brave</i>." Meanwhile, her real friends (Sam Waterston and Christine Lahti) are circling quietly, taking out the trash, washing dishes, making the beds....<br />
<br />
I have the Sam Waterston friends. They don't say, "If there's anything I can do..." Instead, they say, "<i>what</i> can I do?" or "<i>how</i> can I help?" Or else they just show up, and that's good too. <br />
<br />
Once I explained that Mom had to be fed in a very particular way (you can't <i>ask </i>her if she's hungry; you can't call ahead and ask if she wants anything, you just have to put food in her hands), someone has dropped off at least one meal every few days, stocking our "dormitory" fridge and cupboard. Soups and sandwiches. Power bars for her purse. Trail Mix conveniently pre-packaged in mobile snack-packs. "No more cake!" she protests. "I couldn't eat another bite." They bring more cake. Cookies too. She loves cake. Chef Tom made her butter pecan ice cream. She refused to eat anything but butter pecan ice cream that entire day. When we arrived at the V.A., a frightening transition for all of us, there was a beautiful orchid waiting in our room from him and Michael. Even when the docs and nurses couldn't find our orders or the oxygen tubing, or get the AC to work, that orchid made us feel a little less anonymous. <br />
<br />
When my lenses popped out of my glasses in the E.R., (aside: mthrfckin LensCrafters!), Jan was there with a drugstore repair kit (and a bag of Panera) 20 minutes later. (She and I often commiserate that our nearsightedness will be our mutual downfall in the zombie apocalypse.)<br />
<br />
I have mysteriously broken phone charger after phone charger during
hospital stints -- loaners and replacements immediately show up, thanks to the BFF. When we were told he could have Gatorade to re-hydrate (but every hospital coffeeshop closed at 3 pm, and my car was parked a mile away because of campus move-in day), she magically procured the Gatorade and delivered it within 15 minutes, even though Move-In had made every route inaccessible except by air drop. <br />
<br />
People say they never know what to do or say?<br />
<br />
So I thought I would start making some lists.<br />
<br />
Just say <i>something. </i><br />
<br />
"I'm sorry this is happening," is a start. Some pals send me strings of emojis, and the emergency backup Straight sends me very silly memes. And his Showtime password. Those are all great.<br />
<br />
Do <i>anything.</i> <br />
<br />
If you don't know what to do, you can always fall back on the one thing that has never let me down yet: wash the dishes. Whether it's crisis or celebration, you can almost always help someone by washing the dishes.<br />
<br />
If you're just the most casual social media acquaintance, and it's your kinda thing, a facebook prayer is ample. More than sufficient. (If you've met the patient or the family, at some point in the process, you will be expected to back that up with something more concrete, but relax: only if you live within a 10-mile radius.)<br />
<br />
We have blood relatives who live within throwing distance of the hospital and who also seem to think a simple facebook prayer is sufficient, and that is not ok. Why didn't they visit when he could still enjoy their company? Or if the hospital was just too much, why didn't they drop by his house when he could still enjoy a cup of coffee with them? We have suspected all summer that this was his most serious illness yet, and we have been very candid with all friends and family. Their indifference has crushed my Mom. It embarrasses him, and that breaks my heart. <br />
<br />
No one expects anyone to deal with death and dying easily. <br />
<br />
If you do show up, don't tell a terminal patient they'll get better. Only two people have tried this so far. It isn't the worst thing you could say (we'll get to that), just a little condescending and tone-deaf. <br />
<br />
Other things to avoid: "I'd love to help, but I just don't do hospitals." Yeah? Cause they're a laugh riot for most of us? Really, you're that sensitive? <i>Nobody</i> likes hospitals. Except for birth, we all spend the absolute worst times of our lives there. This doesn't make you special.<br />
<br />
If you know any especially gruesome cancer horror stories, or old wives' tales about how cancer patients die, now would be a good time to keep those to yourself. <br />
<br />
Another: "I'd help, but you know I don't cook." No one said this to us. We actually heard about this one from a patient's wife down the hall from us. She was trying to take care of her husband in the hospital and the kids at home, and when someone asked, "is there anything I can do?" she said some family meals would help. That's the answer she got.<br />
<br />
It is ok not to cook. It's not a moral failing (necessarily). But maybe you know how drive-thrus work? One culinarily-challenged family friend brought us Starbucks gift cards (mercifully, most hospitals have a Starbucks now), and I have silently thanked her for every latte. Another friend just stuffed cash in Mom's jacket pocket when her back was turned. She had been in the hospital with her mom, and knew that all Hospitals tick on a cash currency -- there's vending machines, parking, and a dozen errands that somebody will need to be dispatched to do. There's never a working ATM when you need it, and most people don't arrive at the Hospital prepared for the fact that they will never be leaving it again. (I know that we didn't anyway.) <br />
<br />
Books and magazines have been a godsend. Before those dropoffs, Mom was dragging ER magazines (teeming with god-knows-what) into our room. "Why don't you just walk over to the Infectious Disease unit and lick the walls?" I would ask.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3MwaXahcBXeQhyphenhyphenBlrrxFC03ubATYrwXyrxEEk_TKlPFQI800kbgp5j_-KQNVnDly52H8P9aCx8srGIEtU4ntT6NbbMrUqcIdGSafuP9XYnLVVpA2riTVmSw9kKIEhffyJgJJAnTqmBbU/s1600/orchid.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3MwaXahcBXeQhyphenhyphenBlrrxFC03ubATYrwXyrxEEk_TKlPFQI800kbgp5j_-KQNVnDly52H8P9aCx8srGIEtU4ntT6NbbMrUqcIdGSafuP9XYnLVVpA2riTVmSw9kKIEhffyJgJJAnTqmBbU/s1600/orchid.jpg" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">the orchid that was waiting for us at our last stop.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
When Mom admired her friend Karen's purse -- "I have been looking for a yellow bag all summer," she said -- Karen promptly dumped its contents on the hospital recliner, shoveled her stuff into a patient's belongings plastic tote, and gave Mom the purse right off her shoulder. My stepdad gestured wildly that he wanted his white board. "We don't need any more purses!" he wrote. "!!!" "Shut up!" we all three told him in unison. He pointed out later that even though he can't talk any more, the women in his family are still telling him to pipe down. <br />
<br />
After pal Harriette stopped by with food for us yesterday and gave him one of her patented magic foot rubs, he wrote, "if I die right now, it wouldn't be for nuthin'." Then he winked at her.<br />
<br />
He wrote "orange popsicle?" on his board. The V.A. didn't have any. Harriette jumped in her car and went to the grocery to buy him some. <br />
<br />
In addition to being thankful beyond measure for gestures like these (and that's a short list), I try to remember to be grateful, every second, that he has retained every shred of his personality, his intelligence, and his sense of humor. At most of our prior hospitalizations (too many to count), he typically introduced me to medical crews as his stepdaughter. This time I notice he just introduces me as his daughter (every syllable's difficult for him). Except at the last interventional radiology appointment when they checked his drain, I wrote stepdaughter on some form. "Stepdaughter?" the resident asked him, to confirm. "I stepped on her, and she stuck," he told the resident, pausing to catch his breath between each word, grinning, and giving him a big thumbs up. <br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;">I </span>never stop being amazed at how instinctively so many people seem to know exactly how to do and say exactly the right thing for him, and for us.<br />
<br />
There have been a few exceptions. I thought I'd keep a list of those too. It might turn out to be useful to somebody.<br />
<br />
<b>Do not <i>ever </i>say, "you need to ease up" </b>(or calm down, or cool off). You definitely shouldn't say it to anyone who's been worn down advocating for a patient's life (or what evolves into a battle for quality of life, in this case), but really, that's good advice in any situation; it doesn't have to be life or death. Anger is a reasonable response to dying, under the best of circumstances (as if such a thing exists). It's hard on any family, even if Grandma goes peacefully in her sleep at the age of 99. But bump that expected anger up a notch for caregivers who are in the dying trenches, all day, every day. Bump it up another few notches for anyone who's losing someone in the most incredibly senseless, criminal circumstance -- a crime victim, a casualty of a drunk driver, medical negligence/malpractice. Unless that family member is brandishing a weapon or actively threatening harm, let them have the rage, and let them express it however they see fit, as loud and as long as they like. If bad days spiral into years, and begin to wreck jobs and marriages, you might want to recommend a good therapist. Otherwise, it's appropriate. They've earned it. And it has to go somewhere. If you prefer your social media broadcasts to be filled with lighter fare, mute the feed, or unfollow, or de-friend. (Screaming at my BFF to stop eating chips because the bag was too loud was admittedly not one of my finer moments. My fuse will grow back someday, but it'll be a while.)<br />
<br />
I never raised my voice to a medical professional. I never used any profanity in their presence (through sheer force of will), though it is typically part of my everyday vocabulary (often, a majority part). I did ask a lot of questions, which I know branded me as "difficult." But I never lost my temper with a doctor, a nurse, or a tech. I never interacted with his third-world docs at all, but once we made it to the first world, I was always respectful, and tried my best not to second-guess the professionals, with a few exceptions (like "please don't give my father any more Haldol"). I did roll my eyes, very loudly, when they moved us from one floor to another one Tuesday evening at 10 pm, and then refused to find my Mom one of the loveseats we'd had in the old room, because "they are being phased out." A Nurse was dispatched to "handle" me, and I very politely told her that I was sorry to be so curt, but that it was very difficult for my arthritic, oxygen-dependent, immuno -suppressed mother to sleep in a chair all night. She sleeps next to him every night, and not out of some misguided Romantic impulse. He absolutely requires every minute of all the 24/7 care we can give him. He cannot hear, and he cannot speak. This means he cannot call for help. If he pressed the Call button, he couldn't hear them answer. And they wouldn't hear him either. We weren't there to socialize. We keep track of his medications (if we step out for a minute, he gets nasty surprises, like the Haldol); we change the sheets; and we handle the bedpans, urinals, and potty chair. When Bryan offered my Mom coffee at the ER and she said Yes, I snapped at her: "Nurses aren't waitresses, Mom!" "I'm sorry," she said, and I instantly felt bad. "He offered," she said. Bryan reassured her, "believe me, if the worst thing anyone wants me to do is get coffee, it's been a good night." We tried very hard not to be a bother. Still, we never did get the loveseat. She slept in a chair for the rest of that week.<br />
<br />
<b>Don't say, "nobody lives forever."</b> (It is true, but it isn't helpful.) <br />
<br />
<b>Don't say things like, "bring him home! We'll help!"</b> You probably mean well, but unless you're a doctor or a skilled nurse who happens to be free and available for 24/7 care, don't bring it up. In my stepdad's case, he has a peg tube, a catheter, and a Denver drain. He is on 6 litres of oxygen. He is diabetic and his blood sugar now regularly measures 500+, so he is now insulin-dependent. The cancer has metastisized. He is in constant pain. He can't walk, and though he's down to an emaciated 160 pounds, you'd be surprised at how heavy that is. He struggles for every single breath (something called "air hunger"). Our beautiful Attending told us if he were her Dad, she wouldn't be able to safely manage his care at her house. I believe her. I am not an expert on terminal illness or cancer, but I left no stone unturned investigating every possible option that would have allowed him to die in his own bed, like he wanted. I would carry him there myself if I thought we could make it happen. There were no options, once the third world medical care system was factored in. We could not send him back to the care of the people whose criminal negligence killed him. If anyone tried, it would be with tire tracks across my face. I know of no solutions that would fix the system that killed him (short of lengthy prison terms), but if I were allowed one wish, some kindly accrediting agency would burn it to the ground, and sow the earth with salt. <br />
<br />
I heard all of these, and while a lot of insensitive comments have been
made that fall loosely under the category of
"dumbass-but-well-intentioned," or, "they mean well," those are the ones
I don't expect I'll get over anytime soon. <br />
<br />
<b>Don't blame the patient for dying.</b> In the case of my stepdad, several people wistfully observe, "if only he wasn't so stubborn..." If he hadn't been so stubborn, the implication is, he would've come here sooner. If he had gotten here sooner, before it spread to the lungs, he would have undoubtedly had a better prognosis, with a much higher quality of life. That much is true. He is incredibly stubborn, but he is no more or less stubborn than I am. That stubbornness, though infuriating, is probably a big part of how he survived the military, and how he survived the first five bouts of cancer. But beyond all that, what I am afraid gets lost here, is: <i>he did the right thing.</i> He did exactly what he was supposed to do, in fact. He went in for his annual cancer check up. They missed it. When he lost his voice, he went to his doctor. He sat in that waiting room for hours and hours, and then he did what his doctor told him to do: he filled the prescription for antibiotics, and took every one of them. He is every bit as loyal as he is stubborn. He just put his faith in the wrong guys. Nobody deserves to die of stubborn. It isn't the stubborn that's killing him. <br />
<br />
This one's important:<br />
<br />
If you are one of the hearty few who's sitting with the patient so a caregiver can go eat or run an errand, do not pick up the phone and call unless it's an emergency. If you misplace the remote or anything else that's less than catastrophic, just text. This only happened to us once (and it was a relative, not one of our designated sitters). It took a lot of convincing to get Mom to leave his bedside at all, even for lunch. We were gone for 42 minutes when her phone rang. We both instantly assumed he had died. She burst into tears in the restaurant and screamed "let's just go! Take me back right NOW!" We left the salsa on the table and walked out. Nothing bad had happened -- nothing any worse than wanting to know what time <i>Matlock </i>comes on -- but the sound of that phone with the hospital room number flashing shaved five years off our lives. <br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;">W</span>hen we were kids, and friends had either deaths or illness in the family, I always noticed my Mom observed a very specific routine. She went straight to K-Mart or Roses or Howards (we didn't have Targets or Costco back then) and stacked a buggy full of toilet paper, paper towels, paper plates, light bulbs, and trash bags. Then she'd drop it off on their porch, or if we knew where the spare key was (as everyone did back then, if the doors were even locked), she'd let herself in and unpack the bags in their kitchen.<br />
<br />
How <i>weird,</i> I thought at the time. Can't these people <i>afford</i> their own toilet paper? I wondered (especially if it was a nice house, and it often was). Everyone else was bringing elaborate fruit baskets and fancy flowers and there we were with bags full of paper goods. (What a bunch of hicks we are, is probably what I also thought.) <br />
<br />
Now having been on both sides of the equation, I know exactly what my Mom was doing. She was just taking some pressure off their breaking point. People can only solve so many problems at one time. No one knows when that last Bukowski shoelace will break.<br />
<br />
At Christmas, when one college buddy said "is there anything I can do?" I took her at her word and sent her out to buy underwear. There wasn't time for laundry, and I figured a few six-packs would see me through the siege. Her texts were hilarious. "Victoria's Secret? Target? JCPenney? Macy's?" Various google-shared images were submitted for approval. "Small or extra-small?" (Now, that's a friend.)<br />
