If you don't read anything else today, read this. The post is titled Knit 2, Post K. If it doesn't piss you off and make you want to get some people one the phone, you might want to check your pulse.
I know what it means to miss New Orleans.
Saturday, September 1, 2007
Friday, August 31, 2007
Waltz for Riley (in G, for Bassoon and Wooden Spoon)
Last night Dear Daughter and I were both jonesing pretty bad for some baby-love, so we called up Smiley Riley's mom and asked if we could borrow her baby for a couple of hours. I'd scarcely hung up before they were knocking at the back door. Lucky me, I got to sit in the floor for almost two hours cuddling, singing and babbling with our dear little girly.Due to all kinds of circumstances outside our control, it had been almost a month since we'd spent any real time with her, and in a child this young, that span of time makes such a difference. Not only does she now have pierced ears, but her personality has grown and developed along with her motor skills and appetite.
Riley can now pull herself up along the edge of a table and take a few tentative steps. She is eating all kinds of food and holding her own bottle (and, should the situation warrant, snatching it from the hand of a slow-poke grown-up who isn't coming across with the snackies quite fast enough).She's also developed a real fascination with the world around her. As we sat and played in the den, Roselle Rabbit was making her rounds. The bunny goosed the baby. The baby lunged for the bunny. It was a hoot watching the two observe each other.
Dear Daughter had band homework that required her to compose a few lines of music using the three notes she's learned thus far. Fortunately, she already reads music fairly well and is familiar enough with time signatures for this assignment to be easy. She composed a nice little ditty in 3/4 time using F, E flat and D. While she played her music Riley and I waltzed around the room laughing. It was a sweet way to end an evening. All things considered, life is awfully good.
Thursday, August 30, 2007
A Sign Your Country May Be Losing the "War" on Terror
The Loved One got a rather interesting piece of mail yesterday. In
addition to his fabulous job as an exploration geologist in the wilds of Alaska, he is also a Ph.D. candidate here at the local university. This is actually his second crack at his Ph.D. He was ABD (all but dissertation) at the University of Arizona some 20-odd years ago, but walked away from it for the opportunity to work in the Last Frontier. It turned out to be a pretty good deal for him then. He's been very happy in his work there.
In the late 1990s, he moved to Memphis to get married (to someone else, not me). He resurrected his dissertation and started a new Ph.D. program in Economic Geology. He's once again ABD, and has submitted a first draft of his dissertation. With a little luck and hard work he might complete it before retirement. I've come to the conclusion that it doesn't really matter to him whether or not he completes the degree. If it's okay with him, it's certainly okay with me.
Apparently, with the anticipated completion of his degree and presumably his graduation, he's attracting some interest from potential employers. This would ordinarily be a good thing, except this particular prospect doesn't seem to do much research on its leads. The Loved One is 12 years older than I am, which makes him...of a certain age. Let's just say a draft card would look pretty funny in his wallet next to his AARP card.
What I found particularly intriguing about the Army's pitch to my "graduate" is the enticing copy on the outside of the brochure: "FREE GIFT OFFER INSIDE." Wow. Imagine what kind of
fabulous offer the government of the greatest nation in the world would be offering to induce young men and women to consider a military career and risk life and limb in foreign lands! Unable to stand the suspense, I opened the brochure to find that simply for filling out a postage-paid response card (complete with a line for the applicant's Social Security Number and an extra card to give a friend), we could receive, absolutely free of charge a "personalized U.S. Army dog tag."
Amazing. What an offer! I'm really tempted to fill out the card with the name and address of Our Dear Leader, or perhaps his daughters, or perhaps the name and address of any of several of the people at whose doorstep the travesty that has become the war in Iraq could be laid. I'm sure the consequences for such a prank would be dire, but it would be at least as funny as a branch of the armed forces trying to recruit a 50+ year old geologist.
