Who roasts chestnuts on an open pit
Jack Daniels nipping at your throats
Annoying carols being sung by the kids
Why are they dressed like eskimos?
Everybody knows the turkey and the pumpkin pie
Help to make your stomach burn
Tiny tots with their fists full of junk
Will find it hard to stop their yearn
We all know regret is on it’s way
For all the drunk talk we’ve displayed
And every mother’s child is going to cry
To find out reindeer really don’t know how to fly
And so I’m offering this simple phrase
To each and every one of you
You’ve heard it before, and you’ll hear it again
Freaking Christmas, F you.
Wednesday, December 22, 2010
Monday, December 20, 2010
Our New Dog
Our New Dog
Turns out we have a new dog. Hasn’t been 24 hours yet, but already it seems like the act of getting a new dog and bringing him into the house is symbolic for the state of things.
Let me explain.
Facebook Obsessive: I pretty much start my day with it. I love being connected to a greater world. Just as I wouldn’t like living in a house isolated from neighbors, I don’t like being disconnected from most of the wonderful souls I’ve met over my many years. So, having a sentence here, a quip there is deeply satisfying to me. Toward that end, I saw a posting from an old camp buddy (Leadership 71) about a dog who needed adopting. Dan has hinted that he might want another dog, and I have some notion that even Buffy the wonder dog might like a friend. So, I clicked on Shelley’s dog picture, saw the video and something just called out to me that this should be the one.
Spontaneity: Despite the fact that we had Taper tickets for 6:30 that evening, and the fact that the shelter housing the dog (just before executing it) was in Baldwin Park instead of Baldwin Hills (the difference of about 90 minutes driving time), and that it’s raining cats AND dogs, and that we’re going out of town this weekend, I had to go immediately to the shelter to see if this “Rocky” was still there. He could have been adopted already, but if he wasn’t, he wouldn’t have much time left on his life clock. So, Milly and I bundled up, (she may learn to wear an appropriate rain coat someday), sloshed our way across the county and got to the shelter in time to save “Rocky”.
Determination: I wanted this dog. When we got to the shelter and walked down the row of cages, it sort of broke my heart to see all the unwanted dogs. For the shelter, I can at least say that the concrete floor was warm and toasty. At first, “Rocky” was too shy to come out of his cage to see us. But, he did. We went outside to the outdoor greeting pen, and while he still seemed shy and hesitant, he did let us pet him and talk to him, and he won our hearts.
Gut over Mind Chatter: I was going on impulse here. I was a little nervous. My head chatter went a little nuts: what will Buffy feel, is this too big a dog for me, can we really manage two, will it be ok if we go away for a couple days over Christmas, buffy is a perfect dog, what if this one isn’t, what if he seems nice now, but goes nuts on us, dan is great with dogs, but he’s gone during the day, will I really be able to handle what comes up, will Buffy be mad, or will she accept having a friend, other people manage two dogs just fine.
Positive over Doubt: On the ride home, Milly sat in the back with “Rocky”. She toweled him off, talked with him, held the leash as he stuck his nose out the window. The above mentioned chatter was still yakking away, but I was still determined to find out if this would work. Excitement prevailed over doom.
Reality: All evidence points to this will work. Despite the fact that much more of the rain is now in the house than out, and despite the fact that Buffy shows more protective possessiveness over her food than ever, despite the fact that this is a BIG dog, despite the fact that we can’t all agree over a name and have to tell Milly that she doesn’t get the final vote on that, and despite the fact that all the answers aren’t answered yet, I think it’s going to work out well.
The final feather in the cap, this dog seems to have imprinted on me like a lost baby goose who has laid eyes on me after his mother died. He follows me around everywhere. He seems smart enough to know how to put me at ease. He’s affectionate, respectful, mellow, and loving.
We’ll see what happens when the mailman shows up.
I’m leaning towards “Juneau.”
Ah, the saving of a dog.
Turns out we have a new dog. Hasn’t been 24 hours yet, but already it seems like the act of getting a new dog and bringing him into the house is symbolic for the state of things.
Let me explain.
Facebook Obsessive: I pretty much start my day with it. I love being connected to a greater world. Just as I wouldn’t like living in a house isolated from neighbors, I don’t like being disconnected from most of the wonderful souls I’ve met over my many years. So, having a sentence here, a quip there is deeply satisfying to me. Toward that end, I saw a posting from an old camp buddy (Leadership 71) about a dog who needed adopting. Dan has hinted that he might want another dog, and I have some notion that even Buffy the wonder dog might like a friend. So, I clicked on Shelley’s dog picture, saw the video and something just called out to me that this should be the one.
Spontaneity: Despite the fact that we had Taper tickets for 6:30 that evening, and the fact that the shelter housing the dog (just before executing it) was in Baldwin Park instead of Baldwin Hills (the difference of about 90 minutes driving time), and that it’s raining cats AND dogs, and that we’re going out of town this weekend, I had to go immediately to the shelter to see if this “Rocky” was still there. He could have been adopted already, but if he wasn’t, he wouldn’t have much time left on his life clock. So, Milly and I bundled up, (she may learn to wear an appropriate rain coat someday), sloshed our way across the county and got to the shelter in time to save “Rocky”.
Determination: I wanted this dog. When we got to the shelter and walked down the row of cages, it sort of broke my heart to see all the unwanted dogs. For the shelter, I can at least say that the concrete floor was warm and toasty. At first, “Rocky” was too shy to come out of his cage to see us. But, he did. We went outside to the outdoor greeting pen, and while he still seemed shy and hesitant, he did let us pet him and talk to him, and he won our hearts.
Gut over Mind Chatter: I was going on impulse here. I was a little nervous. My head chatter went a little nuts: what will Buffy feel, is this too big a dog for me, can we really manage two, will it be ok if we go away for a couple days over Christmas, buffy is a perfect dog, what if this one isn’t, what if he seems nice now, but goes nuts on us, dan is great with dogs, but he’s gone during the day, will I really be able to handle what comes up, will Buffy be mad, or will she accept having a friend, other people manage two dogs just fine.
Positive over Doubt: On the ride home, Milly sat in the back with “Rocky”. She toweled him off, talked with him, held the leash as he stuck his nose out the window. The above mentioned chatter was still yakking away, but I was still determined to find out if this would work. Excitement prevailed over doom.
Reality: All evidence points to this will work. Despite the fact that much more of the rain is now in the house than out, and despite the fact that Buffy shows more protective possessiveness over her food than ever, despite the fact that this is a BIG dog, despite the fact that we can’t all agree over a name and have to tell Milly that she doesn’t get the final vote on that, and despite the fact that all the answers aren’t answered yet, I think it’s going to work out well.
The final feather in the cap, this dog seems to have imprinted on me like a lost baby goose who has laid eyes on me after his mother died. He follows me around everywhere. He seems smart enough to know how to put me at ease. He’s affectionate, respectful, mellow, and loving.
We’ll see what happens when the mailman shows up.
I’m leaning towards “Juneau.”
Ah, the saving of a dog.
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
procrastination and avoidance
My head was spinning just now, so I decided to do a real time brain slice of what it's like to be me while I avoid something.
It's 10:23. I've checked my email, Facebook, Google News, Amazon deal of the day. I've gotten Milly off to school (2 hours ago) and taken Alice to Spencers, back home to get the flash cards she forgot for her critical philosophy test and back to New Roads by 10. Upon returing home the thought process goes something like this:
I should get some exercise. Milly doesn't get home til 1:15, and all I have to do is make an Asian salad for the teacher luncheon at her school for tomorrow. I have all the ingredients, I don't even have to go to the market.
I want to color my hair. It's short, it should be easy. 40 minutes tops. But maybe I should try and do a weave type color so that I can let it grow out longer before I have to color it again. That would take considerably longer.
Ok, so I can do the hair, either way, after I get some exercise. Should I take a one hour hike up Temescal to the Waterfall? That sort of gets me into better shape so that I can start taking hikes with Dan up to the peak. But the waterfall hike is an hour.
Maybe I should just go up the hill loop which only takes 1/2 hour. That way I could take Buffy and kill two birds with one stone.
What if I didn't do anything exercise wise? I'm still in my pajamas after all. (yes I have succumbed to the temptation to taking Alice to school in my pajamas. I put on real shoes though). After all, I walked and lifted weights yesterday. My muscles have that good worked out, almost sore, but not feeling.
But if I don't walk now, or hike, I won't be on my way to the goal of 30 minutes a day 5 times a week. Is that my goal? Yes. Not very good at getting there.
So, if I do the shorter walk, come home and do my hair, make the salad, read a little, have lunch, I'll be all done by the time Milly gets home from her shortened day at 1:15.
Do I dare post this and reveal what a true slough I am?
Maybe it will make you feel better about yourself.
Regardless, it's now 10:31 and I'm getting dressed to take Buffy up the hill.
It's 10:23. I've checked my email, Facebook, Google News, Amazon deal of the day. I've gotten Milly off to school (2 hours ago) and taken Alice to Spencers, back home to get the flash cards she forgot for her critical philosophy test and back to New Roads by 10. Upon returing home the thought process goes something like this:
I should get some exercise. Milly doesn't get home til 1:15, and all I have to do is make an Asian salad for the teacher luncheon at her school for tomorrow. I have all the ingredients, I don't even have to go to the market.
I want to color my hair. It's short, it should be easy. 40 minutes tops. But maybe I should try and do a weave type color so that I can let it grow out longer before I have to color it again. That would take considerably longer.
Ok, so I can do the hair, either way, after I get some exercise. Should I take a one hour hike up Temescal to the Waterfall? That sort of gets me into better shape so that I can start taking hikes with Dan up to the peak. But the waterfall hike is an hour.
Maybe I should just go up the hill loop which only takes 1/2 hour. That way I could take Buffy and kill two birds with one stone.
What if I didn't do anything exercise wise? I'm still in my pajamas after all. (yes I have succumbed to the temptation to taking Alice to school in my pajamas. I put on real shoes though). After all, I walked and lifted weights yesterday. My muscles have that good worked out, almost sore, but not feeling.