<br />
Other pals baked cookies and brought candy for the Nurses at Christmas (never underestimate the power of feeding the Nurses), and those same pals (professional photographers) came by the cancer ward to shoot a few family portraits (that are so exquisite they're hard to look at). You might not be a professional photographer, but <i>every </i>patient needs a candy dish right next to their bed with a note that says, "Thank you for taking care of us. Help yourself." You don't have to be a cook to pick up a few bags of Snickers. Let <i>the patient</i> hand it out. My stepdad told me, "no guy likes to feel useless. I feel useless." It's a small thing, but right now, he still likes handing out the M & Ms. <br />
<br />
<b>Postscript:</b><br />
<br />
8.28.2013 He died this morning at 3 am, holding my Mom's hand, in as much peace as we could have hoped for with end stage cancer. <br />
<br />
<br />
<i>from The Shoelace </i><br />
<br />
it’s not the large things that<br />
send a man to the<br />
madhouse. death he’s ready for, or<br />
murder, incest, robbery, fire, flood…<br />
no, it’s the continuing series of small tragedies<br />
that send a man to the<br />
madhouse…<br />
not the death of his love<br />
but a shoelace that snaps<br />
with no time left …<br />
The dread of life<br />
is that swarm of trivialities<br />
that can kill quicker than cancer<br />
and which are always there -<br />
license plates or taxes<br />
or expired driver’s license,<br />
or hiring or firing,<br />
doing it or having it done to you, or<br />
roaches or flies or a<br />
broken hook on a<br />
screen, or out of gas<br />
or too much gas,<br />
the sink’s stopped-up, the landlord’s drunk,<br />
the president doesn’t care and the governor’s<br />
crazy.<br />
light switch broken, mattress like a<br />
porcupine;<br />
$105 for a tune-up, carburetor and fuel pump at<br />
sears roebuck;<br />
and the phone bill’s up and the market’s<br />
down<br />
and the toilet chain is<br />
broken,<br />
and the light has burned out -<br />
the hall light, the front light, the back light,<br />
the inner light; it’s<br />
darker than hell<br />
and twice as<br />
expensive.<br />
then there’s always crabs and ingrown toenails<br />
and people who insist they’re<br />
your friends;<br />
there’s always that and worse;<br />
leaky faucet, christ and christmas;<br />
blue salami, 9 day rains,<br />
50 cent avocados<br />
and purple<br />
liverwurst.<br />
<br />
or making it<br />
as a waitress at norm’s on the split shift,<br />
or as an emptier of<br />
bedpans,<br />
or as a carwash or a busboy<br />
or a stealer of old lady’s purses<br />
leaving them screaming on the sidewalks<br />
with broken arms at the age of 80.<br />
<br />
suddenly<br />
2 red lights in your rear view mirror<br />
and blood in your<br />
underwear;<br />
toothache, and $979 for a bridge<br />
$300 for a gold<br />
tooth,<br />
and china and russia and america, and<br />
long hair and short hair and no<br />
hair, and beards and no<br />
faces, and plenty of zigzag but no<br />
pot, except maybe one to piss in<br />
and the other one around your<br />
gut.<br />
<br />
with each broken shoelace<br />
out of one hundred broken shoelaces,<br />
one man, one woman, one<br />
thing<br />
enters a<br />
madhouse.<br />
<br />
so be careful<br />
when you<br />
bend over.<br />
--Charles Bukowski Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4014172403154803771.post-14435554602082337872012-10-07T10:39:00.000-07:002012-10-07T10:39:19.180-07:00The Night the Lights Went Out at Fresh Market <span style="font-size: x-large;">I </span>haven't shopped much at the Foody Falooty since Trader Joe's came to town, but a handsome birthday gift card arrived just in time for deadline-weekend fridge stocking.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3oOqVK7CHTjJnXh7SkVG9t9WWNFhg1aTf3WcnyPjKJ9GKE9qPE5q6qv4d88m77V7qM12mug0zYaxUEF7oMSf-zkTmxe9R0ccC2bidOyd-B707bSWSVloLOirKqgv7U2eSYksFB6BkbT8/s1600/blackout1_freshmarket_realitytrucks.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3oOqVK7CHTjJnXh7SkVG9t9WWNFhg1aTf3WcnyPjKJ9GKE9qPE5q6qv4d88m77V7qM12mug0zYaxUEF7oMSf-zkTmxe9R0ccC2bidOyd-B707bSWSVloLOirKqgv7U2eSYksFB6BkbT8/s1600/blackout1_freshmarket_realitytrucks.jpg" height="200" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">it looked like this.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
No sooner had I filled my rush-hour cart with a variety of precocious artisanal lettuces and free-range eggs freshly hatched by hens who lounge about their coops listening to NPR all day when, without warning, the lights went out. One minute, I'd been musing to myself that $17 seems high for popcorn, the next, we were all plunged into utter darkness. No generator clicked on reassuringly. Nothing.<br />
<br />
My first thought, naturally, was "I've gone blind."<br />
As my eyes adjusted, my second thought was, "light bill?"<br />
My third thought, as my brain caught up to processing the available information, was "what was it the Mayans said? Was that <i>today</i>?"<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOEZTrw9t55ItZ27qtfYPAevGXNWNTwTZhUy9jTDCZhhw-jS0KUdYviai2oB-fUUqFI4I3jc-y38fNkxUaZapN-lk8oZ4HUxwpo1TBQBzieVNDJUhXBqiF0q-KhyF40Wrf4IXq75zrxD8/s1600/blackout2_potentialLooters_realitytruck.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOEZTrw9t55ItZ27qtfYPAevGXNWNTwTZhUy9jTDCZhhw-jS0KUdYviai2oB-fUUqFI4I3jc-y38fNkxUaZapN-lk8oZ4HUxwpo1TBQBzieVNDJUhXBqiF0q-KhyF40Wrf4IXq75zrxD8/s1600/blackout2_potentialLooters_realitytruck.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Soon, they would finish the artisanal cheese, and feast on my flesh</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
And finally, acceptance. "So. This is how the end comes. Dying with rich folks." I turned on my iPhone flashlight-app and began reluctantly tweeting pics of potential looters and the coming zombie apocalypse.<br />
<br />
I was contemplating my options. Is a proactive approach best? Do I grab the Voss Water bottle from my cart, shatter it against a nearby shelf, and then brandish the shards at my fellow shoppers who have probably not seen as many episodes of <i>Walking Dead</i> (or for that matter, <i>Oz</i>) as I have? I am confident I can take out at least one aisle of soccer moms and a few Junior Leaguers before impromptu alliances are formed. <br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfNakRUosfkxOKCAdXNhWFrDuVfBFZHq3DMBMKePQIBW6sPPi5BPUgpCAQrz18v50ENkrpTSNhxTAhyphenhyphendxzfu3LWxyna0e2VUzOz38iECstV4ULI6eqz_Jvai5ov_kZwDGLvCrtlVCFsLI/s1600/blackout3_realitytrucks_salsa.jpg%2520large" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfNakRUosfkxOKCAdXNhWFrDuVfBFZHq3DMBMKePQIBW6sPPi5BPUgpCAQrz18v50ENkrpTSNhxTAhyphenhyphendxzfu3LWxyna0e2VUzOz38iECstV4ULI6eqz_Jvai5ov_kZwDGLvCrtlVCFsLI/s1600/blackout3_realitytrucks_salsa.jpg%2520large" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">See the popcorn in my cart? I found out later it had been recalled. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
"Shit's about to get real, mthrfckrs!" is the phrase I'm practicing in my head when one of the cashiers announces from somewhere around the front of the store "CASH ONLY!" and somehow wrests open the automatic doors (luckily, before someone heaved a cart through it -- and by someone, I mean me, because claustrophobia is only the tip of my iceberg of phobias). It was at that point, that the moneyed masses scattered as if Martial Law had suddenly been declared, obviously ill equipped to transact such vulgar currency. <br />
<br />
Now we were down to survival of the fittest, and a new set of options presented themselves. Aside from the gift card, I think I might have some leftover emergency pool-cash (in case a hot dog presents itself) stashed in a secret pocket of my keychain (I'd left my purse in the car, precisely so it wouldn't be snatched from my buggy while I browsed), but I don't know for sure. I do know I definitely do not have enough on me to cover the contents of my cart. As I try to recall Maslow's Hierarchy of Need and its impact on the social order, I idly wonder if I can gnaw through $437 worth of Ossau-Iraty before the lights come back on. <br />
<br />
I'll never know, because it was then that the lines began to move. I survey my prospective purchases and decide that the freshly-hatched-NPR-eggs are the only thing worth potentially dying for, and I sadly abandon the rest. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3n0Bd9QAl0OYUKqACKllFiytvUI7AlX8I-Lyf6uczqbg69chCshWJNMau51JqnWCPHZ7Q7Vz00L9abgaj_LIRJGwUlkz6a31WPJ9spjHj9r0pf7Vrhyphenhyphen0YW2WtkiKyv2aAT8IeKy8GgeQ/s1600/blackout4_realitytrucks.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3n0Bd9QAl0OYUKqACKllFiytvUI7AlX8I-Lyf6uczqbg69chCshWJNMau51JqnWCPHZ7Q7Vz00L9abgaj_LIRJGwUlkz6a31WPJ9spjHj9r0pf7Vrhyphenhyphen0YW2WtkiKyv2aAT8IeKy8GgeQ/s1600/blackout4_realitytrucks.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
As shoppers ahead of me struggle to make exact change, a convivial nature, almost Amish, seems to take over. There are no price checks. Everyone's word, and guesstimation, is taken as gospel. When my turn comes, I proffer my two dozens eggs across the counter. "Do you know how much these are?" the cashier chirps. "I know I have five dollars," is my honest answer (and also, I decide on the spot, the title of my upcoming made-for-Lifetime movie). <br />
<br />
"Sold," she says sunnily.<br />
<br />
As I emerge into the daylight, rubbing my eyes blearily, I think, it could have been worse; it could've been Disco Kroger, with only Velveeta to sustain us. I pause in the parking lot, blinking in the sun -- relieved not to see soldiers swarming the streets -- to post a few final tweets: "<a class="twitter-hashtag pretty-link js-nav" data-query-source="hashtag_click" dir="ltr" href="https://twitter.com/search/?q=%23GnawMyWayOut&src=hash"><s>#</s><b>GnawedMyWayOut</b></a> <a class="twitter-hashtag pretty-link js-nav" data-query-source="hashtag_click" dir="ltr" href="https://twitter.com/search/?q=%23Blackout2012&src=hash"><s>#</s><b>Blackout2012</b></a> <a class="twitter-hashtag pretty-link js-nav" data-query-source="hashtag_click" dir="ltr" href="https://twitter.com/search/?q=%23FoodyFalooty&src=hash"><s>#</s><b>FoodyFalooty</b></a> <a class="twitter-hashtag pretty-link js-nav" data-query-source="hashtag_click" dir="ltr" href="https://twitter.com/search/?q=%23MartialLaw&src=hash"><s>#</s><b>MartialLaw</b></a><br />
<br />
<b>and </b><br />
<b> </b><br />
<a class="twitter-hashtag pretty-link js-nav" data-query-source="hashtag_click" dir="ltr" href="https://twitter.com/search/?q=%23blackout2012&src=hash"><s>#</s><b>blackout2012</b></a> <a class="twitter-hashtag pretty-link js-nav" data-query-source="hashtag_click" dir="ltr" href="https://twitter.com/search/?q=%23OhMyGod&src=hash"><s>#</s><b>OhMyGod</b></a> <a class="twitter-hashtag pretty-link js-nav" data-query-source="hashtag_click" dir="ltr" href="https://twitter.com/search/?q=%23IveEatenASmallChild&src=hash"><s>#</s><b>IveEatenASmallChild</b></a> <a class="twitter-hashtag pretty-link js-nav" data-query-source="hashtag_click" dir="ltr" href="https://twitter.com/search/?q=%23Accidentally&src=hash"><s>#</s><b>Accidentally</b></a> <a class="twitter-hashtag pretty-link js-nav" data-query-source="hashtag_click" dir="ltr" href="https://twitter.com/search/?q=%23tastesLikeChicken&src=hash"><s>#</s><b>tastesLikeChicken</b></a> <a class="twitter-hashtag pretty-link js-nav" data-query-source="hashtag_click" dir="ltr" href="https://twitter.com/search/?q=%23WhoHasABottleOpener&src=hash"><s>#</s><b>WhoHasABottleOpener</b></a> <a class="twitter-hashtag pretty-link js-nav" data-query-source="hashtag_click" dir="ltr" href="https://twitter.com/search/?q=%23FoodyFalooty&src=hash"><s>#</s><b>FoodyFalooty</b></a><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4014172403154803771.post-67390240606497458522012-08-21T18:34:00.000-07:002012-08-21T18:34:58.317-07:00How to Make the Perfect Gazpacho <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhF_HhfMEr2xdPl0tJOO2RQETGL3TRD4JLxIjQn7RQpVDL6FGKNZOdNLAKYUCrMa5iX4Dk-QYDAGmZndSTgJRQKX0RwSWr4RauGmar7etxT6_3r5m6ZQIhT85ouNmXtYNmpsaorXXuKrJ4/s1600/HowToMakeGazpachoRealityTruck.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhF_HhfMEr2xdPl0tJOO2RQETGL3TRD4JLxIjQn7RQpVDL6FGKNZOdNLAKYUCrMa5iX4Dk-QYDAGmZndSTgJRQKX0RwSWr4RauGmar7etxT6_3r5m6ZQIhT85ouNmXtYNmpsaorXXuKrJ4/s320/HowToMakeGazpachoRealityTruck.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>At its best, gazpacho is an improvisational dish.<br />
<br />
The first time I tasted it was at a swanky garden party, decades ago -- served in a big crystal square punch bowl and ladled into little square shot glasses. I immediately asked the host for the recipe, and he said, "oh, I don't have one. I just know what goes in gazpacho, and I put it all in, until it's done." I didn't have that level of confidence as a cook or a host, so I spent years (and years) looking for the perfect recipe (Moosewood, Martha Stewart, Barefoot Contessa), and none of them tasted as good as his did.<br />
<br />
He was right. It's better without a recipe, but that isn't helpful to someone who's a novice like I was when he told me that. I spent years of trial and error perfecting my version.<br />
<br />
Here's the how-to of the batch I made last weekend, including a few secrets I've learned along the way.<br />
<br />
Start with fresh tomatoes and cucumbers in about a two-to-one tomato-to-cucumber ratio. I go for tomato varieties with high acid, and a lot of tang, not sweet. (Sometimes I will use all-yellow tomatoes and peppers and make Golden Gazpacho; it's a little sweeter.)<br />
<br />
A lot of recipes suggest insane amounts of tomato prep (peeling, seeding, dicing, etc). I don't do any of that. I core them, and cut them into rough wedges (no precision necessary.)<br />
<br />
I do peel the cucumbers, and I scrape a few of the seeds out with a spoon (I certainly don't exert myself though.) They get a rough chop.<br />
<br />
Here is <b>secret number one:</b> in the Summer, I always have cucumbers prepped in the fridge, in a little bit of white vinegar, salt, whole (tellicherry) peppercorns, and a sprig of fresh dill. We call them table pickles. This is no place for fancy balsamics -- the plainer and whiter the better. (Fresh vinegar-soaked cucumbers in orange Tupperware were a staple on my grandmother's summer kitchen table my entire childhood, and I've stuck with this tradition -- they are the perfect base for a lot of chilled summer soups, which would likely strike her as a waste of a perfectly good cucumber.)<br />
<br />
I chop everything on a big plate -- not a cutting board -- and then dump everything, juice and all, into a giant Tupperware pitcher as I go.<br />
<br />
Whatever peppers I have on hand, I seed and rough chop a few, but nothing of any real substantial heat -- poblanos or anaheims are good. Key Largos are the best. Bananas will do too. I chop and add a stalk or two of celery. If a guest says they don't like celery, I chop and add a stalk or two of celery. Gazpacho does not have the right consistency, or flavor, without it. <br />
<br />
For herbs, I assemble about a handful of whatever I'm growing in any given summer (and I have small hands; you might need less or more):<br />
<br />
basil (I have lemon basil; lime basil; and regular basil -- any or all will work; I also have Thai basil and cinnamon basil, and those would not work)<br />
<br />
cilantro<br />
cutting celery (I grow it; celery leaves will work fine if you can't find it) <br />
garlic chives<br />
flat-leaf parsley <br />
<br />
To this handful, I add scallions -- then I hold the handful over the pitcher and snip it all up with scissors (no fancy chiffonade or anything). When I get down to the stems, I stop snipping.<br />
<br />
I zest a lime over the pitcher (with a wood rasp).Then I roll the lime on the counter, quarter it, and squeeze in all the juice. (Cut the lime vertically, not horizontally, and you'll get more juice.)<br />
<br />
<b>Secret Number Two:</b> I use an entire bulb of garlic in about a one-gallon pitcher, BUT I roast off the garlic ahead of time (one bulb, olive oil, salt, pepper, in foil, about an hour in a low oven, until it squeezes out like butter) -- like the table pickles, this is something I tend to prep on the weekends so I can use it all week. If you want to use raw garlic... well, I wouldn't. Not in this. But if you did, for God's sake don't use a bulb. Maybe less than a clove.<br />
<br />
If I have it on hand, I add a drop or two of fancy honey (no more), and a drop or two of fancy olive oil. If I don't have the fancy stuff, I leave it out. The flavors here are pretty delicate. <br />
<br />
<b>Secret Number Three</b>: I blend the pitcher with an immersion blender. There's no setting on the regular blender or a food processor that will get it to perfect gazpacho consistency -- when it turns pink and foamy on top, it's done, and is ready for salt and pepper. Tomatoes eat an insane amount of salt; it has to be done to taste. <br />