Click here for a list of those who not only got the free personalized dog tag, but also a complimentary body bag to go with it.
addition to his fabulous job as an exploration geologist in the wilds of Alaska, he is also a Ph.D. candidate here at the local university. This is actually his second crack at his Ph.D. He was ABD (all but dissertation) at the University of Arizona some 20-odd years ago, but walked away from it for the opportunity to work in the Last Frontier. It turned out to be a pretty good deal for him then. He's been very happy in his work there.In the late 1990s, he moved to Memphis to get married (to someone else, not me). He resurrected his dissertation and started a new Ph.D. program in Economic Geology. He's once again ABD, and has submitted a first draft of his dissertation. With a little luck and hard work he might complete it before retirement. I've come to the conclusion that it doesn't really matter to him whether or not he completes the degree. If it's okay with him, it's certainly okay with me.
Apparently, with the anticipated completion of his degree and presumably his graduation, he's attracting some interest from potential employers. This would ordinarily be a good thing, except this particular prospect doesn't seem to do much research on its leads. The Loved One is 12 years older than I am, which makes him...of a certain age. Let's just say a draft card would look pretty funny in his wallet next to his AARP card.
What I found particularly intriguing about the Army's pitch to my "graduate" is the enticing copy on the outside of the brochure: "FREE GIFT OFFER INSIDE." Wow. Imagine what kind of
fabulous offer the government of the greatest nation in the world would be offering to induce young men and women to consider a military career and risk life and limb in foreign lands! Unable to stand the suspense, I opened the brochure to find that simply for filling out a postage-paid response card (complete with a line for the applicant's Social Security Number and an extra card to give a friend), we could receive, absolutely free of charge a "personalized U.S. Army dog tag."Amazing. What an offer! I'm really tempted to fill out the card with the name and address of Our Dear Leader, or perhaps his daughters, or perhaps the name and address of any of several of the people at whose doorstep the travesty that has become the war in Iraq could be laid. I'm sure the consequences for such a prank would be dire, but it would be at least as funny as a branch of the armed forces trying to recruit a 50+ year old geologist.
Click here for a list of those who not only got the free personalized dog tag, but also a complimentary body bag to go with it.
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
Postcards from the Edge of Reason
We're in between doctor appointments today. I met Mother at her oncologist's office yesterday, and tomorrow I will meet her and my brother at the neurosurgeon's. The tumor appears to be operable, and we will find out tomorrow if/how and when her surgery will be.
In the meantime, Dear Daughter and I just had a good walk. There are big, boomy clouds in the sky this evening and the temperature dropped about 15 degrees between coming home and going out after dinner. We walked a long block--maybe a half mile, and then spent some time whacking the badminton birdie around. She's got a ways to go on that, but it was fun. Then we played catch with a rubber ball and took turns batting it across the yard. I love doing things like this with her, and it doesn't seem like real exertion because we're laughing and talking and joking while we do it.
Right now, she's gone back outside with her guitar to try and figure it out a little. Last night we had a rather extended piano and bassoon session, so I think we're up to date on both of those. She's playing some simple Bach minuets on the piano pretty well, and getting more comfortable with the fingering on the bassoon every day.
The stresses of the "other" stuff in our life right now are bringing us so close, and it couldn't come at a better time. She's 11, almost 12, and in her first year of middle school. I feel new currents in our relationship, and they're somewhat foreign and will take some getting used to. I love watching her grow and try her wings, but I'm still longing for her to be my little girl.
And, I'm not sure if she noticed, but I noticed that the two teenage boys across the street noticed when she walked by. Hmmm... time to buy the taser.
In the meantime, Dear Daughter and I just had a good walk. There are big, boomy clouds in the sky this evening and the temperature dropped about 15 degrees between coming home and going out after dinner. We walked a long block--maybe a half mile, and then spent some time whacking the badminton birdie around. She's got a ways to go on that, but it was fun. Then we played catch with a rubber ball and took turns batting it across the yard. I love doing things like this with her, and it doesn't seem like real exertion because we're laughing and talking and joking while we do it.
Right now, she's gone back outside with her guitar to try and figure it out a little. Last night we had a rather extended piano and bassoon session, so I think we're up to date on both of those. She's playing some simple Bach minuets on the piano pretty well, and getting more comfortable with the fingering on the bassoon every day.