But if I don't walk now, or hike, I won't be on my way to the goal of 30 minutes a day 5 times a week. Is that my goal? Yes. Not very good at getting there.
So, if I do the shorter walk, come home and do my hair, make the salad, read a little, have lunch, I'll be all done by the time Milly gets home from her shortened day at 1:15.
Do I dare post this and reveal what a true slough I am?
Maybe it will make you feel better about yourself.
Regardless, it's now 10:31 and I'm getting dressed to take Buffy up the hill.
Sunday, October 17, 2010
The Day I Met Sam Wanamaker
Performing was my second language. I’d been acting (unofficially) since I was 4. I took it upon myself to entertain my family, my cousins, guests who came to visit, and to the chagrin of my teachers, my classmates as well. I made it official in college and graduate school, earning a BA in theater and an MBA in Non Profit Arts Management.
When it came time to finish my MBA, we all scrambled to interview and achieve “placement.” I got a call one day from the head of my program that the famous actor Sam Wanamaker was in Los Angeles interviewing candidates to head a Los Angeles fund raising office for the rebuilding of the original Globe Theater in London. I was thrilled. I can’t seem to remember why I held Sam Wanamaker in such high esteem, but I did. He was as holy to me as Gregory Peck, just not as universally known. And while I didn’t consider myself a Shakespeare aficionado, the idea of replicating the Globe Theater on its original London site was intoxicating. I made an appointment.
The day of the interview arrived, and I was spot on time. The temporary office they’d acquired was in the mostly unoccupied Dart Drugstore building opposite the livelier Beverly Center. A security guard led me through the empty corridors to Mr. Wanamaker’s suite. He greeted me and showed me the small, sparse office. His handshake was warm, his smile infectious. He suggested we head over to a small cafe across the street to start our interview over coffee. Eloquently describing his dream to rebuild the Globe and how he came to his deep passion for Shakespeare, I was mesmerized. Sometimes my admiration for celebrities renders me mute, but I was alive with enthusiasm for this project. I was energized and was able to contribute easily to the conversation. I think I conveyed a sense of my capabilities, my general enthusiasm and verve.
While we were talking, I was aware of not wanting to have too much coffee. I didn’t want to seem jittery or nervous. (More than I already was.) So I cut the caffeine, and drank cup after cup of water to keep pace with his endless thirst for tea. Two pots I think. I was in heaven. There was nowhere else in this world I wanted to be.
But then, we headed back over to the office building. Again the security guard met us at the door, and walked us back to the office. It seems Mr. Wanamker didn’t have keys to anything. He needed an office manager, a keeper of the keys so to speak. I so wanted to be it. We’d been talking for about an hour by now and hadn’t run out of things to say. But, the coffee and water were catching up to me. I had to pee. I thought about the fact that I’d have to go find the security guard, to open the facilities. Or worse yet, ask the famous, fabulous Mr. W to find the security guard and have him open the bathroom for me. For some reason, I couldn’t do that. I was too shy. The idea of having the elegant, debonair Sam Wanamaker take me to the bathroom was, well, it was unthinkable. So I kept quiet and continued my conversation. As the minutes ticked by, my abdomen was starting to ache. My eyes were watering. My thoughts were drifting off the project, leaving London and badgering me with how uncomfortable I was becoming. Instead of singing my own praises, I was weighing the cost benefit of staying and talking and possibly impressing, with the definite likelihood that I would eventually pee in my pants. Not so impressive.
So, I conjured up a reason to leave and lied about having a subsequent appointment. (It was Sunday.) While I would have liked to have lingered in saying goodbye, and let him know how excited I was by the prospect of working with him, and helping to make this dream a reality, I shook hands and said farewell. I walked as quickly as I could to the exit, thankful that I could open the door myself without summoning the guard. I got into my car, screeched out of the parking lot and raced to the closest gas station.
Even now, 20 years later, I cannot pass that particular gas station (La Cienega and Olympic) without thinking of the job that got away. When the Globe finally opened 10 years later, 4 years after Mr. Wanamaker had passed away, I thought of what might have been. When I was in London last year I toured the Globe. I stood on the historic site, in the open air round theater, imagining a scene played in Shakespeare’s time. The tears in my eyes this time were a mixture of happiness to see it, sadness that Sam Wanamaker hadn’t lived to realize it, and yikes, I had to pee again.
When it came time to finish my MBA, we all scrambled to interview and achieve “placement.” I got a call one day from the head of my program that the famous actor Sam Wanamaker was in Los Angeles interviewing candidates to head a Los Angeles fund raising office for the rebuilding of the original Globe Theater in London. I was thrilled. I can’t seem to remember why I held Sam Wanamaker in such high esteem, but I did. He was as holy to me as Gregory Peck, just not as universally known. And while I didn’t consider myself a Shakespeare aficionado, the idea of replicating the Globe Theater on its original London site was intoxicating. I made an appointment.
The day of the interview arrived, and I was spot on time. The temporary office they’d acquired was in the mostly unoccupied Dart Drugstore building opposite the livelier Beverly Center. A security guard led me through the empty corridors to Mr. Wanamaker’s suite. He greeted me and showed me the small, sparse office. His handshake was warm, his smile infectious. He suggested we head over to a small cafe across the street to start our interview over coffee. Eloquently describing his dream to rebuild the Globe and how he came to his deep passion for Shakespeare, I was mesmerized. Sometimes my admiration for celebrities renders me mute, but I was alive with enthusiasm for this project. I was energized and was able to contribute easily to the conversation. I think I conveyed a sense of my capabilities, my general enthusiasm and verve.
While we were talking, I was aware of not wanting to have too much coffee. I didn’t want to seem jittery or nervous. (More than I already was.) So I cut the caffeine, and drank cup after cup of water to keep pace with his endless thirst for tea. Two pots I think. I was in heaven. There was nowhere else in this world I wanted to be.
But then, we headed back over to the office building. Again the security guard met us at the door, and walked us back to the office. It seems Mr. Wanamker didn’t have keys to anything. He needed an office manager, a keeper of the keys so to speak. I so wanted to be it. We’d been talking for about an hour by now and hadn’t run out of things to say. But, the coffee and water were catching up to me. I had to pee. I thought about the fact that I’d have to go find the security guard, to open the facilities. Or worse yet, ask the famous, fabulous Mr. W to find the security guard and have him open the bathroom for me. For some reason, I couldn’t do that. I was too shy. The idea of having the elegant, debonair Sam Wanamaker take me to the bathroom was, well, it was unthinkable. So I kept quiet and continued my conversation. As the minutes ticked by, my abdomen was starting to ache. My eyes were watering. My thoughts were drifting off the project, leaving London and badgering me with how uncomfortable I was becoming. Instead of singing my own praises, I was weighing the cost benefit of staying and talking and possibly impressing, with the definite likelihood that I would eventually pee in my pants. Not so impressive.
So, I conjured up a reason to leave and lied about having a subsequent appointment. (It was Sunday.) While I would have liked to have lingered in saying goodbye, and let him know how excited I was by the prospect of working with him, and helping to make this dream a reality, I shook hands and said farewell. I walked as quickly as I could to the exit, thankful that I could open the door myself without summoning the guard. I got into my car, screeched out of the parking lot and raced to the closest gas station.
Even now, 20 years later, I cannot pass that particular gas station (La Cienega and Olympic) without thinking of the job that got away. When the Globe finally opened 10 years later, 4 years after Mr. Wanamaker had passed away, I thought of what might have been. When I was in London last year I toured the Globe. I stood on the historic site, in the open air round theater, imagining a scene played in Shakespeare’s time. The tears in my eyes this time were a mixture of happiness to see it, sadness that Sam Wanamaker hadn’t lived to realize it, and yikes, I had to pee again.
Writing Assignment - Describe someone you love without using adjectives
Exhausted from the ordeal, she lay on the bed in the recovery room. She called out for her husband, but her voice didn’t carry. No one answered. She opened and closed her eyes several times, not able to make sense of the time of day. She wanted water. She wanted to know where her baby was.
She wiped a tear from her cheek, heard a door open and turned her head to see. Standing at the doorway was her husband with a bundle of blankets in his arms. He looked at her and walked toward her. His gaze never strayed. The mask still covered his face, but she could see him smiling.
When he reached her side, he lowered the load onto her chest. He raised the head of the bed so she could see. As he transferred the weight, their hands embraced. But her eyes were locked onto the eyes before her. Her arms wrapped and pulled, and her breath stilled. She thought of the name they’d decided upon. Isak. In Hebrew it means one who laughs. She smiled, imagining the years to come. Isak’s eyes were trained on her, gazing in.
In the background she heard her husband calling the grandparents, making the announcement they’d been anticipating. She felt her heart surge, then settle back. She turned on her side, tucked the baby into the space between her arm and her chest, her head cresting at the bend of her elbow. Now the baby’s breath puffed onto her skin. Her eyelids fluttered shut. Life would be different from now on. From now on, this life would come before all others. This child would dominate her attention, her emotions and time. She shut her own eyes and drifted off.
She wiped a tear from her cheek, heard a door open and turned her head to see. Standing at the doorway was her husband with a bundle of blankets in his arms. He looked at her and walked toward her. His gaze never strayed. The mask still covered his face, but she could see him smiling.
When he reached her side, he lowered the load onto her chest. He raised the head of the bed so she could see. As he transferred the weight, their hands embraced. But her eyes were locked onto the eyes before her. Her arms wrapped and pulled, and her breath stilled. She thought of the name they’d decided upon. Isak. In Hebrew it means one who laughs. She smiled, imagining the years to come. Isak’s eyes were trained on her, gazing in.
In the background she heard her husband calling the grandparents, making the announcement they’d been anticipating. She felt her heart surge, then settle back. She turned on her side, tucked the baby into the space between her arm and her chest, her head cresting at the bend of her elbow. Now the baby’s breath puffed onto her skin. Her eyelids fluttered shut. Life would be different from now on. From now on, this life would come before all others. This child would dominate her attention, her emotions and time. She shut her own eyes and drifted off.
