Songs of the Season, Part I

Christmas songs play in my head almost all year long. There are certain songs that seem appropriate for almost any occasion. I'm not a singer, so those around me are not tortured with my vocal renderings of these songs. Jingle Bells pops up with alarming frequency in the strangest of circumstances (in a line of traffic, in a line at the grocery store, in fact any place I have to wait for a period of time). Most of these songs I have heard a bazillion times throughout my life. I recall as a child hearing on our little transistor radios a Christmas song or two interspersed with the rock n'roll stuff blaring in our ears constantly. Christmas Eve was the time when our dad would put on his radio station in the living room and we would be inundated with renditions of holiday favorites sung by Frank Sinatra, Bing Crosby, Perry Como and the like. His radio station went 24 hours with Christmas songs and was only one of a few that did it. I even remember a TV station that showed a picture of a log perpetually burning in a fireplace as the holiday songs filled the airwaves. No commercials. It was amazing.

My husbands eclectic collection of holiday songs includes things from Dr. Demento with vocal renderings from the Three Stooges to Adam Sandler (and some Hanukkah songs as well--nothing is sacred to that man!). But songs like, "White Christmas", "The Holly and The Ivy", and yes, even "Jingle Bells" are still the ones I listen to again and again. My daughter has a lovely tradition she has started (and I hope continues, hint, hint) of creating compilations of holiday songs. It's a gift I look forward to every year as these CDs follow me in my car from place to place. They are varied and contain old and new artists, old and new songs, funny and serious. She has a lovely ear for music and weaves these treasures with a sure hand and good computer filled with thousands of songs. I usually pop in the one from the previous year (or sometimes more than a few years back) while traveling to stores and even to her house to refresh my memory of the tunes she's added or subtracted. Her selections fill my head (and heart) as soon as Thanksgiving draws near and well into January, I'm still playing them.

In the next few weeks, I hope to select some songs that bring the holidays into focus for me. I hope you will hum along with my words as I wander about the season.

A Difference in Temperature

I'm doing a first this weekend; I'm visiting my daughter overnight. I came down yesterday with bag in hand and a sense of anticipation. I haven't done this before in her new house. I was looking forward to hearing about her recent experiences camping with students and not having to rush home. We had a leisurely dinner, did a little shopping and came back to her place to watch the kitties have "Wrestlemania" , which they apparently do most nights. The weather was due to change overnight as a cold front was pushing through. My daughter, ever mindful of my propensity to freeze easily, loaded up my bed with not one but two quilts. When we went to bed, I was confident of being warm and cozy.  I woke up several times so warm I thought I was as done as a turkey on Thanksgiving. I rearranged the quilts and tried to go back to sleep. That's when I noticed how dark it was. Really dark. I'm used to street lights or even neighbors house lights. Not here. It was dark. And suddenly I felt cold. So I turned the light on and rearranged the quilts again. But now I wasn't sleepy. I grabbed my trusty iPad next to the bed and read for a while. I nodded off at some point and realized I was at 400 degrees again. I again, flipped the topmost quilt off and turned off the light and tried to sleep. It was really quiet out here. And did I mention dark? I lay there for a while staring at the window. I began to feel drowsy. I turned over and tucked my arms under the quilt, it was cold. Should I grab the other quilt again? At this point I think I was just too tired, so I drifted off to sleep dreaming of winter. My daughter and her husband like their house cooler than I am used to, but it was not artic by any means. I guess the blood just doesn't flood as fast or something.

I awoke earlier than she and watched the sun coming up over the trees which surround her backyard. It was a restful and pretty sight and I'm glad I was here in the morning to see it. Next time I think I'll bring long sleeved pjs with me and maybe a night light.

Menacing Mailbox

At what size does a spider become a menace? No, really, this is a real question. Yesterday there was an innocuous little arachnid on the pristine wall of the bathroom. Really small, like less than a millimeter-the whole thing, legs, body everything. I took the hair dryer I was blowing my hair with and turned it on him to blow him somewhere else, where I wouldn’t have to look at him. He didn’t creep me out. Didn’t make my flesh pop out in goosebumps. Nothing. I saw this same spider again this morning. Same thing. Now, I admit, there was a time when I would have handled this a little less calmly. I would have gone straight to the “smoosh” mode. But I’ve matured. I’ve come to not get hysterical just because something has 8 legs and is walking on the wall.