<br />
If it needs thinned at all (it probably won't), <b>Secret Number Four</b> is, I add a drizzle of vodka. This is not like the Celery. If I have guests who are alcoholics, I absolutely leave this step out. A little club soda is fine. Then into the fridge. <br />
<br />
<b>Secret Number Five </b>isn't a secret at all; it's clearly visible in the pictures. I rim glasses in lime juice and dip those in herbed salt and pepper.<br />
The herbed salt and pepper is: any fancy finishing salt or kosher salt; fresh ground pepper; lime zest; any leftover herbs and cutting celery; celery salt.<br />
<br />
I garnish with anything I'd use to garnish a bloody Mary (a lime slice, a Rick's Pick, mean beans, an English cucumber spear, etc).<br />
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<b>YOU MIGHT ALSO LIKE </b><br />
<br />
<a href="http://realitytruck.blogspot.com/2012/01/why-i-hate-paula-deen.html" target="_blank">Why I Hate Paula Deen </a><br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4014172403154803771.post-18567415389663989992012-08-15T19:18:00.000-07:002012-08-15T19:18:15.913-07:00Everybody's Reading 'Bastard' (I am reading Bitch)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSFq2sV10Q7qg7FR_h_4TOHz6yb851VxgAp8rT75pfyDXH2DRHX32CjfeRr_bRVtiBcyyXbKEiq-l4jMoUAbOIRZJhEz9Z5JSloGOaJA-L_qawxHxKz8ia6O_0cKkanqo5jUUuCnCYt2g/s1600/everybodysreadingbastard.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSFq2sV10Q7qg7FR_h_4TOHz6yb851VxgAp8rT75pfyDXH2DRHX32CjfeRr_bRVtiBcyyXbKEiq-l4jMoUAbOIRZJhEz9Z5JSloGOaJA-L_qawxHxKz8ia6O_0cKkanqo5jUUuCnCYt2g/s200/everybodysreadingbastard.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>Nick Hornby (<i>High Fidelity)</i> has new short work out, "Everyone's reading Bastard."<br />
<br />
Bastard! is the title of the new column Charlie's ex-wife Elaine has begun banging out at the newspaper where she works. <br />
<br />
"He didn't read the Sunday newspaper that Elaine worked for, not any more. He'd had to stop. Elaine wrote profiles, features, and columns, on the face of it about current affairs and the arts, but over the years, Charlie had come to feel as though her only real subject was him."<br />
<br />
He initially thinks he will withstand the worst of it -- most of her stories have long been part of the family narrative anyway. "Everybody laughed. That's what family stories were -- amusing accounts of the messes and the fuckups. Take away the love and the laughter, narrate the stories as if the characters had acted with malice and self-absorption, and everybody was in a bleak independent film about alcoholism and schizophrenia and child abuse." <br />
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Then he realizes it could get worse. It get always get worse. "Bastard! introduced a new and terrible idea...what if Elaine had, despite all appearances to the contrary, actually been reigning herself in? What if their marriage had been inhibiting her? Was it possible that Elaine was only just now taking the gloves off? He thought again about the timing of the request for the divorce. He was beginning to feel as though he'd been drawn against Bobby Fischer in a school chess tournament." <br />
<br />
He meets a new woman. "Bitch." <i>Her</i> ex-husband is writing a facing column about <i>her</i>.<br />
<br />
Is she a bitch? Is he a bastard? Who knows? As Charlie points out, "it was easy to be nice to an attractive woman over a dinner table. The despair came later, with children and tiredness and the shreer drudgery of marriage and monogamy."<br />
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The landscape has just changed now that everybody has a microphone. "Now everyone could get access to something -- a cable TV show, a free newspaper, a digital radio phone-in -- as long as they were prepared to say something stupid and provocative, with no expectation of money."<br />
<br />
His mother advises he'd be well served to not make the same mistake again, but he doesn't know what the mistake was, but tells her, "I'll bear that in mind in the unlikely event that I ever fall for someone with her own newspaper column an an insatiable desire to expose all."<br />
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An excellent story for Writers and the Unfortunates who love 'em.<br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4014172403154803771.post-52005565514552083802012-01-30T10:35:00.000-08:002012-01-30T10:37:01.033-08:00Bye Bye Blackberry, Hello iPhone<i>"I did what I always do with technology: first I resist it; then I embrace it; then I act like I invented it; then I go forth like a zealous preacher to convert the masses."</i><br />
<div style="text-align: right;">--Reality Truck, February 15, 2010 </div><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">M</span>y first BlackBerry arrived as a Valentine in February 2008. I have a troubled relationship with technology and it wasn't an easy transition, but I am nothing if not loyal. It has taken four long, arduous, co-dependent, passive-aggressive years, but this was the weekend they finally drove me to iPhone. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZToCcBPPdqiqj2XEjwi5mlNJk4ZP0UQ_23okspjq07b6McuMU-c5Foul9iKIxnjRGg0O5VGra1IF-YEiF8EznYmqp9pKdLiBqLjphUTirbEr6jGcUCRFYpeHsG_7qlYulSgKTWJoTKHo/s1600/2001ASpaceOddysseyApe.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="90" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZToCcBPPdqiqj2XEjwi5mlNJk4ZP0UQ_23okspjq07b6McuMU-c5Foul9iKIxnjRGg0O5VGra1IF-YEiF8EznYmqp9pKdLiBqLjphUTirbEr6jGcUCRFYpeHsG_7qlYulSgKTWJoTKHo/s200/2001ASpaceOddysseyApe.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">2001, A Space Odyssey, or: Me in 2008</td></tr>
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I wrote, in March 2008, <i>"Long after everyone else in my line of work embraced the iPhone, I finally traded in my seven-year-old Nolia for a Blackberry. I liked that Nokia. I knew where the buttons were. There was nothing wrong with it. But when I finally wore the number 8 off of it (and lots of important phone numbers have an 8 in them), I gave in and went to the Evil Empire store. I went to the front of the non-iPhone line, and two hours later, I walked out with a Blackberry and a vaguely queasy feeling."</i><br />
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<i>"The model I chose was, of course, obsolete long before I got to the car, but I'll still probably have it for the next seven years. I don't like change. I don't even like to talk on the phone." </i><br />
<br />
The Blackberry and I had a pretty good six month honeymoon, and then the downhill slide began. August 2008 is <a href="http://realitytruck.blogspot.com/2010/08/from-archives-august-2008-blackberry.html" target="_blank">when the first Pearl (trackball) died. </a><br />
<br />
It wasn't a total loss though, because that's also when I met Lucas, the guy who's been taking care of my phones ever since:<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">"Adam stepped behind the desk and conferred with Lucas. Oh sure, maybe he wasn’t quite as tall. Strawberry blonde. A sprinkling of freckles. Glasses. But Lucas is NOW the man I’m REALLY gonna marry. (I’m nothing if not a serial monogamist.) Turns out, I’d been running with the wrong crowd all along. I mostly socialize with iPhone types (I think Adam was double-holstered into a couple of them), and they didn’t know how to help me. Nor did they care. I’ve decided iPhones are the glitzy hot girls from highschool. <b>We blackberries are the earnest workaholic smart girls with glasses who probably did the iPhone’s homework</b>. And it was Lucas, a blackberry guy if ever there was one, who came through for me."</blockquote> I met many people along the way, because my blackberries were constantly breaking:<br />
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<blockquote class="tr_bq">"I reflected on all this as the store filled up with hollow-eyed souls who looked more desperate than I felt. I was sanguine. I was relaxed. I had faith in Lucas.<br />
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But I could (over)hear the entire conversation of this guy Hiram who kept protesting into the 'courtesy' phone 'the damn thing ain’t but six weeks old. How is it NOT under warranty? Piss on THAT!' Hiram was very tan and wore a gold chain around his neck. I felt for him.<br />
<br />
Hiram’s frustration was only exceeded by the once-smug soccer moms/tennis ladies who came in optimistically bubbling about their 'insurance,' only to visibly deflate when told about their 'deductible.' They were like once-pert little flowers who’d just been left too long in the evening sun. (Story of their lives I imagine.)<br />
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Through all this, Lucas hunched over my phone, punching buttons, blasting it with canned air, and speaking into a headset to (perhaps) a control room somewhere in Texas.<br />
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<span style="font-size: medium;">M</span>uch like the kind of brain surgery where the patient has to stay awake, he’d left it active while he operated— which meant I could hear it ring—and then I could hear the distinctive three-tone bleat that all blackberries emit. I felt like a mother who couldn’t defend my young while some predator gnawed away its insides."</blockquote>By August 2009, the bloom was most certainly off the rose.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiycrcjCijgh40lf_YvEQoze9Vu2MflYoaZ2u0C0pLqqljHpL3EtQhJmj2P00XbaEh42SN0gHUy87x0sfjEFcY1se5FCyL2Rx1s21k1-XNFfuzcLoToUZck0QgL0k_QYRG2N94CxJ7Q28c/s1600/americanTouristerVideoThumb.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="105" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiycrcjCijgh40lf_YvEQoze9Vu2MflYoaZ2u0C0pLqqljHpL3EtQhJmj2P00XbaEh42SN0gHUy87x0sfjEFcY1se5FCyL2Rx1s21k1-XNFfuzcLoToUZck0QgL0k_QYRG2N94CxJ7Q28c/s200/americanTouristerVideoThumb.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><br />
"All I know is, I have gone through three Blackberry pearls in one year, and two bolds in the last six months. In all of them, the track ball has stuck. When I upgraded to the Bold, they insisted the design flaw had been remedied." In fairness, thanks to Lucas, they warrantied all of them out, without any argument. (You can watch the <a href="http://www.americantourister.ca/" target="_blank">American Tourister 1970s commercial here</a> which approximates my "beta testing" of blackberries through the ages.<br />
<br />
Even back then, I readily admitted, "I realized I was starting to sound like an abuse victim trying to rationalize away the damages." With inertia, loyalty, and a stubborn refusal to admit I was wrong thrown into the mix, I insisted, "I still think there are Blackberry people and iPhone people. I am a word-girl. I gotta have a keyboard at my fingertips. Touchscreens are a little too Philip K. Dick-ish for me...I nearly cried when I had to replace my old dial-microwave with a flat-front digital model."<br />
<br />
By December 2009, I wrote, "<a href="http://realitytruck.blogspot.com/2009/12/rim-job.html" target="_blank">could they work any harder to convert me to iPhone?</a> Yes. Yes they could. <br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;">In </span>2010, I <a href="http://realitytruck.blogspot.com/2010/08/torch-wielding-villagers.html" target="_blank">traded in the Bold for the Torch, </a> and coincidentally, I happened to do it on the day that the Provider somehow knocked out service to the entire southeast. "There were massive signs on the door saying they didn't know when the outage would be restored. And the store was filled with angry would-be torch-wielding Villagers. One guy was mad because he couldn't bring his dog in the store, another middle-class guy in a golf shirt seemed on the verge of beating his child in public, but contented himself with hissing through clenched teeth, 'you touch one more thing in this store, and I am going to ...<b> go bananas</b>.' I got the sense that 'bananas' was the only euphemism he could think of that was child-protective-services friendly. But under my breath, I promptly responded "bananas. B-a-n-a-n-a-s. Bananas," because it's impossible not to."<br />
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I hated the Torch instantly. It was slow, and weighed as much as a puppy -- it was like trying to talk on a Labrador Retriever.<br />
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In the intervening time since then, two important things happened. I got an <a href="http://realitytruck.blogspot.com/2010/10/app-for-that.html" target="_blank">iPod touch for my birthday, </a>followed by a Valentine iPad2. They turned out to be Apple gateway drugs. Except for my <a href="http://realitytruck.blogspot.com/2011/09/office-move.html" target="_blank">hatred of iTunes</a> (which never synchs properly, and should just behave more like Netflix: sign in, and access all your stuff, where ever you are, on whatever device -- we are not all pirates, Steve Jobs), everything about them has been dreamy. They're light, they're skinny... they don't play a lot of videos because of that whole Flash feud thing, but they are otherwise Magical. I was sold; I was long past due for an upgrade; and yet, inertia ruled the day for quite some time.<br />
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When I ran into Lucas last Summer while we were moving our office lines, I told him I'd be making the switch to what I expected would be the iPhone 5 in the fall. He said, "let me know, we'll add staff."<br />
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He had to work through dinner last Friday to make the transition seamless, while his four-year-old child waited patiently for him in his office, but I walked out with nearly everything imported successfully from the blackberry relic to the shiny new iPhone. <br />
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I'm not <i>entirely</i> happy with the 4s. It was time for the 5. Siri isn't exactly revolutionary; there were already apps for that. Of <i>course,</i> it could be better, faster, thinner, but couldn't we all?<br />
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YOU MIGHT ALSO LIKE<br />
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<a href="http://realitytruck.blogspot.com/2009/12/rim-job.html" target="_blank">R.I.M. Job, 12.23.2009</a><br />
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<a href="http://realitytruck.blogspot.com/2010/08/from-archives-august-2008-blackberry.html" target="_blank">Blackberry Adam. April 2008.</a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4014172403154803771.post-88101978134166951342012-01-19T16:12:00.004-08:002012-04-20T14:46:36.336-07:00Why I Hate Paula Deen<i>"If you're comforting yourself with the dictum 'Never trust a thin chef,' don't. Because no stupider thing has ever been said. Look at the crews of any really high-end restaurants and you'll see a group of mostly whippet-thin, under-rested young pups with dark circles under their eyes: they look like escapees from a Japanese prison camp -- and are expected to perform like the Green Berets."</i><br />
<div style="text-align: right;">--<b>Anthony Bourdain</b>, Medium Raw </div><br />
I have never eaten in a Paula Deen restaurant and have no plans to. I have never bought a Paula Deen cookbook, or prepared a Paula Deen recipe. (I have eaten Paula Deen pies prepared by others, and they were delicious.) I have certainly seen her shows, and I cringe every time I hear her food referred to as "Southern," as I have noted her fond over-reliance on Southern cuisine's trashier cousins, Velveeta and canned soup.<br />
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My mother (a virtual prototype of her target demographic) despises her, because when she and my stepdad ate at her Savannah restaurant, a staffer there told them that whenever a meal had to be comped (for whatever errors or complaints), that comp ticket came out of the staff's paychecks. Now, that might or might not even be true. That could've been a rogue employee who was just mouthing off about his boss. But it left a sour taste in my Mom's mouth; screw with the help at your peril.<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