Thursday, September 30, 2010
THE FUCKET LIST
The Fucket List
We are all influenced by pop culture. Who didn’t want to go out and adopt a homeless football player after seeing “The Blind Side”? And how many of you got your golden labs after seeing “Marley and Me”?
It was no different with the wonderful film, “The Bucket List”, starring those icons of inspiration, Jack Nicholas and Morgan Freeman as two old guys facing terminal illnesses who goad each other into accomplishing some long held fantasies as they stared down that long tunnel with the white light at the end. It inspired lots of people to do the same, but to not wait till staring down the barrel of termination. There are now scores of books you can read in case you can’t figure out how to make your own Bucket List; 1001 places to visit before you die, books to read, foods to eat, movies to see, horror movies to see, etc.
Mass trends inspire me,sometimes. But just as easily, I can get contrarily inspired by what I see as the mindlessness of trend following. I was therefore inspired during one of my frequent visits to insomnialand to create my own list. Introducing THE FUCKET LIST. 10 incredible things I’ll be just as happy to never do before I die.
1. GO TO PHUCKET (THAILAND)
Once a typhoon destination, always a risk of being a typhoon destination again. I get that it’s exotic, and gorgeous, and the culture is amazing. But whoever says that lightning doesn’t strike twice is being naively optimistic. Just ask the Boy Scouts at Jamboree Camp in 1975. There were unfortunately several fatalities due to lightning over the course of just a few months. So, I’ll have to get my beach on in Hawaii. I know a typhoon could hit there too, but somehow it feels safer.
2. TREK TO NEPAL
I get altitude sickness. Enough said.
3. SKI DOWN THE MATTERHORN
Or Big Bear for that matter. I don’t like going down hill fast. I don’t like knowing that 5 year olds can snow plough, but I can’t. If stopping weren’t an issue, I imagine the whooshing and the gliding part would be enjoyable. But stopping IS an issue, so the whooshing and the gliding part are more than a little terrifying. When people try and push me on this, I ask, why would I want to develop an expensive habit that I don’t really care for? Besides that, there’s the schlepping, and the loading on of layers, and the sweating, and the shedding of those layers, and the nose running, and the crowds. I find the Matterhorn at Disneyland thrilling enough. That snow isn’t even cold.
4. BACKPACK ACROSS ASIA
For one thing, Asia is a large continent. For another, I’m not a big fan of camping altogether. Truth be told, I’m not even so fond of sunshine or with being all out in nature. Carrying your food, your housing, your bathroom, your water, and your creature comforts in a pack has a cumulative negative effect on my mood, not to mention my shoulders. I think there’s a reason we evolved into houses with walls. Separating from the elements is civilizational progress. I would hike between huts if they came with beds, flush toilets and food, but where’s that going to happen?
5. TRAVEL ANYWHERE WITHOUT FLUSH TOILETS
I thought about giving an example of why this is so, but it grosses me out so much, I just couldn’t. Obviously peeing is not so bad. Heck, I’ve peed into a cup in the front seat of my car before (not that that went so well), but, well, you know.
6. WALK UP THE EIFFEL TOWER
What happened, did the elevators break down?
7. SKYDIVE OR BUNGEE JUMP
As much as I like speed, and the wind rushing through my hair and all that, here’s what I know. The instant both feet left the platform, I would have a heart attack, and feel myself dying in the slow, long 5 seconds of the plunge. I would, however, watch others jumping. I thought once that just watching would give me a heart attack, but that turned out to be untrue. My Mother, on the other hand, couldn’t even watch. It's genetic apparently.
8. HAVE A DRINK WITH THE PRESIDENT
There’s just no way that would turn out well. I would always know that I was nervous, and he was just being polite, and it would be awkward, and I would probably have huge regrets after for all the things I could have said or asked but didn’t.
9. SWIM WITH SHARKS
I’ve probably already done this. I think that by doing it without knowing it is all I can hope for. If I’d been AWARE of it at the time, I think they would have smelled my fear and consumed me immediately. And even though I’ve read “The Worst Case Scenario Handbook”, I’m still confused as to whether you are supposed to defend yourself by hitting them in the snout or the eye. So, better I should focus on a dolphin or sea turtle instead.
10. FINISH THIS LIST
I think you get the idea. Making lists of this kind is someone else's concept. I'm just making a point.
In closing, I wouldn’t want you to think I’m against goal setting, or planning challenging adventures. It’s just that I know what my parameters are, and will feel just as comfortable if I honor those while I live my life before I die. After all, a life lived well is personal, isn’t it?
We are all influenced by pop culture. Who didn’t want to go out and adopt a homeless football player after seeing “The Blind Side”? And how many of you got your golden labs after seeing “Marley and Me”?
It was no different with the wonderful film, “The Bucket List”, starring those icons of inspiration, Jack Nicholas and Morgan Freeman as two old guys facing terminal illnesses who goad each other into accomplishing some long held fantasies as they stared down that long tunnel with the white light at the end. It inspired lots of people to do the same, but to not wait till staring down the barrel of termination. There are now scores of books you can read in case you can’t figure out how to make your own Bucket List; 1001 places to visit before you die, books to read, foods to eat, movies to see, horror movies to see, etc.
Mass trends inspire me,sometimes. But just as easily, I can get contrarily inspired by what I see as the mindlessness of trend following. I was therefore inspired during one of my frequent visits to insomnialand to create my own list. Introducing THE FUCKET LIST. 10 incredible things I’ll be just as happy to never do before I die.
1. GO TO PHUCKET (THAILAND)
Once a typhoon destination, always a risk of being a typhoon destination again. I get that it’s exotic, and gorgeous, and the culture is amazing. But whoever says that lightning doesn’t strike twice is being naively optimistic. Just ask the Boy Scouts at Jamboree Camp in 1975. There were unfortunately several fatalities due to lightning over the course of just a few months. So, I’ll have to get my beach on in Hawaii. I know a typhoon could hit there too, but somehow it feels safer.
2. TREK TO NEPAL
I get altitude sickness. Enough said.
3. SKI DOWN THE MATTERHORN
Or Big Bear for that matter. I don’t like going down hill fast. I don’t like knowing that 5 year olds can snow plough, but I can’t. If stopping weren’t an issue, I imagine the whooshing and the gliding part would be enjoyable. But stopping IS an issue, so the whooshing and the gliding part are more than a little terrifying. When people try and push me on this, I ask, why would I want to develop an expensive habit that I don’t really care for? Besides that, there’s the schlepping, and the loading on of layers, and the sweating, and the shedding of those layers, and the nose running, and the crowds. I find the Matterhorn at Disneyland thrilling enough. That snow isn’t even cold.
4. BACKPACK ACROSS ASIA
For one thing, Asia is a large continent. For another, I’m not a big fan of camping altogether. Truth be told, I’m not even so fond of sunshine or with being all out in nature. Carrying your food, your housing, your bathroom, your water, and your creature comforts in a pack has a cumulative negative effect on my mood, not to mention my shoulders. I think there’s a reason we evolved into houses with walls. Separating from the elements is civilizational progress. I would hike between huts if they came with beds, flush toilets and food, but where’s that going to happen?
5. TRAVEL ANYWHERE WITHOUT FLUSH TOILETS
I thought about giving an example of why this is so, but it grosses me out so much, I just couldn’t. Obviously peeing is not so bad. Heck, I’ve peed into a cup in the front seat of my car before (not that that went so well), but, well, you know.
6. WALK UP THE EIFFEL TOWER
What happened, did the elevators break down?
7. SKYDIVE OR BUNGEE JUMP
As much as I like speed, and the wind rushing through my hair and all that, here’s what I know. The instant both feet left the platform, I would have a heart attack, and feel myself dying in the slow, long 5 seconds of the plunge. I would, however, watch others jumping. I thought once that just watching would give me a heart attack, but that turned out to be untrue. My Mother, on the other hand, couldn’t even watch. It's genetic apparently.
8. HAVE A DRINK WITH THE PRESIDENT
There’s just no way that would turn out well. I would always know that I was nervous, and he was just being polite, and it would be awkward, and I would probably have huge regrets after for all the things I could have said or asked but didn’t.
9. SWIM WITH SHARKS
I’ve probably already done this. I think that by doing it without knowing it is all I can hope for. If I’d been AWARE of it at the time, I think they would have smelled my fear and consumed me immediately. And even though I’ve read “The Worst Case Scenario Handbook”, I’m still confused as to whether you are supposed to defend yourself by hitting them in the snout or the eye. So, better I should focus on a dolphin or sea turtle instead.
10. FINISH THIS LIST
I think you get the idea. Making lists of this kind is someone else's concept. I'm just making a point.
In closing, I wouldn’t want you to think I’m against goal setting, or planning challenging adventures. It’s just that I know what my parameters are, and will feel just as comfortable if I honor those while I live my life before I die. After all, a life lived well is personal, isn’t it?
Sunday, September 5, 2010
Did I ask for your Advice?
ADVICE:
Love It, Hate It, Didn’t Ask for It, Not Gonna Follow it.
I have a definite love/hate relationship with advice. Sometimes I crave it. I have so much doubt in my head, I seek advice from many sources. That comes with both risk and reward. There may be a gem coming my way which makes a lot of sense, and I want to follow it. There may also be some not so palatable pearls of wisdom strung up for me which I do not want to wear. However, by shelving the pearl wisdom necklace, I now have to worry that I’ve deeply offended the pearl offerer. Can't I ask for advice without agreeing to agree with what you say before you say it? (if you followed that, I salute you. I know what I mean, but..)
Then there’s the category of unwanted advice altogether. Sometimes I just want to vent, or explain a situation. I may just want to describe what’s going on. But before I’ve gotten true satisfaction with venting and being heard, I’m slammed, WHAM with advice for how to change my behavior or coping strategies. Excuse me? Can’t I at least finish complaining before I get told how to do things? It’s not likely I’m going to follow your advice (since I distinctly DID NOT ask for it). More likely, I won’t vent in your direction in the future. What a great loss THAT would be for you. Sheesh.