BUT, also this morning, I went out to retrieve the morning paper. Upon coming back to the front door, I realized that there was one of those gauzy spider webs on the mailbox attached to the wood next to the front door. It  has been there before and I keep knocking the web down with the broom and it keeps coming back. The mailman yesterday informed me he thought it was part of the Halloween decorations. It isn’t. I would never use even fake spider webs to decorate anything. It’s not in me, sorry. Anyway, seeing this creepy wispy web on the mailbox again and I began to make a pass with the paper picked up, you know, brushing it away again. But I was arrested with a sudden glimpse of a leg. One of eight. It was brown and significantly longer than the millimeter shortstuff in the bathroom. It was not a “daddy long legs” spider, which I don’t seem to have a problem with either. Nope, this was a junior tarantula. I stood stock still at the size of the thing. There was another leg visible as I got closer to the door. It seemed enormous. Those goosebumps I didn’t have with the guy in the bathroom, they leap all over me. This thing could eat me for breakfast I thought.

In all honesty, it could not. It would run away, right? It wouldn’t run up the broom handle (which I did see a spider do in one of those stupid documentaries about spiders—this kind lived in the jungle—not in suburbia). It wouldn’t jump out and attack me, right? But of course, it could. You know animals do protect their territory. It could come at me, menacingly.

So I’m left with the question. Why did the little one in the bathroom not bother me, but the gargantuan on the mailbox make me want to go to the back door to get back in the house rather than confront it? What size becomes menacing? I’d really like to know.

The autumn of my discontent

I really don't know what the matter is really. A general sense of life going by plodding as well as streaking--how is that possible? Each day I am done at work, I gratefully come home, put my feet  and play a few computer games and suddenly it's time for dinner, then clean up, then fussing with the next days wardrobe, then blissful sleep. Only to awaken the next morning to get ready for work, go there and begin the cycle again. It's not taxing, it's is sort of mind numbing. All of a sudden a week has passed! Plodding and streaking, see whatnI mean? I decided I needed a new hobby, something to occupy my mind. I began reading up about it and voila it was time to go to bed and then back to work, and, well, you get the idea. I'm still hoping for a new hobby or outlook or something. But right now? I'll just sit here and read or play a few games. It's not dinner time, yet, is it?

The Other Side

The above phrase can mean a host of things, can't it? It can mean the opposite of something, but usually said, "on the other hand." It has been used to mean the other side of life, or merely a side different from ours. It's a great balancing statement--looking at both sides of an issue can either bring clarity or confusion. I'm using it geographically today, though. I'm onthe other side of the country than my usual dwelling place. A place different from my everyday experiences. A place with a bunch of new circumstances and well, challenges. Adventures even! When we got here it was tiring, but exciting to see new places and see loved ones. The challenge comes in remembering all the things necessary now for the everyday-ness to seep into the new day, so we can enjoy everything on this other side.

Ther are medicines to take, foods to avoid, routines that are now a part of that life that we live on the "other side" that have to translate to the situations here and now. We didn't have to do that before. "The againg process" hubby is fond of calling it. Oh, well. I'll be posting more later, unless I get too busy from the Other Side.

Twenty Seven Years ago tomorrow

I developed a playlist not too long ago for my iPhone. It has some of my most favorite songs on it (and very few musical numbers, I might add). They are songs that make my feet tap and bring a smile to my face. Once I learned how to manipulate the music portion of the iPhone, I was ecstatic about being able to bring this music with me. I think I will post about some of the songs as I go along on this blog, but today I zeroed in on one of the songs that came up while listening. I was so flooded with memories of my son as an infant hearing that song, I almost couldn't see the keyboard. He's a young man now. Accomplished and smart. And living far away. Unless you have had children and had them move farther than a couple hours away, you really can't know that ache that assaults you from time to time. You long for them even though you know they are well fed, sheltered and surrounded by friends.

To get back to the song, though...picture if you will a mom with two kids. The little girl, a delight, really, as she loves life and everything she encounters, is out somewhere. Can't remember where, probably following the neighbor around peppering her with questions. This mom, me, is doing those things that mommies need to do throughout the day especially since there is another child who  is still an infant. He's probably a few months old, maybe 5 months, still in those little onesie things with feet and snaps. He is a different baby from the sister. He doesn't want to sleep very much. When walking him around he prefers to be face out instead of snuggled beneath the chin. He is not cranky as much as awake and aware of things.  He observes. He smiles and waves, if you wave first. The mommy is futzing around with things in the house when she decides she would like to listen to some music. She had purchased an album by John Denver and there are some good songs on it which might make the cleaning and other chores pass a little more quickly, so she puts on the album, listening sort of half way to the tunes. The little boy is fussy in his infant seat, so Mom picks him up to determine what the problem could be. He doesn't need to be changed, he burped after feeding so that can't be it. She begins the dialog with him as always, "what's going on, sweetie? What's the matter?" Except its not a dialog, since he can't talk. She faces him out the way he likes, but still he seems restless. She sits on the couch, bouncing him on her knee a little, thinking this will help. John Denver begins singing a song that sort of rocks along and is sort of "waltzy", has that 1,2,3 beat pause thing going on. She, on impulse, picks him up to dance, facing in this time. He fits so sweetly under her chin. His little hand clings to her fingers as she waltzes around the living room and soon, before the last strains of the song are done he has settled. He's not quite asleep, but so content (as is she) with their slow dance. The mom quickly turns off the music and places him in the crib for perhaps a few quiet minutes of sleep. But that dance is forever in her mind. And so is that music.