While I thought Anthony Bourdain might be a little over the top (as he often is) in characterizing Paula Deen as an enemy of America, I was far more put off by her response, "You know, not everybody can afford to pay $58 for prime rib or $650 for a bottle of wine. My friends and I cook for regular families who worry about feeding their kids and paying the bills." I don't care for the implication that parents have to feed their kids imitation food like Velveeta or <a href="http://markbittman.com/horrific-animal-abuses-uncovered-at-smithfiel">factory-farmed-pork</a> (from which she earns a healthy stipend) or canned soup to make ends meet. And even at the time (this was before her big Announcement), I didn't care for her implication that her Empire was just all about helping Families get by. (Smithfield is not exactly known for being a friend of the Worker, and this is old, <a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/anna-burger/paula-deens-recipe-for-an_b_46303.html">old news). </a><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">S</span>o, I skeptically watched Deen come out to avuncular weatherman Al Roker with her Type 2 diabetes, while evading all dietary questions, snapping at his questions about her paid pharmaceutical spokesperson status ("I am compensated, just as you are for your work"), and I watched her backpedal the next day on <i>The Chew</i>, where she assured Mario et al that she and her sons were happy to be in a position to share some of her new Big Pharma proceeds with the American Diabetes Association. She didn't say how much, and it can't have escaped anyone's notice that Roker was the perfect soft-pedal choice to "break" the news (remembering how he evaded questions about his gastric bypass weight loss surgery for nearly a year back in 2002). I watched her "confess" her lifelong smoking problem to Dr. Oz a while back, while continuing the three-year facade.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNV4nRTygaCbQ5z4lJES_toExYVthKG4GrMKQKRNuLGV6-7hY285-6nmv-eH_jf7hBwUH1_aL954JfbaiuRYF2fOflxsxlW0YOoMN7ERwkiZQ-M3jSUa8AhYD_60dAY3Dlixn25cDvMMc/s1600/pauladeenbible.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNV4nRTygaCbQ5z4lJES_toExYVthKG4GrMKQKRNuLGV6-7hY285-6nmv-eH_jf7hBwUH1_aL954JfbaiuRYF2fOflxsxlW0YOoMN7ERwkiZQ-M3jSUa8AhYD_60dAY3Dlixn25cDvMMc/s320/pauladeenbible.jpg" width="256" /></a></div>Chefs are not doctors (and Paula Deen is not a chef), but it's disingenuous to protest "I'm yo' cook, not yo' doctor" out of one side of your mouth, and sell drugs out the other. You can't profess that your cooking is really meant to serve as "entertainment" in one breath, and call your books "the Bible" in the next. The word "Bible" suggests you are positioning yourself as something of an authority.<br />
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Of course sugar does not, per se, <i>cause</i> type 2 diabetes, and schadenfreude is a shitty, shitty thing. Nobody deserves a life-threatening disease, and all the online chatter that suggests she had it coming is shameful. Just because she's an asshole doesn't mean you have to be one too.<br />
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But, it is more than a little coy for her to repeatedly tapdance around all the "multiple, multiple" contributing factors like "age" and "genetics" without at least acknowledging that weight and diet <i>are</i> the Top Two. (Smoking isn't doing her any favors either.) No one dropped a <i>safe</i> on her head. She has been conferring with her doctor about this for <i>three years</i> post-diagnosis. Three years -- because she wanted to wait until she had "something to bring to the table" -- and <i>this</i> is is the best she could do? What she's bringing to the table is a spokesmonkey gig shilling diabetic drugs? (Will those "regular families" she's so worried about even be able to afford this controversial $500 prescription? Should their docs just tell them to give up on nutrition and exercise and weight loss?) <br />
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Yes, Deen is a big girl, but this is not an anti-older woman, weight bias issue. Before Jezebel and the gang hops on the bandwagon to characterize this as an age-ist, sexist, weight-ist debate, it isn't. Barefoot Contessa Ina Garten is an equally entrepreneurial and ample-sized cook (one with a far more delicious repertoire), but she isn't serving you her gorgonzola cream sauce with one hand, and selling you Lipitor with the other. Of course Deen has a right to both her lifestyle choices and her medical privacy -- she can inject butter right into her veins for all I care -- but if Giada DeLaurentiis smoked and then pitched asthma drugs on the side, there would be a similar outcry. <br />
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">I </span>TiVo'd every word Deen had to say on this subject, because I take it all personally, with a near missionary fervor. I know my A1C and odds are, I've asked you about yours. On New Year's Day, I went to a family birthday dinner where I sat across the table from a diabetic double-amputee. At the table behind me was a cousin who'd barely emerged from a diabetic coma and lengthy hospital stay in time to attend the celebration. His wife called 911 when his insulin pump malfunctioned, and he nearly died in the ambulance. On my left, was my cousin LJ, who candidly confessed to me (over mashed potatoes) that she'd had to recently consult a nutritionist because she was having a difficult time managing her diabetes, in conjunction with a diet that also accommodated her acid reflux. (The nutritionist purportedly recommended ice cream.) To my right was my diabetic stepdad, who's admittedly never carried an ounce of spare flesh in his life (but who is a lifelong drinker -- the ongoing kind, not the AA it-works-if-you-work-it kind). He was eating the fish and green beans. Whole, non-fake food is not a punishment. He does not suffer. Butter is real food -- he doesn't eat it by the pound, but it isn't on a banned list. Cream has a lower glycemic index and fewer grams of sugar than most milk. When he visits, I do not stock the fridge with "lo-fat" or processed "diet" food. I don't bake up any Splenda desserts (though my mother does). I do make sure he gets enough protein and vegetables, and I don't feed him white food. <br />
<br />
What I wanted to do at this birthday dinner was whip out my iPad and conduct an impromptu seminar. Out of the 33 people seated, it's likely 25 of them have "The Sugar." And before anyone jumps to the genetic predisposition conclusion that Deen references, no, this was a table of in-laws and outlaws and steps -- only a few of us were related by blood. Also, their dogs have the same weight problems most of them do, and we <i>know</i> that's not genetic. No one in the family, extended or otherwise, is a Type 1 Diabetic (what used to be commonly referred to as juvenile diabetes). I whispered all this to my mother, and got some very stern looks that suggested I should keep my mouth shut. They wouldn't listen to me anyway. (But I know for sure they <i>would </i>pay attention to a Paula Deen.)<br />
<br />
I did the "Diabeetus" Diet and exercise homework when my stepdad was first diagnosed a few decades ago (it didn't take me three years, and I barely had email at the time). But I really got serious about it when my favorite Uncle was diagnosed (the Uncle who threatens to buy me a <a href="http://realitytruck.blogspot.com/2010/03/they-might-be-giants.html">wild Pomeranian</a>).<br />
<br />
I would like for him to live forever, and I was always a little concerned that on his diet of 32 Pepsis and a side of beef per day, he might <i>not</i>. We spend hours on the phone talking about what he should and shouldn't eat, and I spend most of my time infuriated by his doctor, who recommended potato chips to him for a mid afternoon snack, and told him tomatoes (one of three vegetables he will eat) are "hard on the kidneys" (though he's never had a kidney stone, which was the only thing I could find that might be incompatible with an otherwise perfect food like tomatoes). For Christmas, I got him soy nuts to try in place of his afternoon potato chips, and it was my greatest culinary accomplishment of the year that he didn't mind them.<br />
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Not everyone has my Uncle's willpower. He went from 32 Pepsis a day, to <i>zero</i> Pepsis per day. He smoked Kools for 40 years, and then flirted with Merits another ten as a "non smoker." But one January when his health insurance premiums went up, he asked the broker what the difference was between a smoker and non-smoker. When the answer came back $13 grand, he quit smoking on the spot. He's never picked up a cigarette since. He works 18 out of 24 hours a day and gets in more physical activity on the farm by 7 am than I do in a year sitting behind a desk. <br />
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I bring all this up to suggest that not all of us southern, salt-of-the-earth middle Americans fit that ridiculous fat, lazy slob stereotype. But I have observed that it can be difficult to find great medical care and advice and accurate guidance in small towns where "registered dieticians" regularly prescribe diet soda and diet ice cream and all manner of fake food, and where nephrologists perpetuate weird vegetable biases and outright misinformation.<br />
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Paula Deen is correct that diabetes does not have to be a death sentence, but it does have to be managed, and there are a million tasty ways to do that. Medication should be the last resort, not the first (particularly $500 medication that carries a blackbox warning). I would never suggest she move her show from Food Network to Discovery Health, and it's fair for her to say she's not a doctor. <i>But</i>, she does have a platform -- a bully pulpit that reaches millions and millions of folks with the same lifestyle issues and diagnosis she has.<br />
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It didn't take her <i>three years</i> to figure out the most lucrative way to say "y'all take a pill."<br />
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<b>YOU MIGHT ALSO LIKE </b><br />
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<a href="http://www.realitytruck.blogspot.com/2011/06/bye-bye-birdie.html">Bye, Bye Birdie </a>(or, It's nearly curtains for cousin's parakeet, Baby.)<br />
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<a href="http://www.realitytruck.blogspot.com/2011/12/post-holiday-shopping-with-mom-for-baby.html" target="_blank">Post-Holiday Shopping with Mom </a><br />
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<a href="http://www.realitytruck.blogspot.com/2011/09/little-cuba.html" target="_blank">Little Cuba</a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4014172403154803771.post-65416653071409847872011-12-31T19:00:00.000-08:002012-01-01T19:29:53.476-08:00Reality Truck Column and Blog: The Year In Review, 2011Since Facebook algorithms changed this year, easy access to links to the posts here (particularly via iPhone, iPad, smart phones, mobile access) seems to have fallen off.<br />
<br />
So here are the links to Reality Truck, the column and blog, for 2011, in one handy location. <br />
<br />
<b><span style="font-size: x-large;">2011</span></b><br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.realitytruck.blogspot.com/2011/12/post-holiday-shopping-with-mom-for-baby.html">Post-Holiday Shopping with Mom...for Baby Grease...</a> 12.28.2011<br />
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<a href="http://www.realitytruck.blogspot.com/2011/11/car-talk-2011.html">Car Talk 2011 </a>BFF's car breaks down and we track down a craigslist replacement. No Camaro. 11.13.2011<br />
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<a href="http://www.realitytruck.blogspot.com/2011/09/little-cuba.html">Little Cuba</a>, or: a Trip to the Suburbs involving a deaf mute, albuterol, INS, EMTs, asthma, and coconut ice cream. 9.29.2011<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.realitytruck.blogspot.com/2011/09/rest-in-peace-vlad.html">Rest in Peace, Vlad. </a>College Classmate/decorated war vet, dies of Cancer. 09.26.2011<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.realitytruck.blogspot.com/2011/09/housesitting-sometimes-joel-you-just.html">Housesitting: Sometimes, Joel, you just gotta say....</a>09.13.2011<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.realitytruck.blogspot.com/2011/09/office-move.html">The Office Move 9.11.2011</a><br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.realitytruck.blogspot.com/2011/09/check-engine-light.html">Check Engine Light. </a>9.06.2011 (Joe's car.)<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.realitytruck.blogspot.com/2011/07/sweet-13.html">Niece's Sweet 13</a> Rude babies nearly wreck surprise party. 07.24.2011<br />
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<a href="http://www.realitytruck.blogspot.com/2011/07/active-ingredients.html">Active Ingredients</a>, or, Summer Cold 2011. 07.17.2011<br />
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<a href="http://www.realitytruck.blogspot.com/2011/06/bye-bye-birdie.html">Bye Bye Birdie</a> It's nearly curtains for cousin's parakeet, Baby. 06.12.11<br />
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<a href="http://www.realitytruck.blogspot.com/2011/06/mom-talk-pretty-one-day.html">Mom Talk Pretty One Day </a>Mom attempts facebook and email. 06.03.2011<br />
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<a href="http://www.realitytruck.blogspot.com/2011/05/hold-mayo.html">Hold the Mayo </a>also known as: The One Thing I Will Not Eat. 05.30.2011<br />
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<a href="http://www.realitytruck.blogspot.com/2011/04/on-half-shell.html">On the Half Shell </a>Reconnecting to oysters. 04.10.2011<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.realitytruck.blogspot.com/2011/03/chicken-or-egg-which-to-kill-first.html">The Chicken or the Egg: Which to Kill First </a>Or, things might not go so well at the niece's Montessori. 03.15.2011<br />
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<a href="http://www.realitytruck.blogspot.com/2011/03/bitten.html">Bitten</a> or, my permanent memory of Jack, in the form of a jagged scar. 03.14.2011<br />
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<a href="http://www.realitytruck.blogspot.com/2011/03/pink-socks-and-candy.html">Pink Socks and Candy, </a>the BFF takes a trip to Africa. 03.05.2011<br />
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<a href="http://www.realitytruck.blogspot.com/2011/01/tibetan-goat-hair-beanbag.html">The Pink Tibetan Goat Hair Beanbag </a>otherwise known as the Design Fantasy that gets me out of bed every morning. 01.03.2011<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.realitytruck.blogspot.com/2011/01/new-years-day-miracle.html">The New Year's Day Parsley Miracle </a>01.01.2011Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4014172403154803771.post-20413760823148540442011-12-28T15:09:00.001-08:002012-04-20T14:57:49.032-07:00Post Holiday Shopping with Mom ...for baby grease<i>"Why don't you tell us what you want and save yourself some disappointment?</i><br />
<i>No. I'd rather be surprised by a disappointment than happy with what I expected."</i> <br />
<div style="text-align: right;">-<b>-Happy Endings </b></div><br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-kqet7F9Kxfw/TvugB30nHuI/AAAAAAAAB0I/ibt1nxJzqnk/s1600/bedbathbeyondsnowman2010.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-kqet7F9Kxfw/TvugB30nHuI/AAAAAAAAB0I/ibt1nxJzqnk/s320/bedbathbeyondsnowman2010.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The January 2010 snowman at Bed, Bath & Beyond</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Post Holiday shopping with my Mom is <a href="http://www.realitytruck.blogspot.com/2010/01/bed-bath-and-beyond-circle.html">an annual tradition.</a> It is exhausting. We go to places I would usually never go, see things I would never see, and hear things I would never hear. By the time we've changed her third cannister of oxygen, I am usually ready to hold my hands up in the same position of supplication I learned while shopping with her in toddlerhood -- the universal whine for "carry me!"<br />
<br />
This year, we were both shopping for floor lamps (separately), and each of us had a price peak beyond which we would not budge. As she told the girl at the department store who insisted that the one we liked was not part of Clearance, "No, I wouldn't give that for it. I've been out of a lamp in that back bedroom for three years and I don't care to go another three."<br />
<br />
Pickings were even slimmer at the Dollar Tree, where we were in search of red chargers, but definitely not in the market for ...baby grease.<br />
<br />
That's what the gentleman to the right of us shouted to the checkout girl, 30 feet away, "Sweetheart! Hey! Sweetheart! You! You got any baby grease?"<br />
<br />
Apparently, she heard what I did and clarified, "grease? You mean like motor oil? That's in aisle four."<br />
<br />
"Naw," he yelled back, "<i>baby</i> grease", as if his renewed emphasis explained it. ("Made from real babies?" I was thinking, having no idea what he was talking about.)<br />
<br />
Observing her blank expression from across the store, he clarified, "grease like you put on a baby, y'know," adding in a conspiratorial stage whisper, "like for after where he's circumcised."<br />
<br />
Clearly non-plussed (maybe not the first time she'd been asked this), she responded, a bit over-familiarly, "sheeeeyittttttt? You got a new baby? Another one? When you gonna figure out how to quit that?" Then she asked if it was a boy (which I thought the aforementioned circumcision would've made obvious), and he laughed, answering with a good-natured laugh, "yeahhhh, I reckon we can quit now." <br />