My favorite is the category of “if you ask me what I think, and I tell you, and you do just as I’d advised, I’ll know you love me. Conversely, if you ask me what I think, and I tell you what I think and then you don’t do as I’ve advised, I’ll know that you can’t really love me at all. And then I will be sullen and mad at you for days.” The problem that may or may not seem obvious is that when the advice giver was then sullen and mad for days, I had a hard time attributing it to something as trivial as my wearing the purple dress instead of the black one which I had been advised would look better. Such was the stuff of my first marriage. It was pointed out to me that it was a character flaw to ask for advise, not take it and carry on. But, maybe that’s why it was a first marriage.
While those are the risks in the advice game, there’s definitely a reward side to it as well. Just as likely I will be forever indebted to my listeners for their kind, sensitive, caring, encouraging, reinforcing, been there, done that kind of response. And many a problem has been solved with more wisdom than I could ever have arrived at, with more sense than I could ever have come to, and more assurance of success than I would have believed possible. Thanks for that.
In the end, I’m willing to take the risk, and maybe get that reward. But if I don’t ask for your advice,,,,,,,,,
Love It, Hate It, Didn’t Ask for It, Not Gonna Follow it.
I have a definite love/hate relationship with advice. Sometimes I crave it. I have so much doubt in my head, I seek advice from many sources. That comes with both risk and reward. There may be a gem coming my way which makes a lot of sense, and I want to follow it. There may also be some not so palatable pearls of wisdom strung up for me which I do not want to wear. However, by shelving the pearl wisdom necklace, I now have to worry that I’ve deeply offended the pearl offerer. Can't I ask for advice without agreeing to agree with what you say before you say it? (if you followed that, I salute you. I know what I mean, but..)
Then there’s the category of unwanted advice altogether. Sometimes I just want to vent, or explain a situation. I may just want to describe what’s going on. But before I’ve gotten true satisfaction with venting and being heard, I’m slammed, WHAM with advice for how to change my behavior or coping strategies. Excuse me? Can’t I at least finish complaining before I get told how to do things? It’s not likely I’m going to follow your advice (since I distinctly DID NOT ask for it). More likely, I won’t vent in your direction in the future. What a great loss THAT would be for you. Sheesh.
My favorite is the category of “if you ask me what I think, and I tell you, and you do just as I’d advised, I’ll know you love me. Conversely, if you ask me what I think, and I tell you what I think and then you don’t do as I’ve advised, I’ll know that you can’t really love me at all. And then I will be sullen and mad at you for days.” The problem that may or may not seem obvious is that when the advice giver was then sullen and mad for days, I had a hard time attributing it to something as trivial as my wearing the purple dress instead of the black one which I had been advised would look better. Such was the stuff of my first marriage. It was pointed out to me that it was a character flaw to ask for advise, not take it and carry on. But, maybe that’s why it was a first marriage.
While those are the risks in the advice game, there’s definitely a reward side to it as well. Just as likely I will be forever indebted to my listeners for their kind, sensitive, caring, encouraging, reinforcing, been there, done that kind of response. And many a problem has been solved with more wisdom than I could ever have arrived at, with more sense than I could ever have come to, and more assurance of success than I would have believed possible. Thanks for that.
In the end, I’m willing to take the risk, and maybe get that reward. But if I don’t ask for your advice,,,,,,,,,
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
The Good Mother
I have a lot riding on being a good mother. It's what I DO. Having quit the outside, paycheck giving, grind over 16 years ago, I have concentrated on the old fashioned, much maligned, yet still happens occasionally, honorable profession of stay at home motherhood. It's a blessing to have this luxury.
My last blog was a sort of defense of that choice. Surprising what it stirred up. Some thought I was being too apologetic. Or defensive. I suppose I was. Even if I was self-critical, I thought the questions were worth asking, and subsequently answering. Is defensiveness always bad? Isn’t it valuable sometimes to question what you do, why you do it? And isn’t it equally valuable to consider various parameters and come to a conclusion which is self affirming? I know other people feel free to be critical of me, but when I do it to myself, do we think I’m overly harsh? Someone else was actually angry with me for being too judgmental. Of myself!
I find it strikes a chord with other stay at home mothers. Not so much the choice to have taken that path, but the evaluative, self critical inner voices that ask whether having made the choice, it was the right one. And if it was indeed the right one, are we doing it well?
My favorite story to go to when I feel like an utterly frazzeled, unable to cope, help me I’m going insane and losing control, bad mother who yells too much goes like this.
When Milly was about 4, she was having a play date with one of her little friends from preschool. I’ll call him Howard. It was a weekday, and the youngsters were happily playing outside, inside, running circles around the inner hallways of the house. They were content. I was trying to motivate Alice (then 11) to get her homework done. She wasn’t concentrating. She was objecting to doing the rest of her assignment. I was very frustrated. Blah, blah, blah. I yelled very loudly at her to just get it done. Then I heard the younger kids get quiet, and I held my breath. I thought to myself, 'oh no, Howard is going to be freaked out that I just yelled like that and want to go home. Oh, why oh why did I lose my temper like that?' I saw the door open slowly, and Milly and Howard peeked their heads out. Howard looked around and asked, “Is my Mother here?”
It took me a few seconds to realize he wasn’t asking this because he was scared of me and wanted to get away from this crazy screamer. He recognized it as something that he hears at his house. He thought it was his Mother who was screaming. I don’t know when I’ve ever felt so ok with my simple flaws. To paraphrase R.E.M, “everybody screams,,,, sometimes.”
And to quote Jodi Picould in “House Rules”, “Rest easy good mothers. The very fact that you worry about being a good mom means that you already are one.” I mostly agree.
My last blog was a sort of defense of that choice. Surprising what it stirred up. Some thought I was being too apologetic. Or defensive. I suppose I was. Even if I was self-critical, I thought the questions were worth asking, and subsequently answering. Is defensiveness always bad? Isn’t it valuable sometimes to question what you do, why you do it? And isn’t it equally valuable to consider various parameters and come to a conclusion which is self affirming? I know other people feel free to be critical of me, but when I do it to myself, do we think I’m overly harsh? Someone else was actually angry with me for being too judgmental. Of myself!
I find it strikes a chord with other stay at home mothers. Not so much the choice to have taken that path, but the evaluative, self critical inner voices that ask whether having made the choice, it was the right one. And if it was indeed the right one, are we doing it well?
My favorite story to go to when I feel like an utterly frazzeled, unable to cope, help me I’m going insane and losing control, bad mother who yells too much goes like this.
When Milly was about 4, she was having a play date with one of her little friends from preschool. I’ll call him Howard. It was a weekday, and the youngsters were happily playing outside, inside, running circles around the inner hallways of the house. They were content. I was trying to motivate Alice (then 11) to get her homework done. She wasn’t concentrating. She was objecting to doing the rest of her assignment. I was very frustrated. Blah, blah, blah. I yelled very loudly at her to just get it done. Then I heard the younger kids get quiet, and I held my breath. I thought to myself, 'oh no, Howard is going to be freaked out that I just yelled like that and want to go home. Oh, why oh why did I lose my temper like that?' I saw the door open slowly, and Milly and Howard peeked their heads out. Howard looked around and asked, “Is my Mother here?”
It took me a few seconds to realize he wasn’t asking this because he was scared of me and wanted to get away from this crazy screamer. He recognized it as something that he hears at his house. He thought it was his Mother who was screaming. I don’t know when I’ve ever felt so ok with my simple flaws. To paraphrase R.E.M, “everybody screams,,,, sometimes.”
And to quote Jodi Picould in “House Rules”, “Rest easy good mothers. The very fact that you worry about being a good mom means that you already are one.” I mostly agree.
Friday, July 2, 2010
What is the oldest profession exactly?
It's time to defend myself again. I don't know why I have to keep doing this, but it's time to whip out the old guilt busters again and champion my choice to be a stay at home Mother. It isn't what anyone else has said. It's mostly those nasty, creepy, comparative voices in my own head. What do they say, you ask? It goes like this:
1. You are financially dependent on so many people. What a loser.
2. In this day and age, what kind of example do you think you're setting for your kids? Retro fashion doesn't apply to "housewives" who prepare dinner, get her man his slippers and drive carpools.
3. The children will possibly be done more harm than good from my omnipresent mediocre mothering.
(Remember, these are the creepy voices, not necessarily the ones I like)
4. IF you had any actual skill, you'd be making some money, dumby.
5. Great, you stay home in their formative years, and then try and get a job when you're in your declining years. Smart thinking.
6. Keep telling yourself it's for them, you lazy sloth.
7. You don't even keep house, or cook that much, so what exactly do you even do all day?
You get the idea.
Well, to that, I answer, it seemed like a good idea at the time?
I once said that people have told me to be more rational for so long that I've become quite the expert at rationalization. So here goes:
(it doesn't go in direct point/counterpoint, but I do have some answers floating in my head)
1. It IS good for the kids that I’m around. For moral support, for school success, for getting them to activities & playdates, for the attention paid.
2. The old, what if I died tomorrow. That way, if I died tomorrow, I wouldn’t have missed anything. This goes to both positive and negative which I won’t do. I’ll just note here the old, on their deathbed, does anyone wish they’d spent more time at work cliche.
3. I wasn’t doing anything so great working that I really miss it. (I certainly wasn’t making enough money to justify being away from the house for a full 11 hours). For one, isn’t work sort of over-rtated? Two, it’s a falsehood that not working is a brain atrophier. I can read, I can be involved with productive activities while they are around. I don’t think I really lost any intelligence being home. (not that I had all that much to begin with)
4. I did good works. I volunteered at the kids’ school, at a charity. I contributed to the general good of the world. I even peaked when I was co-chair of the parent body. It’s like being the head of a half million dollar non profit corporation. (not that it’s not sick that our school raised that much money a year....but of course that’s for another blog)
5. It makes me happy. Really, really happy. That should count for something, shouldn’t it? I’m passionate about being a Mom.