The stresses of the "other" stuff in our life right now are bringing us so close, and it couldn't come at a better time. She's 11, almost 12, and in her first year of middle school. I feel new currents in our relationship, and they're somewhat foreign and will take some getting used to. I love watching her grow and try her wings, but I'm still longing for her to be my little girl.
And, I'm not sure if she noticed, but I noticed that the two teenage boys across the street noticed when she walked by. Hmmm... time to buy the taser.
Thursday, August 23, 2007
The Approximate Size of my Favorite Tumor
Sherman Alexie is my very favorite Native American writer. Actually, he's the only Native American writer with whom I have enough familiarity to even discuss. But still, he's good. Oh, he's so good. In the summer of 1994, I was overwhelmed with life changes and when I wasn't working at the studio, I spent a lot of time in the old main library in midtown on Peabody Avenue.
Growing up, our family lived within walking distance of a branch library. When I saw "walking distance," you must understand I mean 1968 walking distance, when families still left the house after dinner, together and on foot. We walked lots of places, but the almost-mile down the block, around the corner-left on Tutwiler and straight down the hill to the Randolph was one of our favorite destinations. We'd haul a Radio Flyer red metal wagon behind us, sometime with a few of us kids in it, sometimes not. We made the trip at least once a week and always brought the wagon home, stuffed to the rails with books.
I truly cannot remember a time in my life when I could not read. With two older sisters who were both early and natural readers, I take it for granted that I just started reading one day the same way I one started breathing or eating or walking. I remember getting my own library card, back when they were still hand-written on thin yellow cardboard by the lady librarian with the glasses held around her neck with a silver bead chain. Because I was only four at the time, she was reluctant to let me have the card. A stipulation was that the applicant had to be able to sign the card, and at the time I still wrote upside-down and backwards. One of our neighbors was a student library worker though, and, as he was also our babysitter, he had firsthand knowledge that I could indeed read well enough to have my own card.
I've always loved libraries, and in June of 1994, the main library was a place of great comfort for me. I would linger for hours, wandering through the aisles browsing. I had the leisure time to look and investigate books with interesting covers or titles. It was during this time I discovered Sherman Alexie and his collections of poetry and short stories.
Alexie is a Coeur d'Alene/Spokane Native, and writes the most painfully and powerfully beautiful prose. He writes mostly of the gritty realism of life on the rez, of the cultural divide that still exists between us and them, of social and educational inequities, of alcoholism, despair and poverty. Alexie takes these difficult themes and using his wry, spare humor crafts something wonderful and graceful out of them. In other, less loving hands, his stories would end up suitable for films by Quentin Tarantino or Ridley Scott. I would give a lot to write half as well as this man. Sherman Alexie writes better grocery lists than anything I'll ever dream up.
After reading Alexie's 1993 collection, The Lone Ranger and Tonto Fistfight in Heaven, I wrote him a card telling him how much I enjoyed the book. He was kind enough to write me a quick card back. In 2004, when he spoke at Rhodes College, I packed up Dear Daughter and dragged her along to the lecture. It wasn't exactly the very best atmosphere for a third grader, but if she's going to learn some of the more difficult truths about life, I'd much prefer she learn them in my company, and from the mouth of someone who actually cares about this world.
Anyway, we met the author after the lecture, and he said he remembered my letter. It was a nice thing for him to say. He signed our book. We talked awhile about things we like.
I borrowed the title for this post from the name of one of Alexie's very best short stories. It's the tale of a man, dying of cancer, whose wife leaves him because he refuses to take his illness seriously. In the end she returns because, as she puts it, "someone needs to help you die the right way. And we both know that dying ain't something you ever done before."
Mom came home from the hospital today. She'll go for a PET scan Monday, and another evaluation by her oncologist and the neurosurgeon later next week. After these appointments, she'll decide about further treatment. The approximate size of my favorite tumor is nearly four centimeters. That's the size of my thumb, or the cone of my computer speakers, or the screen on my cell phone, your average pluot. It's located in her frontal lobe, where it can't possibly be doing her any good. We don't know what's going to happen in the next few weeks. This ain't something we've ever done before.