<br />
We never did find any red chargers, but baby grease is on aisle seven.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">W</span>e also did not buy a single CloseOut Santa, which is unusual, because her Santa collection is legendary, well into the hundreds (like shopping, this obviously skips a generation). I pointed out several, "this one seems nice? He's all in white...Do you have this one?" Even at 80 percent off, she had no interest.<br />
<br />
Finally, I asked, "where were all your Santas this year?" I had just been there Christmas weekend, and there were no Santas, no elves, not even a tree. Not so much as a poinsettia. While the only seasonal decor I allow in my house is a token sprig of mistletoe, hers has always been bedecked and bedazzled -- every square inch glistens with snow and sparkles and moving trains conducted by drummer boys and wise men that whistle and wind through Bethlehem and past the Baby Jesus in his creche. It is no small setup. Every year, she talks about divesting herself of her collections, but my brother and I -- with no interest in kids or heirs and less in seasonal decor -- are disappointing prospective recipients, and the topic is inevitably tabled.<br />
<br />
There was a long intake of breath, suggesting it was a good thing I'd asked. And what followed was a lengthy huff about my stepdad and his endless complaints about bringing the decorations down from the attic, the amount of work this entails for him, and what a pain in the ass it will be for him to pack them all up and return them to the garage. It's all true. Every year, he grumbles and mutters from Thanksgiving to January, "Jeeeeeesus Christ, I don't know what we're doing with all this shit... awwww, for cripes sake, I said I'm leaving her if she brings one more goddamn Santa into this house." It's relatively good-natured -- just part of the ambient noise that seems to occupy their daily life -- and most of us tuned it out decades ago, the way he turns down his hearing aids when we're not saying anything of interest to him (which is always). She hauls stuff into the house, he waits until she's forgotten about it, and hauls it out to the trash. It's a good system.<br />
<br />
But not this year. This year she'd had it. "Bitch, bitch, bitch. That's all he ever does and I'm sick of it. Sick. Of. It. So I quit. We didn't even have a TREE," she said triumphantly with a twinge of sadness, as though she'd won an epic battle, but that it had cost her dearly. "Why didn't you just tell him to knock it off?" was my innocent question. This is obviously the Family Dance -- she hoards Santas and he complains. She gets more Santas and he gets to complain even more loudly; the acquisition makes her happy and the grousing makes <i>him</i> happy. My theories were instantly met with righteous indignation, progressing swiftly towards outrage at me for even asking such a stupid thing, and further implying that I know absolutely nothing about how Marriage works (which is one hundred percent true). <br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">"Y</span>ou know I had to run into your father's first ex-wife last week" she said, my cue that the topic had changed and I'd better keep up. "Mom, you are dad's first ex-wife," I countered.<br />
<br />
"Oh," she seemed puzzled for a second, then snapped,"Well you know the one I mean. She's married to some bald-headed guy now." Yes. I didn't know about the new hairless spouse, but I know she's the one he left my Mom for. As opposed to his current wife, which is the one he left the second wife for. (See also, our family's own <a href="http://realitytruck.blogspot.com/2010/02/war-of-roses.html">War of the Roses</a>).<br />
<br />
"How did <i>that </i>happen?" I asked -- always mystified that in a Mayberry-sized smalltown with only two grocery stores and a handful of gas pumps, my parents have crossed paths less than a dozen times in the nearly 30 years they've been divorced. <br />
<br />
"I had to <i>wait</i> on her." It turns out the new bald husband regularly patronizes the Christmas bake sale at my Mom's church, and my Mom had to sell her a Diet Coke. "Did you poison it?" I asked mildly.<br />
<br />
"No," she said primly, "And I also did NOT slap her. And I did <i>not </i>say, 'well how have you been, you Old Whore?' which is what I felt like saying, and I didn't tell anyone anything about except our priest."<br />
<br />
And what did he say? "He said that was very Christian of me, and he knew it must have been awkward." <br />
<br />
I wondered aloud if she'd even recognized my Mom (it's been thirty years). "Oh she knew who I was all right. And she looks exactly the same. You know she was always so coarse."<br />
<br />
"Yes," I agreed. "The old whore."<br />
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<b>YOU MIGHT ALSO LIKE </b><br />
<a href="http://realitytruck.blogspot.com/2010/01/moms-parting-shots.html">Mom's Parting Shots </a><br />
<a href="http://realitytruck.blogspot.com/2010/01/bed-bath-and-beyond-circle.html">Bed, Bath, and Beyond the Circle </a><br />
<a href="http://realitytruck.blogspot.com/2010/02/war-of-roses.html">War of the Roses. 2010.</a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4014172403154803771.post-29594562675579597302011-11-13T11:26:00.000-08:002011-11-13T11:26:13.212-08:00Car Talk 2011This has been the Year of the Car. Mine spent all Spring in and out of the shop -- new tie rods, a CV boot, and too many other things to count. It has to head back in soon for brakes, a serpentine belt, and a suspension system. I'm just happy it's held out this long, but the worst part is, it's clearly contagious.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivKegRwDC9sncIMaaS2rZlCezkUXLronDM4Kr8J27OiAoNKXWJQJmtTjIZqFSC9tyoVX0rCIJFNdf9-Jg_cbNJhJuQ_q0i9TLxISZ7pcHn9cSL713Rij_n0AQhlga4lAi1NfH4tCnKVi4/s1600/triplea.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivKegRwDC9sncIMaaS2rZlCezkUXLronDM4Kr8J27OiAoNKXWJQJmtTjIZqFSC9tyoVX0rCIJFNdf9-Jg_cbNJhJuQ_q0i9TLxISZ7pcHn9cSL713Rij_n0AQhlga4lAi1NfH4tCnKVi4/s1600/triplea.gif" /></a></div>A few weeks ago, I got a text from the BFF that her car had quit about 75 miles from home, <i>in the middle of the interstate</i>. Though this is (not so secretly) my worst nightmare, I tried to pretend to be calm and helpful, finding her mechanic's number and making sure her Triple A package had the 100-mile tow plan, which is when she texted back, "I will just maybe live here. Forever." I had to admit, this seemed like a reasonable plan. Sure, nobody <i>wants </i>to live at the Flyin' J truckstop. But people <i>do.</i><br />
<br />
While I called around to describe the engine symptoms and try to get a verdict, the tow driver picked her up. An always-look-on-the-bright-side-type, she was heartened to discover he had "both Metallica and Five Finger Death Punch in the cab," and she seemed downright elated he was letting her smoke. She thought it was a good sign that he called her "sweet pea," as in "you wait right here sweet pea," while he went to find the guys who were manning the weigh station.<br />
<br />
I responded, "I think those might be the exact words of the Mechanic in <i>The Hills Have Eyes</i>." <br />
<br />
It wasn't til this weekend that she told me she'd almost threatened to run off with him, after he'd enthusiastically described his considerable assets to her, including, but not limited to, "a paid-for motorcycle, a paid-for boat, and a paid-for 79 Camaro." <br />
<br />
I said I was just surprised we're all not dancing at her wedding right now.<br />
<br />
"PAID FOR!" was her answer.<br />
<br />
"Which is exactly how he'd describe you post-wedding," I said. <br />
<br />
"A 79 Camaro that <i>can make it to Florida,</i>" she insisted.<br />
<br />
I thought he sounded like quite the catch, even <i>before</i> I spent a week spent scouring the craigslist for a replacement car, where I discovered that people actually post ads that read, "transmission out, but OTHERWISE a great car." Um. Define great? Wouldn't that <i>include</i> a working transmission? <br />
<br />
Camaro, you say? <i>All </i>the way to Florida? I wonder if he'd take it out in trade.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">YOU MIGHT ALSO LIKE </span><br />
<a href="http://realitytruck.blogspot.com/2011/09/check-engine-light.html">Check Engine Light</a><br />
<a href="http://realitytruck.blogspot.com/2011/03/pink-socks-and-candy.html">Pink Socks and Candy</a><br />
<a href="http://realitytruck.blogspot.com/2010/09/archives-june-17-2003-car-trouble.html">2003: Car Trouble </a><br />
<a href="http://realitytruck.blogspot.com/2010/03/my-first-car.html">My First Car </a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4014172403154803771.post-50023151304559920972011-09-29T20:06:00.001-07:002012-04-20T14:47:30.863-07:00Little Cuba<span style="font-size: x-large;">T</span>onight, <a href="http://realitytruck.blogspot.com/2010/02/ghost-of-94.html">BFF94</a> invited me out to dinner with a group of her friends I mostly hadn't met, but had heard great things about. They were all going to meet up at this little Cuban sandwich shop I've been hearing about for years, but had never gotten around to trying. It's in the suburbs, so nobody ever invites me.<br />
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Shortly after arriving, we spotted giant containers of coconut ice cream for $5 bucks in their cold case, so obviously, these proprietors were good people. I don't know a lot about Cuban food, beyond learning to make black beans and rice and ropa vieja from the elderly Cuban neighbor who lived two doors down from me at <a href="http://realitytruck.blogspot.com/2010/01/good-enough-entertaining.html">my first house. </a>(His care came with the house -- assigned to me by Miss Bea, the first owner -- and when I sold it, I deeded him to the new owner.) He was always threatening to kill the frat boys on the other side of my house with his machete (which he pronounced Muh-CHET-Tay) when they got too loud and rowdy.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0pg0rFrfSrUlLNdMf5G9gaT4s2wsrB83ihc1tJ_JeR07VIbePQYvQ4KraqQa6krTxZJvp0eKh75jbyNwUWCSefBtoWGHeDxkmVDMAqJatxuP9ky-oSCn1fF7PC2egHNgr8eKjIXoCPfM/s1600/cuban.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="132" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0pg0rFrfSrUlLNdMf5G9gaT4s2wsrB83ihc1tJ_JeR07VIbePQYvQ4KraqQa6krTxZJvp0eKh75jbyNwUWCSefBtoWGHeDxkmVDMAqJatxuP9ky-oSCn1fF7PC2egHNgr8eKjIXoCPfM/s200/cuban.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>We were all getting acquainted over our delicious plantains and such when a RUCKUS erupted outdoors. I wasn't paying the slightest bit of attention (I'd parked just outside what appeared to be an unsavory-looking bar two doors down, and then tuned out the whole neighborhood), until one of the girls at the table tapped her husband on the shoulder and said, "that guy's in trouble," and before any of us realized what was happening, he was outside examining the man who'd collapsed out front.<br />
<br />
"<i>Mi esposa es el medico</i>," she explained to the owner (something like that). I was busy worrying about universal precautions and locating the giant container of Purell that was clearly displayed on the counter. We all immediately began speaking in ALL CAPS.<br />
<br />
My social media updates for the evening read:<br />
<br />
<ul><li>"ordered the Cuban" followed by,</li>
</ul><ul><li>"A guy just COLLAPSED outside the Restaurant, AND we had a DOCTOR at our TABLE. (He is outside now, SAVING the guy's LIFE.")</li>
</ul><br />
He was actually outside talking on his iphone, probably saying LIFE SAVING things, we surmised, and then the owner ran inside and grabbed... a pen. (Oh yeah. "On site <i>tracheotomy</i>?" I'm thinking. "Emergency <i>thoracotomy</i>?") We could see that the guy was having a hard time breathing. Then he was clutching his chest. "Maybe he needs an epi?" I guessed out loud (because I couldn't remember albuterol). <br />
<br />
But he was on the phone so long, we were laughing nervously and speculating about whether or not he was on with MovieLine ("for movie times for Chunnel, press one...why don't you just <i>say</i> the name of the movie?")<br />
<br />
It was about this time when the owner came over and ... apologized to us. "Sorry, so sorry," she said, reassuring (?) us with, "he's <i>American</i>." At this point our eyes were fairly glistening with liberal tears. Why would she <i>apologize</i>? Who could be angry with someone for <i>collapsing</i>? Did we seem like such ugly Americans that we would summon INS instead of EMTs?<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSgVAL0m4ShHLakOEy1bI5F32plXjf2FO0Ci_PJuceSiVuRXRZYULLSUl5jiz3f89mPVOTykjC7rnNajSDAV-evtB8yoA-peMYWN9rITVPg-152op2NbboLgsMg8fm3_KMPMCY5J1s9HA/s1600/firetrucks.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSgVAL0m4ShHLakOEy1bI5F32plXjf2FO0Ci_PJuceSiVuRXRZYULLSUl5jiz3f89mPVOTykjC7rnNajSDAV-evtB8yoA-peMYWN9rITVPg-152op2NbboLgsMg8fm3_KMPMCY5J1s9HA/s320/firetrucks.jpg" width="238" /></a></div>Despite the scene of carnage outside (EMTs, fire trucks, paramedics, etc), we noticed that several undeterred diners breezed past it all and marched right up to the counter to place their orders. Clearly our culinary faith in this establishment was well-placed. (Or else this is a commonplace occurrence? Yawn?) <br />
<br />
When our doc returned to the table, after the paramedics had supplied oxygen and loaded the man onto a gurney, he explained that the man's asthma was causing respiratory distress, but that this was further complicated by his inability to speak. (We had figured that out earlier, but we didn't know the politically correct term for Mute, so everyone just thought he was too choked up to speak, instead of realizing he could not speak.) Complicating that, what little he could communicate was via sign language, but in Spanish. He could write a few English words (hence the emergency ink pen), which amounted to "call my wife." <br />
<br />
All I know is, it sounds like the albuterol inhaler he has really isn't doing the trick, and our response to that might be to start a small reality tv series which we'd call "STREET MEDIC," where we just happen upon people in distress, and then make the appropriate phone calls.<br />
<br />
My final post of the evening was: "THIS is what HAPPENS when we come to the SUBURBS?"<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">YOU MIGHT ALSO LIKE </span><br />
<a href="http://realitytruck.blogspot.com/2011/09/housesitting-sometimes-joel-you-just.html">Housesitting: Sometimes Joel, You just gotta say....</a><br />
<a href="http://realitytruck.blogspot.com/2011/09/check-engine-light.html">Check Engine Light</a><br />
<a href="http://realitytruck.blogspot.com/2011/09/office-move.html">The Office Move </a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4014172403154803771.post-86864472034646307202011-09-26T17:57:00.001-07:002022-10-04T17:30:26.285-07:00Rest in Peace, Vlad<span style="font-size: large;">L</span>ast week I got a message from one of my favorite college buddies, Bob-O, that he and another pal would be in town for our upcoming college Homecoming. They're a little older than I am, so it's a Reunion year for them, but not for me. Even though it's less than an hour's drive, I typically only go for the big years: five, ten, 20, and eventually 25. But it would be great to see them I thought, and added the weekend to my calendar.<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
This immediately set off a "whatever happened to..." facebook search— maybe I could re-connect with a few other old friends — and I started first with one of my very, very favorite classmates. There's no way to describe him that would do him justice, except that I remember him best for the most contagious laugh I've ever encountered. He was an itty-bitty thing, and this giggle just wracked his entire body from head to toe. The more he tried to contain it, the more uncontrollable it would get. It was impossible to keep a straight face in his company. <br />
<br />
We saved each other seats in history class, where the new hipster professor never took attendance, but instead, had us pass around a sign-in sheet. Every day, we would make up new aliases for each other and crack ourselves up. We eventually settled on "Vladimir and Buffy," and he would <i>erupt</i> in giggles every time the professor earnestly called on us with those names. Hey, we were 18. We might not have been that funny, but his reactions and his timing were inescapably hilarious. Whenever the professor would recount his 60s PhD memories from UW, Madison — where police helicopters would circle over student protests as they spelled out human Fuck Yous on the ground — his expressions would set us off, and we'd all but collapse in the aisles tittering. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpTHr4CFHRtHM6AqeV3rCkPUhR3RQoKHqGSElJWP5zpYsHwoajWPW5kZlU7RRIzcwUVDMTNj7oTykRuZKhLdV38dFMe1N9jgFaf8FdFEhGOGxgDfkpK7qf73z0Za1Gc4LIZQX6E06TPNE/s1600/vlad+002.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpTHr4CFHRtHM6AqeV3rCkPUhR3RQoKHqGSElJWP5zpYsHwoajWPW5kZlU7RRIzcwUVDMTNj7oTykRuZKhLdV38dFMe1N9jgFaf8FdFEhGOGxgDfkpK7qf73z0Za1Gc4LIZQX6E06TPNE/s320/vlad+002.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p>We went our separate ways after college — I went to grad school, and he went on to marriage, kids, and a long, distinguished career in the military which I'd read about occasionally in the news. He had been in officer training with my college boyfriend and I always knew he'd go on to great things, but we didn't keep in touch, except when we'd all re-convened briefly after a fraternity brother's suicide decades ago.Then he went off to war and multiple tours of duty in Iraq etc.<br />