I have loved the song, "Cool and Green Shady" since that morning. And it brings back a few precious memory of a little boy and a mom who danced with her favorite little boy tucked on so gently under her chin.


Happy Birthday Son. Love you always.

Summertime

Think back, if you can to the days of childhood, when summer was endless. From the time school let out until the time you were fitted for pinching shoes and crinkly crinolines, the golden days were yours to master. Running, jumping, spitting, roller-skating, bike riding or laying in the grass and watching the bulbous clouds form make-believe animals, they were endless. Stretching out into the horizon like riding a wave of ribbon with no end to the spool. From the time you woke up in the morning, energized in a way that was impossible all the rest of the year, to the time you crashed back on the pillow; there were things to see, do, inspect, watch for hours at a time. Time was all we had to worry about. And there is the thing that eludes us as we, the adult have six million things to worry about during the summer and beyond. We don't have those endless days anymore. We have endless worries, problems, situations, concerns. They string along like beads on that endless ribbon we rode so carefree as children.

But we get blips now and then, wrinkles in the ribbon, in between the beads. Those nights of balmy, breezy, soft summer nights. When you laugh with friends, share a good bottle of wine or beer, listen to the katydids and for one chunk of time, just be. Eating ice cream (or frozen yogurt) and remember how it was to just enjoy the summer, on a nice summer night.

Retirement Day

We knew this day was coming. It had been planned for weeks and weeks and weeks. The replacement person is in place, the desk has been emptied of all of his traces. The pinging of the Blackberry will trouble his sleep no more. I tried to observe how he was taking his last day of work, since asking rarely evinces a response. He seemed the same as he always is. He did say it will be a shorter work day. After the exit interview there is no reason to stay. He is a practical man, when all is said and done. I took him to the train station this morning as I have done for the last five years and I will pick him up from there whenever he calls to tell me he's on the way. But it is the last day of this ritual for he and I.The funny thing is, even though it's his last day, the computer at home which notifies him of his emails is pinging away as if the world was on fire and he has the only water source. I'm hoping that the constant sound is actually the ringing of endorsements of what a fine man he is and the quality work he has done and he will be missed. I am sure he willed be missed for his sense of humor, his no-nonsense way of working and getting things done, his calmness in the face of a storm (or a bosses anger). I know all these things are true of my hubby. I'm hoping on the last day of employment at his current job, they will recognize and celebrate this about him as well.

I'm Hiding, I'm Hiding

The above is a first line from a children's poem I memorized a very long time ago. Recently, it was on the periphery of thought that hiding seems like a safe alternative to, we'll, just about everything.  As we were so forcefully reminded a couple of days ago, the world is a dangerous place. If we hide out, then no one can "get" us.

When I think of this "lock-down" mentality, it certainly has an appeal. No one can get in, so no one gets hurt. But see, life doesn't work like that. At least mine doesn't. I need to let people in--family, friends, the hurt and lonely. I see people that just need to know that someone--ANYONE--cares. And how do I just sit back and watch them think that?

I'm going to get up on my soapbox now, so you can change the channel anytime you'd like. I think we need to remind each other of the basic good. We get these big knocks on the head about he "bad" people, where's the dink on the head about the good people? We saw such goodness right after the explosions, as the paramedics rushed in, and the police helped out. But how come this caring, good stuff gets celebrated only in disasters? I think most people are walking around basically good. I think people are helping out all the time. Where's the headline about them?  Is it because its so commonplace we don't think it's extraordinary any more? No, it's because, I guess that this bad stuff is so wrong we can't believe it. Believing people are good is easier or something.

I'm not sure of the point I'm making here. I'm still processing my thoughts. But I don't think "I'm hiding, I'm hiding" is the way to go to deal with this.