6. In feminist terms, it is in every facet a job. The fact that it isn’t directly compen$ated doesn’t alter the fact that it’s an honorable profession. It requires intelligence, skill, emotional prowess, huge energy, compassion, determination, and provides satisfaction, and dividends. Society both values it and diminishes it, so it’s up to those of us who pursue it to reinforce it’s societal value.
7. Maybe in the end, the kids will appreciate it.
So, I’m sure I haven’t covered all the important aspects, but I’ve tried. In the coming years, as one daughters leaves the nest and the other one approaches middle school and high school, and as I approach retirement age, I will definitely find a way to transition into some kind of work outside the home. A therapist I saw once told me that she recieved her Medicaid Card and her PHD the same day. That was uplifting. I only have to retire if I want to.
And to all those working outside the home Mothers out there, I salute you completely. This says NOTHING to denigrate your choice. If I’d had anything that satisfied my intellect, paid any decent money, and been equally worthwhile to me while I was raising my children, I’d have done it. I’m just saying that for me, this was the choice that made sense. And while every few hours I question it, in the end, I can justify it as good.
Thanks for listening.
1. You are financially dependent on so many people. What a loser.
2. In this day and age, what kind of example do you think you're setting for your kids? Retro fashion doesn't apply to "housewives" who prepare dinner, get her man his slippers and drive carpools.
3. The children will possibly be done more harm than good from my omnipresent mediocre mothering.
(Remember, these are the creepy voices, not necessarily the ones I like)
4. IF you had any actual skill, you'd be making some money, dumby.
5. Great, you stay home in their formative years, and then try and get a job when you're in your declining years. Smart thinking.
6. Keep telling yourself it's for them, you lazy sloth.
7. You don't even keep house, or cook that much, so what exactly do you even do all day?
You get the idea.
Well, to that, I answer, it seemed like a good idea at the time?
I once said that people have told me to be more rational for so long that I've become quite the expert at rationalization. So here goes:
(it doesn't go in direct point/counterpoint, but I do have some answers floating in my head)
1. It IS good for the kids that I’m around. For moral support, for school success, for getting them to activities & playdates, for the attention paid.
2. The old, what if I died tomorrow. That way, if I died tomorrow, I wouldn’t have missed anything. This goes to both positive and negative which I won’t do. I’ll just note here the old, on their deathbed, does anyone wish they’d spent more time at work cliche.
3. I wasn’t doing anything so great working that I really miss it. (I certainly wasn’t making enough money to justify being away from the house for a full 11 hours). For one, isn’t work sort of over-rtated? Two, it’s a falsehood that not working is a brain atrophier. I can read, I can be involved with productive activities while they are around. I don’t think I really lost any intelligence being home. (not that I had all that much to begin with)
4. I did good works. I volunteered at the kids’ school, at a charity. I contributed to the general good of the world. I even peaked when I was co-chair of the parent body. It’s like being the head of a half million dollar non profit corporation. (not that it’s not sick that our school raised that much money a year....but of course that’s for another blog)
5. It makes me happy. Really, really happy. That should count for something, shouldn’t it? I’m passionate about being a Mom.
6. In feminist terms, it is in every facet a job. The fact that it isn’t directly compen$ated doesn’t alter the fact that it’s an honorable profession. It requires intelligence, skill, emotional prowess, huge energy, compassion, determination, and provides satisfaction, and dividends. Society both values it and diminishes it, so it’s up to those of us who pursue it to reinforce it’s societal value.
7. Maybe in the end, the kids will appreciate it.
So, I’m sure I haven’t covered all the important aspects, but I’ve tried. In the coming years, as one daughters leaves the nest and the other one approaches middle school and high school, and as I approach retirement age, I will definitely find a way to transition into some kind of work outside the home. A therapist I saw once told me that she recieved her Medicaid Card and her PHD the same day. That was uplifting. I only have to retire if I want to.
And to all those working outside the home Mothers out there, I salute you completely. This says NOTHING to denigrate your choice. If I’d had anything that satisfied my intellect, paid any decent money, and been equally worthwhile to me while I was raising my children, I’d have done it. I’m just saying that for me, this was the choice that made sense. And while every few hours I question it, in the end, I can justify it as good.
Thanks for listening.
Saturday, June 5, 2010
To my Loyal Followers
Being new to all things technical, I didn't know until this very night (June 4, 2010) that any of you had posted comments to my various blogs. Thank you so extremely and enthusiastically much. I think I published them all, which I have no idea what that means. You'd think I'd learn a thing or two, having been doing this awhile. But then again if you know me, you know that's unlikely. Love to all.
Thursday, March 25, 2010
As Seen in the Palisadian Post Travel Tales
The Treesort
“Someday we’re going to stay in a tree house,” I told my kids. Wide eyed, they said, “Really?”
I said “yes. High, high off the ground.” For years we had this conversation. Soon the response took on a new tone. Instead of a question, “Really” became a sarcastic exclamation. I’d been talking about it so long they no longer believed me.
Finally, in 2007, I had the reservations in hand, airplane tickets booked and we were on our way.
How does one find a “Treesort”? Well, that all began when my brother in law (who was spending a sabbatical year in Germany) asked me to put his name down on a waiting list for a Mini Cooper when they first came out in the US in 2002. As I investigated where to find a local dealer, I noticed a link on the Mini Cooper website, “interesting places to stay in the United States”. Intrigued, I clicked on it. One of the sites mentioned was the Treesort in Southern Oregon. I had to check it out. The website was amazing. This is a place designed by people who LOVE trees, run by people who want to share their love of trees, and visited by people who are curious about trees. And Southern Oregon is so beautiful, I knew we just had to go and stay.
My two daughters (ages 13 & 7), and I were really excited about going. We started off our Oregon adventure by rafting down a gentle section of the Rogue River, and a cursory visit to Crater Lake (the deepest lake in the United States, and in my humble and limited opinion, the most beautiful). Everywhere we went there was lush greenery and rushing water. For my Southern California kids, a river that rushed rather than trickled was an exquisite novelty.
The road to the Treesort was long. Longer than I thought. And pretty remote. We seemed to be leaving civilization behind Further and further behind. At last we arrived. It was truly an arborist’s paradise. And very laid back. The dog on the porch beckoned us into the “office”. Outside were sign up boards for horseback riding and a zip line. Wheee.
Our treehouse (which I’d picked out from a very descriptive website) was accessed by walking across two suspension bridges (think Tom Sawyer’s island at Disneyland) and was 43 feet up in the air. It was one room -if you don’t count the curtained off ensuite bathroom, toilet & shower. We had a front porch, loft beds, small refrigerator and a wonderful 12 foot wide tree as a centerpiece. I have a real fear of heights, but I never felt afraid. After all, there were barriers between falling and me. We could see the other treehouses, the stables, the main gathering house, (which was on the ground), and a forest beyond. Getting our bags up was an adventure in ingenuity. They had a rope with pulleys installed on the side of the balcony, so we loaded them up from the ground. A luggage elevator if you will.
Days at the Treesort were a laid back, communal living kind of camp experience. We picnicked the first day, splashed in the natural (and cold) spring rock pond, picked wild blackberries, laid on wooden swings, and at night roasted marshmallows under the stars. I was unprepared for that last activity, but everyone was extraordinarily generous –more and more S’mores.
We had thought we’d want to make a bee line for the zip line, but after living life in the soaring treetops, we concluded we’d had just enough vertical exhilaration for now. Instead, the nearby Oregon Caves were calling. We answered that call. From up high, we explored deep down under. I like a well rounded experience.
Back at the Treesort, a few of us Moms (who had become fast friends) conspired to not cookout that night, but rather call a local caterer and pitched in together for some sumptuous baked ziti and fresh local greens and caramel bread pudding. A few shared bottles of wine, more stars a twinkling, kids running free in the darkness, and it seemed our wish on a star was there before our eyes.
Upon our return to LA, we looked at trees a little differently, but have managed to keep our feet on the ground. Most of the time. Now I’ve heard there’s a place where you can stay in an igloo,,,,,,
“Someday we’re going to stay in a tree house,” I told my kids. Wide eyed, they said, “Really?”
I said “yes. High, high off the ground.” For years we had this conversation. Soon the response took on a new tone. Instead of a question, “Really” became a sarcastic exclamation. I’d been talking about it so long they no longer believed me.
Finally, in 2007, I had the reservations in hand, airplane tickets booked and we were on our way.
How does one find a “Treesort”? Well, that all began when my brother in law (who was spending a sabbatical year in Germany) asked me to put his name down on a waiting list for a Mini Cooper when they first came out in the US in 2002. As I investigated where to find a local dealer, I noticed a link on the Mini Cooper website, “interesting places to stay in the United States”. Intrigued, I clicked on it. One of the sites mentioned was the Treesort in Southern Oregon. I had to check it out. The website was amazing. This is a place designed by people who LOVE trees, run by people who want to share their love of trees, and visited by people who are curious about trees. And Southern Oregon is so beautiful, I knew we just had to go and stay.
My two daughters (ages 13 & 7), and I were really excited about going. We started off our Oregon adventure by rafting down a gentle section of the Rogue River, and a cursory visit to Crater Lake (the deepest lake in the United States, and in my humble and limited opinion, the most beautiful). Everywhere we went there was lush greenery and rushing water. For my Southern California kids, a river that rushed rather than trickled was an exquisite novelty.
The road to the Treesort was long. Longer than I thought. And pretty remote. We seemed to be leaving civilization behind Further and further behind. At last we arrived. It was truly an arborist’s paradise. And very laid back. The dog on the porch beckoned us into the “office”. Outside were sign up boards for horseback riding and a zip line. Wheee.