Growing up, our family lived within walking distance of a branch library. When I saw "walking distance," you must understand I mean 1968 walking distance, when families still left the house after dinner, together and on foot. We walked lots of places, but the almost-mile down the block, around the corner-left on Tutwiler and straight down the hill to the Randolph was one of our favorite destinations. We'd haul a Radio Flyer red metal wagon behind us, sometime with a few of us kids in it, sometimes not. We made the trip at least once a week and always brought the wagon home, stuffed to the rails with books.
I truly cannot remember a time in my life when I could not read. With two older sisters who were both early and natural readers, I take it for granted that I just started reading one day the same way I one started breathing or eating or walking. I remember getting my own library card, back when they were still hand-written on thin yellow cardboard by the lady librarian with the glasses held around her neck with a silver bead chain. Because I was only four at the time, she was reluctant to let me have the card. A stipulation was that the applicant had to be able to sign the card, and at the time I still wrote upside-down and backwards. One of our neighbors was a student library worker though, and, as he was also our babysitter, he had firsthand knowledge that I could indeed read well enough to have my own card.
I've always loved libraries, and in June of 1994, the main library was a place of great comfort for me. I would linger for hours, wandering through the aisles browsing. I had the leisure time to look and investigate books with interesting covers or titles. It was during this time I discovered Sherman Alexie and his collections of poetry and short stories.
Alexie is a Coeur d'Alene/Spokane Native, and writes the most painfully and powerfully beautiful prose. He writes mostly of the gritty realism of life on the rez, of the cultural divide that still exists between us and them, of social and educational inequities, of alcoholism, despair and poverty. Alexie takes these difficult themes and using his wry, spare humor crafts something wonderful and graceful out of them. In other, less loving hands, his stories would end up suitable for films by Quentin Tarantino or Ridley Scott. I would give a lot to write half as well as this man. Sherman Alexie writes better grocery lists than anything I'll ever dream up.
After reading Alexie's 1993 collection, The Lone Ranger and Tonto Fistfight in Heaven, I wrote him a card telling him how much I enjoyed the book. He was kind enough to write me a quick card back. In 2004, when he spoke at Rhodes College, I packed up Dear Daughter and dragged her along to the lecture. It wasn't exactly the very best atmosphere for a third grader, but if she's going to learn some of the more difficult truths about life, I'd much prefer she learn them in my company, and from the mouth of someone who actually cares about this world.
Anyway, we met the author after the lecture, and he said he remembered my letter. It was a nice thing for him to say. He signed our book. We talked awhile about things we like.
I borrowed the title for this post from the name of one of Alexie's very best short stories. It's the tale of a man, dying of cancer, whose wife leaves him because he refuses to take his illness seriously. In the end she returns because, as she puts it, "someone needs to help you die the right way. And we both know that dying ain't something you ever done before."
Mom came home from the hospital today. She'll go for a PET scan Monday, and another evaluation by her oncologist and the neurosurgeon later next week. After these appointments, she'll decide about further treatment. The approximate size of my favorite tumor is nearly four centimeters. That's the size of my thumb, or the cone of my computer speakers, or the screen on my cell phone, your average pluot. It's located in her frontal lobe, where it can't possibly be doing her any good. We don't know what's going to happen in the next few weeks. This ain't something we've ever done before.
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
From the Mouths of Stuffed Animals
When my mom was first diagnosed with lung cancer in 2005, the hardest moment for me was explaining to Dear Daughter that her beloved grandmother was sick. She's only known one set of grandparents in her life, and spent a great deal of time with them while I was finishing my degree. Plus, for all of our dysfunctionality, we are a curiously close bunch, so she's grown up knowing and loving them well.
Naturally, she was struck pretty hard by the news of her grandmother's serious illness. One day while we were driving along, she made the astute observation that "...one person gets sick, but the whole family gets cancer." Considering she was only nine at the time, I was blown away by how precisely she summed up our situation at the time.