<br />
I had heard he'd retired, and I knew he didn't live nearby, so I figured it would be a long shot to find him in town on a non-Reunion year, but I did a quick search anyway, and immediately landed on a page that said, "Pray For..." and then his last name. When I clicked on it, I saw his daughter had last posted info for his memorial service in July, and then I read backward on the timeline and the long chronicle of his battle with cancer. <br />
<br />
Too late, I said a prayer for him anyway. And I went straight to a basket on my coffeetable where I keep a couple dozen of my all time favorite photographs. Despite the fact that we hadn't seen each other in decades, three of them are of him: two are from graduation day, and one is of him and several of his fraternity brothers the day we all packed to leave school.<br />
<br />
Then I began reading a few of the articles I could find online about him, and was especially moved by this quote from a newspaper clipping where he described a visit home from Iraq, </p><p>"'It's difficult to put into words,' he said with a smile. 'It's like you've been anticipating a movie—something you've been waiting to see for a long time — and now you're in the first five minutes and it's really good so far.'"<br />
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<br />
Rest in Peace, Vlad. I did say a prayer for you.<br /></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4014172403154803771.post-5953761906000200292011-09-13T18:02:00.000-07:002011-09-13T18:04:04.652-07:00Housesitting: Sometimes Joel, You Just Gotta Say...<div style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img height="157" id="il_fi" src="http://bobversus.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/01/rain-man.jpg" style="padding-bottom: 8px; padding-right: 8px; padding-top: 8px;" width="200" /></div><span style="font-size: large;"></span> <br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;">L</span>ast night is the first night I've spent in my own bed for the past two weeks. To say I missed it would be an understatement, even though the bed I was staying in for those two weeks was a Tempur-Pedic, and now I've decided I don't know how I lived without one this long. But I had to get home and check on my toothpicks...make sure they're where I left them. Count them. See if any are missing. Or re-arranged. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiI7EWIGCNCE9BhCek97oL9VbaNAlmn4e2LU5YFMv1WZe6tWObWad-1Ee5MamqI7j6JUK9yOxBNliqFX-l8OLlZGR9hiM7YcwBjH0zoRJVg9ihk1MFRvShSgXXgsYqIJYfpT8HTZkSwmVk/s1600/santorini.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiI7EWIGCNCE9BhCek97oL9VbaNAlmn4e2LU5YFMv1WZe6tWObWad-1Ee5MamqI7j6JUK9yOxBNliqFX-l8OLlZGR9hiM7YcwBjH0zoRJVg9ihk1MFRvShSgXXgsYqIJYfpT8HTZkSwmVk/s320/santorini.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Here's their Vacation View. They're sweet to invite me every year, but who'd mind my toothpicks while I'm gone? </td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
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August is the month my gay husband and husband-in-law go on vacation, and I live at their place while they're gone, to take care of the dogs and fancy saltwater fish. And while their house is the one place where I spend the second-greatest amount of time, and feel most at home, everything is still a major adjustment for someone like me who ...thrives on routine (is one way of putting it).<br />
<br />
There is a reason they returned to find every tube of toothpaste in the house had been re-squeezed from the bottom (the way I like it...because that's the correct way), and not the middle (the way they like it, which is incorrect). They're free to go back to their old habits of course, but they know the next time I'm over, I'll just fix it. And yes, I realize it isn't my toothpaste. <br />
<br />
I kept logs and feeding charts for the dogs and fish. And then I left them detailed notes about nearly every single thing that happened every minute they were gone (which is the only way I was able to avoid really abusing their iPhone International plans). <br />
<br />
For example, <br />
"I called the Fish Guy on Friday Sep 1, when the tank made a very weird noise – like a choke going out on a 1972 Buick. But he didn’t call me back. So I called him AGAIN that night and he said, oh, he was outta town for labor day and pour a bucket of water in the below tank (so I did – but I had already been putting water in it, everytime it sounded cranky). I don’t think he ever did come by. It sounds ok now."<br />
<br />
<i>What that was code for was this: I don't think the Fish Guy fully appreciates the enormity of his responsibility, commensurate with what he is paid to do. For heaven's sake, I didn't call him on Labor Day weekend, I called him EARLY on Friday, the day before the holiday weekend. He should've called me back then i.e., I think it might be time for a new fish guy. </i>Plus, if Nemo dies anytime in the next week, I want it to be pretty clear that didn't happen on my watch -- that guy should've fixed the choke when I told him it went out.<br />
<br />
I had very few dog notes. Only one dog threw up one time in two weeks, another got the hiccups for an entire day (which I checked out with our favorite twitter vet), and the rest of the accidents were typically limited to one or two a day. I expected far, far worse. (The last weekend I'd stayed over there <a href="http://realitytruck.blogspot.com/2011/03/bitten.html">left a pretty good scar.)</a> There was no bloodshed this time, just a mishap or two:<br />
<br />
"The episodes of Destruction are hidden in the back bedroom. As a straight girl, I don’t know how pricey throw pillows are, but they sure LOOKED expensive." <br />
<br />
<i>What this was code for was: Please don't kill me for letting the dog eat the Valentino pillows (and the Ralph Lauren shirt, which possibly they haven't found yet). When I told one pal about all this last week, he asked "have you said anything about this yet?" I said I had hinted a little on facebook, but that No, they didn't know the extent of the damages. I didn't want to ruin their vacation. He said, "aww, too bad." I thought what he had in mind was maybe leaving the stuffing and feathers all over the floor, and feigning ignorance, but he said no, "it would just take a few wires and a little singed carpet." On further quizzing, he seemed to think a small-ish fire -- where I got all the animals out safely and was the Hero -- would've been the way to go. But since I'd already blown it by giving it away on facebook, it probably wasn't an option, and he definitely wouldn't help me. Then he laughed and walked me out to the husband-in-law's car, <a href="http://realitytruck.blogspot.com/2011/09/check-engine-light.html">which I was driving that day, </a>and said, "Sometimes Joel, You just gotta say... What the..." (And now we all know he is NOT the guy we should ask to housesit.) </i><br />
<br />
Of course I alphabetized all their DVDs while I was there (as anyone would expect me to do if I was in their house for longer than five minutes. And I borrowed their copy of <i>The Social Network </i>because they always say they'll watch it with me, but they never do. And I borrowed their copy of <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Wishful-Drinking-Carrie-Fisher/dp/143915371X?ie=UTF8&tag=AceW-20&link_code=btl&camp=213689&creative=392969" target="_blank">Wishful Drinking</a><img alt="" border="0" height="1" src="http://www.assoc-amazon.com/e/ir?t=AceW-20&l=btl&camp=213689&creative=392969&o=1&a=143915371X" style="border: medium none ! important; margin: 0px ! important; padding: 0px ! important;" width="1" />, because reading Carrie Fisher is always good homework. <br />
<br />
I pointed out, "I ordered up a few movies, but NO PORN, so if the bill is crazy, just dispute that. Also: don’t watch <i>Blue Valentine</i>. Man. That is two years of your life you’ll never get back. <i>Catfish</i> is overrated too." (It really was.)<br />
<br />
What I'm thinking is, if the Fish Guy lets himself in and watches a whole bunch of porn sometime when everybody's at work in the next week or two, I don't want anybody thinking that was me. (If I <i>had </i>ordered porn, I'd be glad to tell them and I'd just let them know to expect a $375 cable bill. But I didn't.) <br />
<br />
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<a href="http://realitytruck.blogspot.com/2011/09/office-move.html">The Office Move </a><br />
<a href="http://realitytruck.blogspot.com/2011/03/bitten.html">Bitten</a><br />
<a href="http://realitytruck.blogspot.com/2010/04/bye-disco-kroger.html">Bye Disco Kroger</a><br />
<a href="http://realitytruck.blogspot.com/2010/02/why-i-live-at-disco-kroger.html">Why I Live at the Disco Kroger</a><br />
<a href="http://realitytruck.blogspot.com/2010/02/drivin-miz-daisy.html">Drivin' Miz Daisy</a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4014172403154803771.post-18228578199987108052011-09-11T17:01:00.000-07:002011-09-13T19:19:16.896-07:00The Office Move<span style="font-size: x-large;">I </span>haven't written as much as I want to lately, partly because my office moved.<br />
<br />
In terms of actual mechanics, one really has nothing to do with the other. Twenty years ago, even ten, I did sit at a computer at my office and write things. But that hasn't been true for a long time. I write long notes in an iPod and iPad (along with actual, honest-to-god notebooks and legal pads), but I do most actual writing on my little pink netbook, which goes where ever I go. And most of our work lives in The Cloud. (Although I am the only one who believes our words are just roaming around up there, in an <i>actual</i> cloud.)<br />
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There is a big screen that sits on a big desk, and I do all kinds of non-writing work on it, but I primarily think of it as the place where the iTunes live (and refuse to synch properly, ever, to anything else, which is why every device I own, mysteriously, has a different version of Cee Lo's "F you" on it).<br />
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Work still had to get cranked out during the Move, and September's our busiest time of year (not Anna Wintour-September busy, but twice the work of any other time of year). There's never a good time to move though, and even I have to admit it's nothing like it was ten years ago, when disconnecting those lines and cables, even for a minute, was an epic undertaking. <br />
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I'm just not good with change (...is one way of putting it). <br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;">T</span>he Move was something I've known was coming all summer, but managed to stay in denial about for several months. Our old building was becoming a bar however, so unless I wanted to develop waitressing skills, the move was inevitable. Many nights, I toyed with just staying at my desk and letting them demolish the place around me ("Mr. Gorbachev...tear. down. these. walls.") My brother joked frequently that the patrons of the new place would just have to get used to me, as the bartender shot me sad, sidelong glances and explained to all the customers, "pay no attention to her boys. She came with the place."<br />
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In the middle of this move, I was housesitting, so this meant, not only did I go home to find my toothbrush at a different sink, in a different bathroom, in a different house every night, I got up and went to an office where my staples were packed and my post-its had migrated without me. This was a combination destined for disaster.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVvZjgRhU2d-opL3jAssc3mvymCFdt0otwM9Qa0wNV95XWy3UeNTKhJjK9mKNJl7FjByHb07zQw30O3R9C7jd9pqEb1RPgROfIBacVtPTAMiUyhGKW5QZbE8wsVgzrj73bw_yJmeKqc4g/s1600/miltonOfficeSpaceStapler.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="152" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVvZjgRhU2d-opL3jAssc3mvymCFdt0otwM9Qa0wNV95XWy3UeNTKhJjK9mKNJl7FjByHb07zQw30O3R9C7jd9pqEb1RPgROfIBacVtPTAMiUyhGKW5QZbE8wsVgzrj73bw_yJmeKqc4g/s320/miltonOfficeSpaceStapler.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>It is lucky that I work with tech guys, who know me pretty well by now, and had re-arranged the office once already last summer when they got new sofas and a different conference table. What they discovered then was, as long as everything is oriented in the same exact direction (my chair still rolls the same two feet between my desk and credenza; the computer screen is on the right and the phone is on the left; the silver bowl where my keys go is in the middle, next to the black Swingline stapler), I don't really notice much. In fact, I am relatively oblivious to my surroundings, as long as <i>my stuff</i> is where it's supposed to go. <br />
<br />
Ever since I had a grad school job with a desk that looked right out on a beautiful lake, I've maintained that gorgeous views (much like extremely good looks in a boyfriend) are a waste of time. In a week, you stop noticing.<br />
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There was actually a small sapling growing out of the basement, through the floor and into my file cabinet drawer -- which they could not believe -- but at some point, I adapted to it, and it adapted to me. I'm sure it was a sign of some serious structural and foundation flaws and declining property values, with a side order of demolition by neglect, but I didn't <i>own</i> the building, and that tree wasn't bothering me. (They swept up the leaves and put them in my silver key bowl.)<br />
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<br />
They found the movers and they hired the movers. There were a few times they asked for my input, but I largely stayed out of it. They picked up the computers at the old location and put them down and hooked them up at the new one. My primary contribution was to fill multiple dumpsters with ten years of trash (it wasn't like <i>Hoarders</i> or anything; nobody keeps dead cats in an office), and to move the fax machine. (And I didn't do that. My best friend carried it to the new place, because I really didn't want the phone company screwing around with it. She's not an engineer or anything; I just didn't mind her touching it.) The fact that no one faxes anybody anymore is not lost on me, but for some reason, I was obsessed with it.<br />
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By and large, it went <i>miraculously </i>smoothly. The new place was in pristine perfect move-in condition. When the fridge didn't seem to be working, our new architect/landlord picked it up (himself); hauled it to the curb; drove to Home Depot for a new one; hauled it back up the stairs and plugged it in. His wife (our landlady) went along to buy us new towel rods and blinds for the bathroom. The central air system froze up, but the central air guy was there within an hour to fix it. This weekend I noticed a few scuff marks on the stairwell wall, but they've clearly been meticulously patched and spackled, and I suspect I'll see a fresh coat of paint on them in the morning. <br />
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The only thing that went wrong (if you could call it that.... and <i>boy, did I</i>) was the key going missing to the file cabinet that goes in my office. Inasmuch as file cabinets could be said to be nice, this one is <i>nice</i>. The two big lateral drawers (all set up for my nice pendaflex, legal-size folders) just <i>whisper</i> in and out at the touch of a fingertip. It's not fireproof, but it is fire-<i>resistant,</i> and it was the only office "furnishing" I ever asked a boss to buy for me -- more than a decade ago (having made do at nearly every job with the rusty, crooked, creaky variety). Everyone else wanted a fancy chair or desk (to say nothing of state-of-the-art computers), but all I wanted was this one thing. It isn't teak or mahogany or anything fancy; it's plain old black metal; but it does work, and I really, <i>really</i> like it.<br />
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In the old office, the key to it lived in the pink Princess coffee mug over the mantle (this doesn't constitute a huge breach of security, because it doesn't live there anymore). It got lost once earlier this year, but it turned out the bookkeeper had a spare at her office, so... crisis averted. <br />