Our treehouse (which I’d picked out from a very descriptive website) was accessed by walking across two suspension bridges (think Tom Sawyer’s island at Disneyland) and was 43 feet up in the air. It was one room -if you don’t count the curtained off ensuite bathroom, toilet & shower. We had a front porch, loft beds, small refrigerator and a wonderful 12 foot wide tree as a centerpiece. I have a real fear of heights, but I never felt afraid. After all, there were barriers between falling and me. We could see the other treehouses, the stables, the main gathering house, (which was on the ground), and a forest beyond. Getting our bags up was an adventure in ingenuity. They had a rope with pulleys installed on the side of the balcony, so we loaded them up from the ground. A luggage elevator if you will.
Days at the Treesort were a laid back, communal living kind of camp experience. We picnicked the first day, splashed in the natural (and cold) spring rock pond, picked wild blackberries, laid on wooden swings, and at night roasted marshmallows under the stars. I was unprepared for that last activity, but everyone was extraordinarily generous –more and more S’mores.
We had thought we’d want to make a bee line for the zip line, but after living life in the soaring treetops, we concluded we’d had just enough vertical exhilaration for now. Instead, the nearby Oregon Caves were calling. We answered that call. From up high, we explored deep down under. I like a well rounded experience.
Back at the Treesort, a few of us Moms (who had become fast friends) conspired to not cookout that night, but rather call a local caterer and pitched in together for some sumptuous baked ziti and fresh local greens and caramel bread pudding. A few shared bottles of wine, more stars a twinkling, kids running free in the darkness, and it seemed our wish on a star was there before our eyes.
Upon our return to LA, we looked at trees a little differently, but have managed to keep our feet on the ground. Most of the time. Now I’ve heard there’s a place where you can stay in an igloo,,,,,,
Saturday, March 20, 2010
Dietribe 2, The Sequel
Ok, I'm not done with the Dietribe.
Now, we all know that the food and restaurant industries are dead set against anyone on a diet. And when you dissect their methods, they're just plain insidious. I don't know how anyone who likes to eat isn't immense. (the term "obese" is used and overused and connotes slothfulness, and really, we're not all that way, just a little weak willed sometimes) If I think about it, the people I know who maintain a decent weight must either exercise their buns off (yes, literally) or not like to eat. You can't have it any other way it turns out.
So, I'm meeting my friend Jill for lunch at a Mexican food restaurant in Century City. It's so festive, with pretty pink lights all over, comfy booths, kitchy decor. While I'm waiting, my perky, pretty, sweet waitress asks in her bubbly and extremely friendly voice if I want a Pretty Pink Margarita while I wait. No, thanks I'll have just water. Oh, maybe just a Corona? No, I'll have just water. Now at this point, I already feel bad. Not only am I apparently dull as dishwater, but I'm almost being mean to her. I keep saying no, and she's just trying to make me feel good, and to bring me nice, festive things.
Then, a bucket of crispy tortilla chips comes out, all warm and fresh, with a beckoning bowl of fresh salsa. I eat one chip. Delicious. My mind nearly tricks me into thinking that the chips are just a vessel for the virtuous salsa with it's tomatoes, cilantro, so light, so healthy. Yeah, uh huh. The smart thing to do would be to send the entire bucket back, but I think I have faith in my willpower. After all, I'm conscious of all of this trickery, it should be easy to resist. No mindless munching here. (yeah, right)
Jill arrives. I tell her these thoughts I"m having. She agrees with my assessments. The waitress arrives back to greet the fresh meat, oh, I mean the additional guest. She's still perky, still pushing the Margaritas. But Jill is wise, and not so guilt prone. She says her no thank you's with a sweet firmness. She sends the no's with a slight admonishment in that it's sort of early in the day for cocktails or beer. So little Miss Perkster, not to be outdone offers the wondrous cocktails as virgin versions - refreshing and delightful. Still no. How about some guacamole while you look over your menu. There is probably nothing I'd like more, but once again, even though our nice waitress is only there to serve and please us, once again, I am rejecting her kind offers.
Looking over the menu, I'm thinking, there has to be something fairly virtuous here. But I'm at a Mexican restaurant, and I really like Mexican food, so I don't want to have something like salmon. I've also seen the websites, (buzzkillers really), that delineate the freaking calorie count of some, or most of my favorite Mexican dishes. Enchiladas, nearly 1000. Burritos with chicken, cheese, guac and sour cream, nearly 1000. Tacos, what can I say, I like them crispy, nearly 1000. And all the plates probably come with beans & rice, another, well, you get the idea. Then I'm wondering if they have a children's menu, so I could at least count on the portions to be more moderate. But I suddenly remember, it's a federal crime to order off the children's menu if you are over 12. Or at least against the restaurant rule book. I wonder, what if I offered to pay an adult price. I hear my husband's voice saying, don't pay full price for less food, just bring half home with you. Well, that's reasonable, but we all pretty much know how that scenario goes. Get the take out container, put 1/2 to 1/3, or maybe just 1/4 in the container, and you've still overeaten.
Jill and I manage to split a Tostada. It's amazing in that it's actually two Tostadas in one order, more than enough for us. (Even I, an overeater, wonder how one person could polish off both at one sitting) And I slip a few more mouthfuls of the virtuous salsa down with the chip vehicle it came with. But I don't really make a dent in the bucket the chips came in. Thank God.
At the end of the meal, I'm content. After all, I've contained myself, been truthful and vigilant about what I'm up against, and with my new, larger waisted pants, I'm still comfortable after eating what I want to eat. Not bad. I might even go out for Thai food tomorrow. See what I'm up against there.
Now, we all know that the food and restaurant industries are dead set against anyone on a diet. And when you dissect their methods, they're just plain insidious. I don't know how anyone who likes to eat isn't immense. (the term "obese" is used and overused and connotes slothfulness, and really, we're not all that way, just a little weak willed sometimes) If I think about it, the people I know who maintain a decent weight must either exercise their buns off (yes, literally) or not like to eat. You can't have it any other way it turns out.
So, I'm meeting my friend Jill for lunch at a Mexican food restaurant in Century City. It's so festive, with pretty pink lights all over, comfy booths, kitchy decor. While I'm waiting, my perky, pretty, sweet waitress asks in her bubbly and extremely friendly voice if I want a Pretty Pink Margarita while I wait. No, thanks I'll have just water. Oh, maybe just a Corona? No, I'll have just water. Now at this point, I already feel bad. Not only am I apparently dull as dishwater, but I'm almost being mean to her. I keep saying no, and she's just trying to make me feel good, and to bring me nice, festive things.
Then, a bucket of crispy tortilla chips comes out, all warm and fresh, with a beckoning bowl of fresh salsa. I eat one chip. Delicious. My mind nearly tricks me into thinking that the chips are just a vessel for the virtuous salsa with it's tomatoes, cilantro, so light, so healthy. Yeah, uh huh. The smart thing to do would be to send the entire bucket back, but I think I have faith in my willpower. After all, I'm conscious of all of this trickery, it should be easy to resist. No mindless munching here. (yeah, right)
Jill arrives. I tell her these thoughts I"m having. She agrees with my assessments. The waitress arrives back to greet the fresh meat, oh, I mean the additional guest. She's still perky, still pushing the Margaritas. But Jill is wise, and not so guilt prone. She says her no thank you's with a sweet firmness. She sends the no's with a slight admonishment in that it's sort of early in the day for cocktails or beer. So little Miss Perkster, not to be outdone offers the wondrous cocktails as virgin versions - refreshing and delightful. Still no. How about some guacamole while you look over your menu. There is probably nothing I'd like more, but once again, even though our nice waitress is only there to serve and please us, once again, I am rejecting her kind offers.
Looking over the menu, I'm thinking, there has to be something fairly virtuous here. But I'm at a Mexican restaurant, and I really like Mexican food, so I don't want to have something like salmon. I've also seen the websites, (buzzkillers really), that delineate the freaking calorie count of some, or most of my favorite Mexican dishes. Enchiladas, nearly 1000. Burritos with chicken, cheese, guac and sour cream, nearly 1000. Tacos, what can I say, I like them crispy, nearly 1000. And all the plates probably come with beans & rice, another, well, you get the idea. Then I'm wondering if they have a children's menu, so I could at least count on the portions to be more moderate. But I suddenly remember, it's a federal crime to order off the children's menu if you are over 12. Or at least against the restaurant rule book. I wonder, what if I offered to pay an adult price. I hear my husband's voice saying, don't pay full price for less food, just bring half home with you. Well, that's reasonable, but we all pretty much know how that scenario goes. Get the take out container, put 1/2 to 1/3, or maybe just 1/4 in the container, and you've still overeaten.
Jill and I manage to split a Tostada. It's amazing in that it's actually two Tostadas in one order, more than enough for us. (Even I, an overeater, wonder how one person could polish off both at one sitting) And I slip a few more mouthfuls of the virtuous salsa down with the chip vehicle it came with. But I don't really make a dent in the bucket the chips came in. Thank God.
At the end of the meal, I'm content. After all, I've contained myself, been truthful and vigilant about what I'm up against, and with my new, larger waisted pants, I'm still comfortable after eating what I want to eat. Not bad. I might even go out for Thai food tomorrow. See what I'm up against there.
Saturday, February 27, 2010
Dietribe
Dietribe
I’ll admit it. I think there is a cosmic injustice in this world. Good foods are bad for you. Chocolate makes you fat, big thick potato chips will give you heart disease, & Ben & Jerry will ultimately clog your arteries (and they seemed like such nice, organic guys). The list goes on. I think in primitive times, the bad foods gave some kind of a warning, like they tasted so bitter your tongue swelled and your eyes burned. What the hell happened?
I realize that modern technology, food research and the profit motive have all conspired to make foods which are simply attractive and addictive. Quite the advancement. They scientifically know how to give you a false heroin-like high of pleasure while they slowly hook and kill you. Has anyone investigated whether the food industry and the healthcare industry hold clandestine conferences where they plot their evil symbiotic ways?