Monday night I had to explain to her about mom's brain tumors. Needless to say, she was not happy to hear any of it. Huddled under her favorite purple throw with the Bratz dolls printed all over it, she ordered me to leave my own room and don't come back for a while. Ordinarily, I don't take quite as much guff from someone to whom I gave a nine-month ride, but this was an extenuating circumstances. I did leave the room, but came back quickly bringing someone I knew she could talk things through with.
I tossed him under the blanket and ran, knowing I was in for it. A few minutes later, I heard doors slamming and figured she was working things out. Later on, she came out, Bunny in tow and announced she'd been sitting in a closet with a flashlight and Bunny talking it out.
"Human lives are really complicated," she told me he said. As an involved observer of the human condition for nearly 12 years now, this dear, dilapidated philosopher summed up succinctly our position today in the vast web of the universe. Mom still has swelling in her brain, at least one tumor, is taking steroids and Ativan and is having nicotine withdrawal fits. She's not exactly fun to be with right now, right at a time when we all need each other the most. I'm taking my cues from Bunny, and remaining silent as much as possible. I can only hope that when I do speak, I can be as sagacious as he is.
Naturally, she was struck pretty hard by the news of her grandmother's serious illness. One day while we were driving along, she made the astute observation that "...one person gets sick, but the whole family gets cancer." Considering she was only nine at the time, I was blown away by how precisely she summed up our situation at the time.
Monday night I had to explain to her about mom's brain tumors. Needless to say, she was not happy to hear any of it. Huddled under her favorite purple throw with the Bratz dolls printed all over it, she ordered me to leave my own room and don't come back for a while. Ordinarily, I don't take quite as much guff from someone to whom I gave a nine-month ride, but this was an extenuating circumstances. I did leave the room, but came back quickly bringing someone I knew she could talk things through with.
I tossed him under the blanket and ran, knowing I was in for it. A few minutes later, I heard doors slamming and figured she was working things out. Later on, she came out, Bunny in tow and announced she'd been sitting in a closet with a flashlight and Bunny talking it out.
"Human lives are really complicated," she told me he said. As an involved observer of the human condition for nearly 12 years now, this dear, dilapidated philosopher summed up succinctly our position today in the vast web of the universe. Mom still has swelling in her brain, at least one tumor, is taking steroids and Ativan and is having nicotine withdrawal fits. She's not exactly fun to be with right now, right at a time when we all need each other the most. I'm taking my cues from Bunny, and remaining silent as much as possible. I can only hope that when I do speak, I can be as sagacious as he is.
Tuesday, August 21, 2007
Want a Cookie?
This is what my fortune cookie said today:
Ha, just my luck, and quite the coincidence, considering I made a fresh batch of yogurt last night. The pot is still in the fridge though, since I reuse it each time I ferment more. I love making yogurt at home. There's something so natural and good about slow-cooking milk until it turns into an entirely different and delicious treat. The process is very simple and the end result is much fresher and tastes worlds away from even the good organic brands. Dear Daughter is learning to eat it with less sweetener or sugar, and dumps it on cereal or fresh fruit for dessert or breakfast. We come up with all kinds of wacky smoothie combinations and even made frozen strawberry yogurt one night with it. I also made a cucumber raita from a recipe I found on Chow.
Anyway, I can't give you a virtual yogurt, but I can offer you your very own fortune cookie.
The answer is in the yoghurt pot you threw in the trash.
Ha, just my luck, and quite the coincidence, considering I made a fresh batch of yogurt last night. The pot is still in the fridge though, since I reuse it each time I ferment more. I love making yogurt at home. There's something so natural and good about slow-cooking milk until it turns into an entirely different and delicious treat. The process is very simple and the end result is much fresher and tastes worlds away from even the good organic brands. Dear Daughter is learning to eat it with less sweetener or sugar, and dumps it on cereal or fresh fruit for dessert or breakfast. We come up with all kinds of wacky smoothie combinations and even made frozen strawberry yogurt one night with it. I also made a cucumber raita from a recipe I found on Chow.
Anyway, I can't give you a virtual yogurt, but I can offer you your very own fortune cookie.
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