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Before the move, I knew it was the one place I could stick things for safe keeping, because it was absolutely going with us and I thought it would be the first thing off the truck. The IT guys had a girl helping them coordinate the move and I asked her several times, "did you tell them they're moving <i>full</i> file cabinets. Because they'll need to strap those closed, or duct tape them shut. Movers have these big straps...." She looked at me like I was nuts, til I finally said, "well sure, they're Movers. I guess they've moved a few file cabinets. Why am I telling them how to do their job?" Then I laughed nervously. But my mind was by no means at ease.<br />
<br />
Then I took the key out of the pink Princess cup on the mantle and put it in the lock. I thought, well, any one of us could lose track of that coffee mug, but we're sure not going to lose this giant file cabinet. (I didn't just pocket the key -- your obvious question -- because I thought everybody would need access to the stuff I had packed into it, and because, since I was housesitting, I didn't know where my pockets might be.) <br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;">S</span>o, that was the last time I saw it. The key, that is. The file cabinet's sitting in the new office right where it's supposed to be. Mocking me. Locked. It turned up, but the key vanished. The boys say it probably just fell out along the way... but I explain to them how this is not possible, because you can't lock those drawers <i>without the key</i>. If the key fell out, how did the drawers get locked? They don't know. The Movers don't know. ("Ma'am, we would never take a key out of a drawer. We ask the customers to do all that before we get there.")<br />
<br />
My plan was to just jam the lock repeatedly with a flat-head screwdriver til it gave way, but <i>the screwdriver is inside the file cabinet</i>. It's inside this nice zippered black canvas handyman kit that somebody gave me a long time ago (probably as a joke), along with a hammer, and nails, and picture hangers and everything else you might need to coordinate a move. (So then I brought my screwdriver from home, and it didn't work anyway, because like I said, it's pretty nice -- it wouldn't be that nice if any idiot with a hammer could just bust the lock.)<br />
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That's how the most efficiently-coordinated office move anyone's ever seen turned into The Move That Wrecked Everyone's Labor Day Weekend (racking up a minimum of 47 texts, emails... but no faxes...as expected, the phone company took a long time to move that line). Since then, the boys had a new key made (probably plaster molds were involved or something; I don't know, because I didn't even want to go to that office... where <i>everything was ruined</i>. <b><i>Ruined</i></b>.) <br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;">O</span>ne of my cousins -- a former college basketball player and later a high school coach -- used to sense my resistance to change or disruption even when I was a little kid, as he witnessed more than one of my go-to-pieces if I stepped too far outside my routines (the holiday weekend I spent throwing up in his parents' bathroom comes to mind). Feeling a kinship, I imagine, he'd reassure me with stories of how his own life was so tightly wound, so finely calibrated, that if so much as a bug hit his windshield, it was all over. For some reason, this soothed me.<br />
<br />
He managed to stay married to the same woman his whole life; raise a big family; and coach a winning team. I certainly looked up to him, and while I wouldn't consider the fact that he dropped dead of a heart attack at the age of 50 the mark of an <i>unsuccessful</i> life, I would acknowledge it might be a less-than-rousing endorsement of our family's tendency towards the... high strung.<br />
<br />
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<a href="http://realitytruck.blogspot.com/2010/02/why-i-live-at-disco-kroger.html">Why I Live at the Disco Kroger</a><br />
<a href="http://realitytruck.blogspot.com/2010/02/drivin-miz-daisy.html">Drivin' Miz Daisy</a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4014172403154803771.post-6163902819675357682011-09-06T17:03:00.000-07:002011-09-13T18:05:37.119-07:00Check Engine Light<a href="http://www.mbusa.com/vcm/MB/DigitalAssets/Vehicles/ClassLanding/2012/SL/Gallery/2012-SL-Class-SL550-Roadster-Gallery-002_GOE.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="112" src="http://www.mbusa.com/vcm/MB/DigitalAssets/Vehicles/ClassLanding/2012/SL/Gallery/2012-SL-Class-SL550-Roadster-Gallery-002_GOE.jpg" width="200" /></a><span style="font-size: large;">I</span>'m driving the husband-in-law's car today. Mostly because his has gas in it, and mine doesn't, plus my tires are low, and his aren't. Every time I try to put air in my tires, I let the air out instead, so it's a good idea if I don't do that.<br />
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When I dropped off my Mom for a doctor's visit in it, the only thing she said was, "for God's <i>sake</i>, don't <i>break</i> it. It probably cost more than you make in a <i>year.</i>" (I suspect she underestimates his car and overestimates my job.) He left the insurance card with the key though when he and my gay husband jetted off to Santorini, so I'm sure he's well covered. And I'm an excellent driver. Excellent, excellent driver.<br />
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I have to admit, it's darn sporty. Not to mention quick. As much as I've always loved my monstrous SUV, I bought it primarily to haul two monstrous dogs, who aren't around any more (God rest their souls). My friend Walt made no small amount of fun when I got it, marveling at how he'd never seen a straight girl so obsessed with large dogs and tow capacity. <br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7cJrRFD-mkMqeGdxb0PUB7lCo59zk-8mHnTrdpEr96iMEVo9OMN2KDJs9fnr6n5ZcYGTpCtZtbsbCqjwKgM7KQr_eaqU8loa-zp2wNgPyeLl5UB-t8u6qBvERflqA6IZkPuE9n72TUCc/s1600/ferrari.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7cJrRFD-mkMqeGdxb0PUB7lCo59zk-8mHnTrdpEr96iMEVo9OMN2KDJs9fnr6n5ZcYGTpCtZtbsbCqjwKgM7KQr_eaqU8loa-zp2wNgPyeLl5UB-t8u6qBvERflqA6IZkPuE9n72TUCc/s320/ferrari.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Push it. Push it real good.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>It's a little ...liberating...to hit the gas and not be dragging three tons of steel behind me for a change. And anyone could grow accustomed to the attention it gets. At first, I thought my new haircut was really working it, but then I realized that the men pulling up at traffic lights and whistling admiringly were actually pointing at the car. I had just forgotten I was driving it. I'm also guilty of forgetting the fact that it is a nice ride, because it's one of the few that could legitimately wear the bumper sticker that says, "my other car is a Ferrari." (And here it is a few Easters ago, captioned, as it usually is, with "Push It Real Good.")<br />
<br />
I could've been driving it if I'd really wanted the men-at-traffic-lights attention, but first, I would've had to get it started, and then I would've had to hope it would make it around the block. And while it's admittedly a beauty, it's a beast to drive. That's a high class problem, but it isn't my high class problem, because it isn't my car. But my general experience is that performance cars are just like those men, a lot of work. (Though everyone jokes that the guy I marry will have to wear a t-shirt that says, "my other husband has a Ferrari." And not one guy I have ever gone out with has thought that was one bit funny.) <br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">A</span>fter a summer plagued by mysterious "engine trouble," I have had to think about the much-dreaded day when it comes time to replace the old workhorse. This SUV is only the third car I've ever had. I don't choose them lightly. And my primary pre-occupation with them has always been, and always will be, does it start every single time I get in it, and will it take me from point A to point B without any unscheduled maintenance stops along the way? Nothing inspires me to fall apart faster than a breakdown. Will I be trapped? Can I walk from here? What if I can't get home? Do I have to live here now?<br />
<br />
I read Stephen King's story <a href="http://www.fulldarknostarsbook.com/big-driver">"Big Driver"</a> this summer -- all about the worst things that could ever happen to a woman stranded by car trouble -- and trust me, it's <i>nothing </i>compared to what goes through my head every time a transmission stutters. One of my girlfriends was driving her brand new convertible on a Chicago expressway this summer when everything suddenly and inexplicably died. Every instrument, gauge, and needle. Dead. Telling me the story, she said, "oh, I knew exactly what you'd have been thinking."<br />
<br />
"What?" I asked.<br />
<br />
"That I got ripped off. That I'd bought a lemon. That I should've taken you shopping with me."<br />
<br />
All good guesses (and all true), but nope. I'd have been thinking one thing when all the lights went out. "Nuclear winter."<br />
<br />
She clearly wasn't expecting that answer, but that would've been my go-to theory. That, or an alien invasion like <i>War of the Worlds</i>. I'm no scientist, but I know there's something about atomic bombs and aliens that kill the electromagnetic pulses, so yeah. That would've been my assumption. Humoring me, she acknowledged that, ok, that might've been ... plausible... except, she asked, "wouldn't you notice if all the cars<i> around</i> you kept going?" It's a testament to my sheer ability to catastrophize that <i>that </i>hadn't even occurred to me.<br />
<br />
I'd have to let go of some of those obsessions if I traded in my ultra-hardy survivalist four-wheel drive for some zippy little two-seater. I don't see it happening. <br />
<br />
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<a href="http://realitytruck.blogspot.com/2010/09/archives-june-17-2003-car-trouble.html">2003: Car Trouble </a><br />
<a href="http://realitytruck.blogspot.com/2010/03/my-first-car.html">My First Car </a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4014172403154803771.post-52114345008379603062011-07-24T20:13:00.000-07:002011-08-04T18:36:58.907-07:00Sweet 13<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgt9wX5-nYKDhS_8L5Mf-gKwUYix9qMHA0_DqBG7v8SJRe2kiCQ7S2YIcfJ22FqdHShovfXGqjPPVa60QwIbDQ8nMrNgPnF_Wu3BkYy6yheH5_Y_yTXuMPGiSXvqJblOmv15pBiuD4miGE/s1600/emmabirthday.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgt9wX5-nYKDhS_8L5Mf-gKwUYix9qMHA0_DqBG7v8SJRe2kiCQ7S2YIcfJ22FqdHShovfXGqjPPVa60QwIbDQ8nMrNgPnF_Wu3BkYy6yheH5_Y_yTXuMPGiSXvqJblOmv15pBiuD4miGE/s320/emmabirthday.jpg" width="236" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pank runs in the family. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>Today was my niece's SURPRISE 13th birthday party, but because it didn't start on time, the "surprise" aspect was desultory at best -- she was more or less greeted with a spectacularly halfhearted chorus of "oh, hey, look. She's here."<br />
<br />
This was thanks to the two babies who showed up a half hour late, thereby delaying the arrival of the Guest of Honor. Her Mom stalled her as best she could once she heard from the latecomers (texting me to make sure everyone had their drinks and had duly written our birthday wishes out for the ensuing scrapbook) and killing the mood outright. I think I got one photo of the birthday girl's "surprise."<br />
<br />
Thank God I was seated next to G'Uncle Mike, on my left, with whom I could trade sarcastic asides. Decades ago, he and I sat together (with his husband, the Late Great Reg) at the wedding that pre-dated our niece as well, so we have some history for smartass and not necessarily welcome observations. My mom was seated on my right, threatening me with dirty looks every time I opened my mouth. For some reason, she kept rejecting the guest book concept to the nice lady who came around with it, "I already <i>have</i> a card. And I wrote on THAT." She finally sat down with the glitter pen and wrote a short note, but she dodged it for most of the party -- I can only assume the concept or execution wasn't up to her rigorous Martha Stewart crafting standards, because usually she's a good sport about anything Family. <br />
<br />
My stepdad sat between us, and his significant hearing impairment ("deaf as a post"), combined with his social discomfort at being trapped in a roomful of people he didn't know well, meant everyone was treated to a series of uncomfortable pronouncements, all delivered at 72 decibels, including but not limited to, "SO WHOSE BABIES ARE THOSE ANYWAY? ARE THEY LESBIANS? YOU KNOW THAT DOES <b>NOT</b> BOTHER ME AT <b>ALL. </b>I WAS JUST <b>ASKING</b>," and "TELL ME AGAIN WHY THOSE TWO AREN'T SPEAKING?"<br />
<br />
(Great) Aunt Eleanor served as the de facto hostess, trying to make everyone comfortable, dispensing hand sanitizer to all of us, but explaining, "I'm sorry I don't know you all. I have facebook, but I don't understand it, so I never see all these pictures you all are talking about. And I can't afford Twitter." I thought maybe that was just an "expression," and tried to clarify helpfully, "but Twitter is free." She looked at me goodheartedly, as one would with simpler relatives, and said, "no dear, it isn't."<br />
<br />
The first thing I asked G'Uncle Mike when he sat down was, "are those kids related to you?" (gesturing to the din in the opposite corner). After reassuring me that he'd never seen them before in his life, he asked why I wanted to know, at which point I whispered into his ear, "<i>because they are <b>assholes.</b></i>" I was filling him in on how they'd showed up late (who shows up late to a children's SURPRISE birthday party? -- timing is everything -- even a stoopid baby knows that), when Emma's Mom somehow caught wind of the conversation and whirled around to shut it down. "You. All," she said in a voice that threatened she might separate us any minute, "That is NOT NICE." <br />
<br />
"Ahhhhh KNOW," was my response. "I texted you when that<i> first </i>baby walked in that they were being assholes, and I told you I was gonna be mean to them." Then I turned to Mike and said, "if these were <i>dogs,</i> you'd never reward them with all that attention; they get confused and think they should keep behaving badly."<br />
<br />
She added something along the lines of, "well let's just see how <i>you</i> handle it when you have two <i>babies</i>..." then trailed off, realizing the absurdity of what she'd said. <br />
<br />
About that time, Emma was hauling the twins around the room, as she showed off her loot. I gave her a Starbucks card, and felt virtuous about not tossing in a carton of smokes -- as her second Uncle Mike pointed out, "it<b> is </b>Kentucky." G'Uncle Mike had given her a wonderful ceramic from the Late Great Reg's collection, filled with angel pins (which we threatened to use to puncture the balloons the little kids were punching and kicking all over the room). I think we both nearly misted up thinking of the glee Reg would've enjoyed at us invoking his spirit in such a manner. <br />
<br />
Then he and I used the opportunity to remind Emma what a <i>wretched</i> baby she'd been -- crying all the time, at unimaginable volumes. "The Screamin' Demon," I'd affectionately called her. She didn't spend her first sleepover at my house til she was three (and by then she was a model child, and still is, though I am not optimistic about the teen years).<br />
<br />
Emma then carried the toddlers over to us and held them out, "would you like to meet...."<br />
<br />
"Nah," I said, pushing back from the table and raising my hands in the universal signal for "I'm good, Thanks." She then deposited one of them on my Mom's lap, where it promptly slumped over asleep (probably <i>exhausted </i>from all that <i>crying</i>). <br />
<br />
"YOU CAN'T KEEP IT," my stepdad admonished her. "WE'RE NOT TAKING IT HOME."<br />
<br />
Then my Mom leaned over and stage-whispered to me, "Stop being so ugly. Emma loves babies. That's why they're here." (It's true, she does and always has -- babysitting at every opportunity; approaching them at restaurants; creating imaginary baby families "The Butters," that accompanied her everywhere when she was little. All while I've tried to re-route her interests into technology, tiaras, academia... anything that I think might have a more productive outcome for her.)<br />
<br />
"Yeah," I said. "Indulge that, why don't you? Cause <i>that's</i> not gonna come back and bite her in the ass."<br />
<br />