I was reading in Kessler’s book, “The End of Overeating”, how food scientists engineer their food to have all kinds of perfection qualities, which will taste good, feel good and make you want more. He calls a Snickers bar the perfect food for it’s firm but biteable chocolate, soft nougat that just melts, and layer of salty peanuts coated with caramel. All these elements combine to give you just the right balance of chewy, salty and sweet to produce a satisfying "mouth feel". Maybe my subconscious thinks my mouth is actually exercising to eat it's chewy goodness. I suppose I should try and associate the evil research behind these addictive foods to something akin to cigarettes, but I can’t seem to link the two as evil equals. I know cigarettes are bad, but they have the added benefit of IMMEDIATELY making you smell bad, pant when you walk uphill and are considerably more expensive. That makes it easier for my mind to reject. Snickers, reject? Not so much.
So, obviously Mother Nature and God combined didn’t mean for us to have no alternative to Snickers, pudding and Kettle chips. We have fruits and vegetables. In fact, modern wisdom has us eating five servings a day. As though that solves everything. Really? Not for me.
I have a thing about fruit. As immoral as it sounds, I have a problem with fruit. It’s about expectations and disappointment. Fruit isn’t consistent. When I have a bite of the perfect strawberry, or the perfect orange, it crosses my mind that this is my answer to the foods mentioned above. But it only takes one rotten strawberry that I didn’t see coming, or one overly ripe orange to rip that determination away from my temporary health kick. Watermelon would be my favorite food on the planet if it promised to never be mealy or bland. After all, you never have a mealy or bland Snickers bar. Is that too much to ask? Apparently. Vegetables don’t let me down in quite the same way, but there are only so many I can truly say I like, and probably proportionally more that I absolutely, truly object to. On a daily basis, 5 is harder to achieve than it might seem.
Now let's talk about Yo Yo dieting - I can’t afford to gain any more weight. So, that’s the end of diets for me. I did Weight Watchers. Lost 17 pounds. (Parenthetically, just as I was achieving my goal weight, my husband left me.) Over the course of the next few years, I found it all. And then some. Happily remarried, and with someone for whom food is a fun activity to be enjoyed (vs., the previous dude who hated all sweets, meats and carbs), I not only found the pounds I’d lost, but found some that other people had apparently lost. But it was a happy reunion. See, there’s not really an emotional downside to gaining weight. For me, it’s usually associated with celebration, with doing what feels good. Why can’t it hurt? I then tried doing South Beach with my second husband. After all, we were both feeling the effects of our newly married celebratory food over dosing on our waistlines. We both lost weight. But with such a restrictive regimen as South Beach's Phase I, as soon as I was done with it, I couldn’t see my way to continuing on with Phases II and III. It’s always the maintenance that overwhelms me. After no carbs, I pretty much wanted all the carbs. Again, I found every single pound I’d lost. AND THEN SOME I didn’t even know I’d lost. Now I am paralyzed with fear. I can’t go on another diet. I cannot afford to weigh more than I do now.
.
Well, that’s the food conspiracy. Let’s talk about the exercise. I know that the real answer to any weight management issue is the old calories in, calories out. So, theoretically, I could eat anything if I just exercised enough. Michael Phelps with his 12 daily big Macs and In-N-Out milkshakes. Obviously I don’t swim for a living. In fact, truth be told, I have a long list of problems with exercise. I’m just telling the truth here.
1. I don’t like to sweat. (That alone could explain everything)
2. I find it hard to make the time. It isn’t that I don’t have it. I do. But on a cold or blustery morning, when I’m so cozy sitting in bed after the kids go to school and I have my computer and newspaper and coffee, I find myself resisting getting up, snapping on that restrictive jogging bra (which let’s face it, I just need because of my losing struggle with the Snickers war), pulling on my sweats which look ginourmous, throwing the inserts into my athletic shoes (which I now need because my extra weight has put stress on my plantars fasciitis), and going out to do anything.
3. And then if I go hike, or treadmill, or whatever, I’ll end up sweaty, stinky, needing a shower. That adds another half hour to my day. Not the end of the world, but it does sort of tip the scale towards inaction.
4. Exercises which would really help to burn fat and increase metabolism are even more complicated. I’d have to work my way up to jogging and that can take weeks of dedicated effort before you’re even closer to an endorphin rush. Weight lifting is fun and can aid metabolism, but you really have to push yourself. I find I can only push so hard. Swimming is something I even enjoy, but it’s has it’s own avoidance opportunities (the look of me in a swimsuit?). You can’t hide what’s inside, can you?
5. I can walk. I do walk. Just not enough or with enough consistency to make a difference.
6. Lastly, there is an exercise I love. I could do it for hours with joy and satisfaction. It works my arms, my abs, my legs. I sweat, but I don’t notice. The scenery is thrilling and I get to see one of favorite animals up close. No, not sex with my new husband, but kayaking. And in that same cosmic joke injustice, kayaking is not exactly easy to do all year. The lightest kayak I’ve found is too heavy for me to lift and maneuver by myself, so I had to rely on UCLA’s marine center. Just as I had figured out that as my venue, I find out that it is closed in the exact hours that would otherwise allow me to kayak every day. I have from 9-2 free; they have it closed from 9-3. I need a lake with a dock where the kayak is easy to just lower into the water. That isn’t possible around here. (oh, the animal I can see up close is the pelican.)
Well, when all is said and done, I would say it isn’t all said and done,,, yet. I’m ok with where I am, because in general in my life I’m happy. And I really don’t think the secret to success or joy is to be stick skinny. I will walk. I might even learn to jog. I will continue to explore the world of fruits and vegetables. I will control myself around sweets even if I grumble while I do it. And I might even let Ben & Jerry off the hook for tempting me. But I also might continue to rail against the cosmos for putting all these thoughts in my head.
And then, there’s always sex.
I’ll admit it. I think there is a cosmic injustice in this world. Good foods are bad for you. Chocolate makes you fat, big thick potato chips will give you heart disease, & Ben & Jerry will ultimately clog your arteries (and they seemed like such nice, organic guys). The list goes on. I think in primitive times, the bad foods gave some kind of a warning, like they tasted so bitter your tongue swelled and your eyes burned. What the hell happened?
I realize that modern technology, food research and the profit motive have all conspired to make foods which are simply attractive and addictive. Quite the advancement. They scientifically know how to give you a false heroin-like high of pleasure while they slowly hook and kill you. Has anyone investigated whether the food industry and the healthcare industry hold clandestine conferences where they plot their evil symbiotic ways?
I was reading in Kessler’s book, “The End of Overeating”, how food scientists engineer their food to have all kinds of perfection qualities, which will taste good, feel good and make you want more. He calls a Snickers bar the perfect food for it’s firm but biteable chocolate, soft nougat that just melts, and layer of salty peanuts coated with caramel. All these elements combine to give you just the right balance of chewy, salty and sweet to produce a satisfying "mouth feel". Maybe my subconscious thinks my mouth is actually exercising to eat it's chewy goodness. I suppose I should try and associate the evil research behind these addictive foods to something akin to cigarettes, but I can’t seem to link the two as evil equals. I know cigarettes are bad, but they have the added benefit of IMMEDIATELY making you smell bad, pant when you walk uphill and are considerably more expensive. That makes it easier for my mind to reject. Snickers, reject? Not so much.
So, obviously Mother Nature and God combined didn’t mean for us to have no alternative to Snickers, pudding and Kettle chips. We have fruits and vegetables. In fact, modern wisdom has us eating five servings a day. As though that solves everything. Really? Not for me.
I have a thing about fruit. As immoral as it sounds, I have a problem with fruit. It’s about expectations and disappointment. Fruit isn’t consistent. When I have a bite of the perfect strawberry, or the perfect orange, it crosses my mind that this is my answer to the foods mentioned above. But it only takes one rotten strawberry that I didn’t see coming, or one overly ripe orange to rip that determination away from my temporary health kick. Watermelon would be my favorite food on the planet if it promised to never be mealy or bland. After all, you never have a mealy or bland Snickers bar. Is that too much to ask? Apparently. Vegetables don’t let me down in quite the same way, but there are only so many I can truly say I like, and probably proportionally more that I absolutely, truly object to. On a daily basis, 5 is harder to achieve than it might seem.
Now let's talk about Yo Yo dieting - I can’t afford to gain any more weight. So, that’s the end of diets for me. I did Weight Watchers. Lost 17 pounds. (Parenthetically, just as I was achieving my goal weight, my husband left me.) Over the course of the next few years, I found it all. And then some. Happily remarried, and with someone for whom food is a fun activity to be enjoyed (vs., the previous dude who hated all sweets, meats and carbs), I not only found the pounds I’d lost, but found some that other people had apparently lost. But it was a happy reunion. See, there’s not really an emotional downside to gaining weight. For me, it’s usually associated with celebration, with doing what feels good. Why can’t it hurt? I then tried doing South Beach with my second husband. After all, we were both feeling the effects of our newly married celebratory food over dosing on our waistlines. We both lost weight. But with such a restrictive regimen as South Beach's Phase I, as soon as I was done with it, I couldn’t see my way to continuing on with Phases II and III. It’s always the maintenance that overwhelms me. After no carbs, I pretty much wanted all the carbs. Again, I found every single pound I’d lost. AND THEN SOME I didn’t even know I’d lost. Now I am paralyzed with fear. I can’t go on another diet. I cannot afford to weigh more than I do now.
.
Well, that’s the food conspiracy. Let’s talk about the exercise. I know that the real answer to any weight management issue is the old calories in, calories out. So, theoretically, I could eat anything if I just exercised enough. Michael Phelps with his 12 daily big Macs and In-N-Out milkshakes. Obviously I don’t swim for a living. In fact, truth be told, I have a long list of problems with exercise. I’m just telling the truth here.
1. I don’t like to sweat. (That alone could explain everything)
2. I find it hard to make the time. It isn’t that I don’t have it. I do. But on a cold or blustery morning, when I’m so cozy sitting in bed after the kids go to school and I have my computer and newspaper and coffee, I find myself resisting getting up, snapping on that restrictive jogging bra (which let’s face it, I just need because of my losing struggle with the Snickers war), pulling on my sweats which look ginourmous, throwing the inserts into my athletic shoes (which I now need because my extra weight has put stress on my plantars fasciitis), and going out to do anything.