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<a href="http://realitytruck.blogspot.com/2011/06/bye-bye-birdie.html">Bye Bye Birdie </a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4014172403154803771.post-77962258474116862652011-07-17T16:39:00.000-07:002011-07-17T16:44:44.864-07:00Active IngredientsI only get a really bad cold every few years or so, so when one hit last week, I didn't have any cold medicine in the house, specifically, Drixoral -- which I always found to be a pretty reliable over-the-counter remedy -- or actually behind-the-counter remedy. It's not a prescription, they just (presumably) don't want you to make meth with it.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgT0oXi9yaSrw3DMpz1iLl0OBLHTqpcd6i_wtCPw8zxKP030qDAzVlmpaVMxWntJJt9lsQJ2NXHj6O3fscgDohyphenhyphenhKkHkWexmZa1bHshYis7ekK4ew4H-Jr3quqbi1_2qwnoM6Xzo3PlCmE/s1600/dimetapp.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgT0oXi9yaSrw3DMpz1iLl0OBLHTqpcd6i_wtCPw8zxKP030qDAzVlmpaVMxWntJJt9lsQJ2NXHj6O3fscgDohyphenhyphenhKkHkWexmZa1bHshYis7ekK4ew4H-Jr3quqbi1_2qwnoM6Xzo3PlCmE/s320/dimetapp.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">fellow alum Lee described this July 4 photo as "a patriotic meth lab"</td></tr>
</tbody></table>By Day 2 of the recent plague, I conceded home remedy defeats and dragged myself to the corner drugstore to ask the pharmacist for it. He was a young, non-helpful guy, who just said, "never heard of it," and handed me a box of generic sudafed. Too worn out to argue or inquire further, I came home and googled it, only to find it's off the market, and has been for some time. I didn't know, because I'd only averaged a box every five years or so. <br />
<br />
Angry former customers had a <i>lot </i>to say about its removal, and I never did get a straight answer on the backstory, other than it might be possible to get some in Canada, and I noticed a few conspiracy theorists had some opinions about phantom lawsuits that they said were probably settled out of court under gag orders. <br />
<br />
Geez, what <i>do</i> they put in that stuff? Seriously. I needed to know, in the hopes of re-creating it. The active ingredients are dexbrompheniramine and brompheniramine, so the BFF was dispatched to the Disco Kroger in search of anything that contained those. She painstakingly read all the labels and came home with Children's Dimetapp, and an assortment of capsules filled with Dextromethorphan, Guaifenesin, and Phenylephrine. Or as the husband-in-law put it, "you've gone Breaking Bad."<br />
<br />
Because I didn't want to accidentally Heath-Ledger-it, I took out a little notebook and wrote down what I took and when I took it, observing the Dimetapp label that cautioned, "do not use to sedate a child or make a child sleepy." (That struck me as an advisory that might come in handy for the Moms I know.) Since it's designed for kids and didn't have a weight chart, I never did figure out the grown-up dose, which I suspect is a bottle a day. (I still have half a bottle left, so presumably I was taking less than Anna Nicole, which was what I was concerned about, since apparently I have a new phobia about celebrity overdoses, despite not being a celebrity, or a user of recreational drugs.)<br />
<br />
The next few days, I survived via regular deliveries of soup, juice, and cases of Posh Puffs (<i>with lotion</i> -- which I now know are completely worth the wild extravagance). It took a village, and then some. Nothing worked. By Day 5, I had even unearthed my Mom's stash of Vick's VapoRub and fashioned a "poultice" with hot towels straight out of the dryer. It was just like that episode of <i>Beverly Hillbillies</i> where Granny insisted that she'd found a cure for the cold, and everyone who took it discovered that "in a week or ten days, the cold was gone."<br />
<br />
All I know is, I had to sit out the July 4th funnelcakes and parades and festivals, making me feel exactly like I did when I was seven and came down with strep and had to miss the Christmas pageant. And I didn't even get the Lauren Bacall sexyvoice that usually accompanies the end of a cold. I just barked like a seal for a week, while eyeing (but never actually raiding) Cooper's kennel cough prescription.<br />
<br />
Somewhere along the way, in my Dimetapp fog, I did think "Active Ingredients" would be a great name for a band. But it turns out, that is a band. (And I feel bad for any of their fans who actually landed here.)Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4014172403154803771.post-80061280468254047732011-06-12T07:50:00.001-07:002012-04-20T14:59:09.240-07:00Bye Bye Birdie<span style="font-size: x-large;">I </span>don't want a bird. I think they're nasty, dirty, creepy, difficult pets. (Unless you have one, in which case, I'm sure it's lovely and probably not especially diseased at all). It's the sort of thing you expect to have some control over -- which pets live with you and which don't -- but that's not always the way.<br />
<br />
As we're in the process of transitioning an elderly relative into a residential, long-term care facility, the constant conversation has centered around "What will become of Baby?" She loves that bird, and while I really, really think the elderly should be allowed to take their pets with them to the old folks home, it isn't the way the world works (maybe it is at the high-end places, but this is merely a mid-range facility -- where, my guess is, the goal is to let you die in a clean bed, but nothing much more luxurious or extravagant than that).<br />
<br />
So, in the last week, my Mom has decided that Baby will come to live with them. I protested heartily. She has lung disease and is oxygen-dependent, and while I don't know much about birds, I am positive they are not for people with compromised immune systems and pulmonary ailments. When I conveyed all this concern to her, her response was, <i>"Bullshit. I'm going to keep him on the back porch."</i><br />
<br />
This sounded like a much, much worse plan. I might not <i>like </i>birds, but come ON. <br />
<br />
"Mom!" I said, "Baby will <b>die</b> on the back porch. It's a hundred degrees out there in the shade!"<br />
<br />
<i>"You kids worry too much about nothing,"</i> was her answer. <i>"It's screened in." </i><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">I</span>n the last couple decades of her life, my grandmother had a myna bird. It was a gift from my Uncle Bobby and Aunt Margie. I don't remember the details or circumstances of how he came to live with my grandmother, but he must have been more of a hand-me-down than a present, because the bird had been with them long enough to have adopted my Aunt Margie's voice, expressions, and manner of speaking. <br />
<br />
Whenever anyone came in the front door, he'd shout, "Hell-OOOooooo FELLaaaa," and then he'd cackle as if this was the funniest thing anyone had ever said. The unnerving part was that it was my Aunt Margie's very distinctive laugh. Then he'd bark like a dachshund.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-H47sV6kANkFhCdhNgVbWLNoDvcXP79xCb-Y04G3z1hIdQDxymXqsPe-gc_I7wKUC3E-7Gwoj5qIsQQwOcTmgIbAUrs4OCi4Irwq4DqViRCK9HlAovKRegQlFuWLndfbHFz1YnJAmR-o/s1600/mynabird.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-H47sV6kANkFhCdhNgVbWLNoDvcXP79xCb-Y04G3z1hIdQDxymXqsPe-gc_I7wKUC3E-7Gwoj5qIsQQwOcTmgIbAUrs4OCi4Irwq4DqViRCK9HlAovKRegQlFuWLndfbHFz1YnJAmR-o/s1600/mynabird.jpg" /></a></div>He had another few stock phrases (I don't know how gifted myna birds are supposed to be), but the main one was, "Stop it Big Dog! Stop! Stop!" Big Dog was the name of a long succession of miniature dachshunds that belonged to Uncle Bobby. (Or as we call them in my family, Dash Hounds.) I think there were four or five of them, but they weren't even named according to their sequence (Big Dog 2, or Big Dog Four). One would die, and then another one would turn up, and he would henceforth be known as Big Dog, with no memory or acknowledgment of the ones who came before him. I imagine "Stop it Big Dog!" was a constant expression in their house, but I mostly remember my very large, barrel-chested, gravel-voiced Uncle tipping him on his back and cradling him like a baby, while laughing and growling, "Bite Easy, BigDog! Bite easy!" as the dog pawed the air impotently and gnawed bad-naturedly on his giant fist.<br />
<br />
I always thought that my uncle's Joe Cocker-like voice would've been far more amusing coming from a bird, but for whatever reason, he used my aunt's voice instead. I assume they only have so much range.<br />
<br />
Uncle Bobby was a truck driver, and each of these dogs would be his faithful cab companion. On his travels, he smoked and collected pipes (which smelled fantastic and permeated the whole house whenever he visited), and the one I remember best had an ivory bowl carved into the shape of a naked mermaid, the kind you'd see on the prow of a ship. My grandmother did not approve of it. She didn't much care for the dogs either -- or any kind of pet -- so how we ended up with these people's bird, I'm really not sure. Pets are a fairly unsentimental commodity on a farm -- one she had little patience for -- but she was genuinely fond of that bird. (Their sons had a brief and disastrous history with spider monkeys for awhile, and thank God we didn't inherit those. The monkeys were followed by a series of temperamental Afghan hounds.) <br />
<br />
When the bird arrived, his name was Bill, but he couldn't keep that name because he shared it with my youngest uncle who'd died tragically in his 30s (oddly, no reminders of him were allowed in the house at all; I guess it was just too sad), so the bird became Little Joe. Or L'il Joe. No one really called him that though. No one really called him anything. <br />
<br />
At night time his cage was covered with a king-size orange sheet from Sears, but if the grownups were out of the house, he spent considerably longer periods of time under it. "Goooood NIGHT, Nasty Bird," I'd say as the sheet came billowing down around his cage and I flipped on the TV, then flopped down on the sofa for <i>Days of Our Lives</i>.<br />
<br />
"Hellloooooooo Fella!" he'd respond optimistically.<br />
<br />
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<a href="http://realitytruck.blogspot.com/2010/03/they-might-be-giants.html">They Might Be Giants</a><br />
<a href="http://realitytruck.blogspot.com/2011/06/mom-talk-pretty-one-day.html">Mom Talk Pretty One Day </a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4014172403154803771.post-25817490287640786552011-06-03T18:39:00.001-07:002012-04-20T14:59:53.351-07:00Mom Talk Pretty One Day<i>"I went to France the following summer knowing only the word for 'bottleneck.' I said 'bottleneck' at the airport, 'bottleneck' on the train to Normandy...I'd hoped the language might come on its own, the way it comes to babies, but people don't talk to foreigners the way they talk to babies. They don't hypnotize you with bright objects and repeat the same words over and over..."</i><br />
<div style="text-align: right;">--<b>David Sedaris</b>, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Me-Talk-Pretty-One-Day/dp/0316776963?ie=UTF8&tag=AceW-20&link_code=btl&camp=213689&creative=392969" target="_blank">Me Talk Pretty One Day</a><img alt="" border="0" height="1" src="http://www.assoc-amazon.com/e/ir?t=AceW-20&l=btl&camp=213689&creative=392969&o=1&a=0316776963" style="border: medium none ! important; margin: 0px ! important; padding: 0px ! important;" width="1" /></div><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">M</span>y Mom is not my friend on facebook. She doesn't use it enough for us to actually communicate with it, so instead, she calls once a week or so, and fills me in on The Family in the 60 second version. The conversation rarely lasts longer than that, because as she puts it matter-of-factly, "I DON'T WANT TO USE UP MY MINUTES!" (What if someone better called and she'd wasted a conversation on me?) She'd never call me on her land line because "it's long distance!" This way, I only get the Readers' Digest version of what's going on with my relatives. Most updates include some variation on "she's out of her mind," followed by stern instructions: "don't you EVER let me get like that." (Uhhhhh. Might need more specific instruction than that.)<br />
<br />
On Mother's Day, I went with her to visit one of our elderly cousins, and innocently observed with mild, but cheerful surprise on the walk out to the car, "she seemed pretty sharp." The answer was, "That just shows what you know. She sits in that chair all day and talks to that damn bird. She won't read a book. She never even turns on the television." (She did talk to the bird the whole time we were there, but if talking to pets was the criteria for institutionalization, I would barely know anyone this side of the walls.)<br />
<br />
After Mother's Day, I posted a few pictures from the day on her facebook page, which was followed by texts to me from my cousins wondering why my Mom won't be their friend, or why she never answers their messages. <br />
<br />
I waded back into her account with the idea of responding to everyone, and as I roamed around, I was actually impressed to discover she has obviously been putting some effort into it. Everything about social media that I think of as second nature, I remind myself is a foreign language to most of her generation. (There's no room for Smug here: the first computer I ever touched was a Radio Shack TRS-80 that someone had handed down to the nuns, and I could never even figure out how to turn it on. Many years later, I was the first person in my office to insist this email thing was "a mess" that would "never catch on," and everybody better just stick to turning in their work to me on DISKS the way God intended).<br />
<br />
I was proud of all her hard work, but the net results would be the same if you found me trying to translate a french newspaper on facebook; it's a strange, hybrid, baby-speak that sounds absolutely nothing like her.<br />
<br />
I can see that she is trying to communicate with her friends via her wall, with brief missives like these:<br />
<br />
<i>"ok. ken. i'am here."</i><br />
<br />
and<br />
<br />
<i>"i just wanted to see if i am getting anywhere with this silly thing. been sitting here for hours."</i> This statement is inexplicably linked to a youtube clip of Jimmy Kimmel, Guilty Dog.<br />
<br />
Then there is a post from me, "Hi Janet, Mom can't seem to figure out her facebook. She's doing great -- we just had a big dinner. "<br />
<br />
Below that, she has written a note, <i>"i am in town and trying to find a way onto my page but it keeps eluding me so at ten twenty i am going to bed!!! one day i will throw it out the window. if i happen to email you, hi! hope you are well!"</i> This is paired with a link to google's page for "suggestions on navigation errors." <br />
<br />
Then she posts an answer to my cousin Marie's question as to how she was doing. <i>"in town again. not too much longer to go. good. getting very tired. what is a thumbnail? i don't have one i guess. the computer says so anyway. GOODNIGHT WHOEVER YOU ARE!!!"</i><br />
<br />
An earlier statement reads, <i>"i am alive and well. i am not trying to ignore anyone just do not know what i am doing. keep trying. i'll figure it out someday." </i>This is linked to a google search of facebook.com, which turns up all the people on facebook with the same name as her.<br />
<br />
The last time I clicked to open her gmail for her, it inexplicably opened up into the email account for a strange name and a person I didn't know. "Mom, who is Mark?" Mark is a man they go to church with. "Why is his email on this laptop." She didn't know. As I clicked around, she eventually remembered that he had been trying to help her open her facebook one day after mass. My eventual conclusion was that he had, at some point, opened his email on her machine and inadvertently saved his password there. After logging out of his account, I asked her if she had accidentally been reading his email.<br />
<br />
<i>"Oh sure,"</i> she said, shamelessly. <i>"I read it all."</i><br />
<br />
Didn't she notice none of it was intended for her?<br />
<br />
<i>"Well, yeah. It was mostly these love letters back and forth between him and Annie."</i><br />
<br />
Didn't she consider this an incredible invasion of privacy?<br />
<br />
<i>"Nahhhh. He's married to her now." </i><br />
<br />
I asked her last night if she'd seen any of my brother's emailed pictures from his last trip. She hadn't, because she said, <i>"my email won't open anymore. But Mark and Annie's popped up on there the other night, so I've just been reading theirs instead." </i><br />
<br />
Prodded as to how she managed to consistently load their email, instead of her own, she answered, nonplussed, <i>"I don't know. I guess I'm a hacker. Isn't that what you kids call it?"</i><br />
<br />
<br />
At least my parents will never be one of those scandalous couples who ends up on <i>Dr. Phil </i>because they reunited with their high school sweethearts on facebook. Any hot senior singles with mischief on their minds are going to have to come right to the front door and knock on it. (They don't know how to check their voicemail either.)<br />
<br />
It reminds me very much of David Sedaris's french class where everyone had to explain Easter to non-Americans: "He call his self Jesus and then he die one day on two...morsels of....lumber..."<br />
<br />
Sounds about right.<br />
<br />
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