3. And then if I go hike, or treadmill, or whatever, I’ll end up sweaty, stinky, needing a shower. That adds another half hour to my day. Not the end of the world, but it does sort of tip the scale towards inaction.
4. Exercises which would really help to burn fat and increase metabolism are even more complicated. I’d have to work my way up to jogging and that can take weeks of dedicated effort before you’re even closer to an endorphin rush. Weight lifting is fun and can aid metabolism, but you really have to push yourself. I find I can only push so hard. Swimming is something I even enjoy, but it’s has it’s own avoidance opportunities (the look of me in a swimsuit?). You can’t hide what’s inside, can you?
5. I can walk. I do walk. Just not enough or with enough consistency to make a difference.
6. Lastly, there is an exercise I love. I could do it for hours with joy and satisfaction. It works my arms, my abs, my legs. I sweat, but I don’t notice. The scenery is thrilling and I get to see one of favorite animals up close. No, not sex with my new husband, but kayaking. And in that same cosmic joke injustice, kayaking is not exactly easy to do all year. The lightest kayak I’ve found is too heavy for me to lift and maneuver by myself, so I had to rely on UCLA’s marine center. Just as I had figured out that as my venue, I find out that it is closed in the exact hours that would otherwise allow me to kayak every day. I have from 9-2 free; they have it closed from 9-3. I need a lake with a dock where the kayak is easy to just lower into the water. That isn’t possible around here. (oh, the animal I can see up close is the pelican.)
Well, when all is said and done, I would say it isn’t all said and done,,, yet. I’m ok with where I am, because in general in my life I’m happy. And I really don’t think the secret to success or joy is to be stick skinny. I will walk. I might even learn to jog. I will continue to explore the world of fruits and vegetables. I will control myself around sweets even if I grumble while I do it. And I might even let Ben & Jerry off the hook for tempting me. But I also might continue to rail against the cosmos for putting all these thoughts in my head.
And then, there’s always sex.
Friday, January 29, 2010
Guilt & Inertia
Inertia: A tendency to do nothing or remain unchanged.
Guilt: A feeling of having done wrong or failed in an obligation.
Today is one of those days. My head tells me one thing, but my supine position, wrapped in blankets on a coldish day, laptop poised comfortably on my legs tells me another. Looking over at the clock says it's 9:38. At 10, you are truly a slug. So I have 22 minutes to make a choice. Invariably I will make the correct one, but in the meantime, I'm struggling with the guilt over inertia right now.
I've been up since 7:30. Got up, woke daughter, made coffee, made other daughter breakfast (first daughter doesn't eat, gave up trying), read paper, ate. Made sure first daughter didn't go back to sleep (you have to be super vigilant on that score) Let other daughter eat half my breakfast slyly giddy that I've tempted my militant "vegetarian" to eat pigs in a blanket. Her father has brainwashed her into thinking being vegetarian is the superior moral choice, but bless her heart, she loves different foods. I keep trying to explain the hierarchy of predators and the natural food chain and such, but she insists, as she wolfs down the occasional bacon and burger that she loves animals. If she only knew that her morally superior vegetarian father also grew up loving bacon and burgers,,,,,,
So, at last get first daughter out the door and off to school. Second daughter has the day off. When did teachers start getting a whole day off to record grades? I guess it was right when they got recess off as "coffee breaks". But that's beside the point isn't it?
I let second daughter play computer and watch TV. It's her weekend with her Dad this weekend so, he can enforce the homework rule. I returned to my comfy bed, checked my Facebook page, read Google News, wasted time on other people's Facebook pages and let my mind trace through the various duties and obligations that I have before me that I realize I am avoiding. Some are small errandy type things, others are largish, life choice type of first steps.
1. See invention made.
2. Plan spring college reunion.
3. Get children's book published.
4. Go to the gym and continue my quest to become a" jalker". (not misspelled. I had a friend call it "wogging" but that puts me closely in awareness of my many wobbly bits that in fact wiggle when I attempt to walk, then jog, then walk again) In any case, I am slowly but surely making my way to becoming a Jalker if I would only make sure I get to the gym every day.
5. Make cake for Dan's boss for being so supportive through his illness.
6. Find something fun for second daughter and me to do today since she has no school.
7. Update my blog.
So, since I had my laptop on my lap, and my phone at close range, I started the process rolling for numbers 1, 2, and 3. After months and months and months of procrastination, I made an appointment with a guy who helps people realize their invention concepts. It seems that a woman I went to high school with, married a guy who has a company that does that. And I have at least one potentially marketable invention idea. I've known about this woman's husband for about 5 years now, but only have known his phone number for a few months. I have an appointment for next Tuesday. Yea! Take that inertia. Take that guilt over inertia!
I called the guy I'm planning the reunion with. Now that's only been about 3 weeks in the avoidance category. I make all kinds of apologies for not calling yet, but at last, the phone call ball is now in his court. Take that inertia. Take that guilt over inertia!
I emailed the woman who I know who is in some kind of job to do with children's literature. We planned to have lunch about 6 months ago, and then one thing and another came along and we never made the ultimate reschedule, so it went poof. I'll start that process over again and who knows, my book might be one tiny step closer to realization. Take that inertia. Take that guilt over inertia.
Looking up at the clock on my computer. YIKES. It's 10 now. Only true slugs and slaggards are still in bed after 10. And since pretty much nothing productive will come of this blogging stuff, I'd better get a move on.
Take that inertia. Take that guilt over inertia!
oh, by golly, check off number 7.
Friday, January 22, 2010
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
The C word
I hardly know where to begin. I usually like to be funny in my blogs. Or try. But this isn't really funny. Humor plays a part, but it's not the primary emotion or characteristic. I'd say the main elements are,,,,, COPE and HOPE.
So, Dan, my husband of not quite a year, went in for his colonoscopy the night before our first anniversary (what is it with cancer and newlyweds? huh Susan? huh Jan?). I sat in the waiting room, for what seemed like days. Traces of worry threaded their way through my consciousness, but I didn't really allow them in. But as more and more people came out, and they weren't Dan, I was starting to wonder. Finally they asked me to go in.
I saw Dan standing up, looking a bit clammy. I don't know how you can look clammy, but he did. We were asked to go into a little room. I think the cope mechanism started there, Aug. 14. It hasn't abated since. They showed us a picture of his colon. It didn't look pretty. And you'd be surprised, a healthy colon can look pretty decent. I was listening, trying not to look worried, or scared, just strong and ready. The C word was darting all around the outside edges of my brain, but I figured I wasn't going to be the first to say it. Dan looked pretty shocked. And no one had even said cancer yet. They were talking about a growth, a separate polyp, biopsies, surgery, results, but no one said cancer. Since I didn't want to be there all day, I finally asked the doctor the actual question. I remember he gave me the weirdest answer. He said it was most certainly cancer, but he didn't know yet if it was benign or malignant. What? I didn't think cancer could be benign, but still, I hung onto whatever glimmer of hope I thought that statement might have suggested. Dan was pretty much still in shock. We both asked some more questions, and then staggered out into the glaring light of day bewildered.
I did what I always do in situations like this. I called my own personal physician. Daddy. He confirmed my confusion. If it's cancer, that's it, it's cancer. What the doctor should have said was growth, or tumor. Those could be benign. I was hoping that the Kaiser doctor's language deficit was to blame. We would just have to wait for the biopsy results. Two weeks to wait.
Regardless of the biopsy result, he'd have to have the "growth" removed. So, we started to prepare for that. Dan and I talked, and he was beautifully forthcoming about his concerns, his reactions, his feelings, his fears. But I won't reveal those. Those are for his blog if he ever had one, which he doesn't and won't. Suffice to say, I don't think it's my right to communicate his innermost thoughts and feelings.
Vacations were cancelled, life put on hold while we waited for the results. It's so odd to reflect back, but I held out my optimism until the last possible second. I realized that if he was to get a diagnosis of cancer, it would come in it's own good time. I wasn't going to quake in my boots while waiting. And if the diagnosis ended up coming, I'd do what countless other spouses, loved ones, significant others do in the same situation; whatever was necessary to support, comfort, accommodate and cherish my loved one.
I finally got the call. Cancer. Shit. (no fucking pun intended.) I was driving when he told me. It was still a shock, even though it was one of only two possible outcomes. Had I thought I could positive think it otherwise? I was then so concerned for how he would take it. I think I only allowed myself about a minute to wallow in anything before I just decided that from here on, it was all about getting it taken care of. Being supportive and all the other stereotypic cancer patient's wife's stuff.
Now, it's 5 months in. Surgery, went well. Healing from surgery, went well. Chemo started. That's grinding, then some relief and then grinding again. We have 2.5 more months of that to go.
But the good thing is that now we can really consider him to not have cancer anymore. Just having the treatment to ensure he doesn't get it again. At least that's our position.
Do I love him more than before? No, I always loved him at the top of the scale.
Do I value life more? No, I think my life choices reveal that I appreciate what I have, the people I love and the life I lead.
Do I have more compassion for people and their struggles? Probably. You see a lot in hospitals.
Do I have a new opinion of Kaiser? Oh yeah. They have been really great caregivers.
Am I wiser for the experience? I wish, but I'm the same old whack job I've always been.
It's just another fork in our road. Just a few cells that went amuck and gave us a different experience. Profound as it was, it was just another element of life to be lived. Of course things are learned from every life threatening crisis.
Probably the biggest, deepest and most wonderful outcome has been the onslaught of support and concern and action from all of our friends and family. They have been so affirming and heartwarming. Maybe that alone was worth the price of admission. But then too, we know, both of us deep in our hearts, that all that love and support has always been there. Regardless, it felt good to be enveloped by it. (I could blog endlessly on that subject, and most likely I will)
And somewhere in my spiritual soul, (and I do have one) I thank god that we caught the cancer in time and feel confident that we'll hit our second anniversary and our third, and our fourth,,,,,, and our 50th. We were lucky. Thanks everyone!! Love you.
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