You Never Know

You never can know who influences things or how things stick in someone else's brain. I had a delightful experience a while back when someone remembered that I used to host a "mother's group" at church. She said it helped her get out of the house and her own head some days. I didn't think it had much of an impact, but it did to someone.

One of the things I do at my work place is have one of those day by day calendars. Just a stock one. Nothing fancy or animated or even in color. But each day I put a quote on the space underneath the date. People visit my desk throughout the day for various reasons, but almost always someone sees that there is a quote there and they read it. Sometimes they get it, sometimes not. We have interesting conversations about the quotes and some who have visited come back later and tell me they read something else by the author and found them to be a) enlightening, b) not as erudite as the quote or c) somewhere in between. I usually don't pay attention to things like the summer solstice or Flag Day and just randomly put the quotes on the days in the order I either found them or like them. There is no rhyme or reason, just whimsy.

Now tomorrow I will go to a doctor and have a hearing test. It is beyond question, one of the things I most hate to do. Because it will not be a positive test. I'm sure of it. I have nerve deafness. It won't be cured, it won't get better. So each time I have a test it just reminds me that I have something I can't fix in me. Something that is not working that I can't bind up or put antiseptic on or anything else to make it go away. I come home grumpy from these tests ALWAYS. So as I sat at my desk today, readying it for tomorrow morning I looked at my calendar and flipped it over to tomorrow. And there was a quote from someone whom I admire. She is not flamboyant  in her writing or her lifestyle. But she wise and  warm and I found her on-line when my brother suggested I read her blogs. The quote for tomorrow reads:  "Attitude is the only thing you can control. You have a choice every morning when you wake up. That's a gift."

She wrote that after getting shot. Read that again, please. She wrote that after getting shot in Arizona, holding a little girls hand. She is telling me (and by extension everyone who reads her) that I can control my attitude. I may not be able to fix that test result. Or even my ears. But how I react to those things, that's up to me. I can control that. I don't have to whine or cry or beat my chest. I can accept the results whatever they may be with an attitude that suggests this isn't the sum total of who I am. And I can decide that when I wake up tomorrow, it won't matter whether its raining or sunny. Because my attitude will decide the day.

Thanks A/B for the advice, for the wise counsel and for blogging so diligently. I am grateful for your words and your humor and your influence in what otherwise can be a day of regrets.

I Was Done With This...

I had some basal cell cancer removed from my face a few months ago. Lots of people get basal cell, I'm told. Lots of people get it cut out and move on. I've blogged about my experience to some small degree. I had moved on, I thought. It was history. No need to revisit.

Then I went to the dermatologist for a "follow-up". Alright, I was feeling kind of cocky. I thought it  had healed just fine. I thought she would look at me and say, "see you in 6 months." Yeah, well, that was the plan. As it turns out she did not just say, "see you in six months," although she did say that. What she did say was, " I don't like the way that looks," pointing to my scar. She said it should have been flat, but there were little bumps on it instead. They shouldn't have been there. What did I know? I thought it looked fine. So she "numbed" up the area and scraped the bumps off. "We'll send these out for a biopsy." And just like that I'm paranoid all over again. The one word, well, two really--biopsy and cancer--make me weak in the knees. I hear it and think I need to begin planning the funeral service, getting rid of my stuff, contacting the family. I don't like the fact that I feel that way, but there you have it.

The dermatologist called last night to say that the "bumps" were "pre-cancerous." Meaning before cancer. Meaning whatever she cut out of my face before, wasn't the same stuff that's there now. After I talked to her, I really didn't feel anything very much. It's only now the day after that I begin to get the weak in the knees feeling again. The same scurrying in my stomach as I had before wondering what all this will mean. The same "boy-I-don't-want-to-think-about-this" attitude pervading my every thought anyway.

I have friends who have fought a much more scary cancer than this. I have friends who have fought and lost, too. On the scale of 1 to 10 (10 being the scariest), this is probably a 1 compared to major organs. But oh, it still makes me quivery and nervous, even if no one else thinks this is all that bad. And therein lies the rub. I don't want to have anything wrong. Especially not cancer. I really appreciate others saying, well if you're going to get it, this is the kind to get. Making me feel almost like I should be grateful instead of scared. Comforted instead of nervous. I guess that makes me a wimp. I guess that makes me not very brave. Well, it's good to know things about yourself I guess. And I guess knowing that I'm a weakling can help to make me stronger, but I doubt it.

So for now, I have to get some special cream medicine and use it for a few weeks to see what happens next. I really wish nothing happened next. I wish I could erase the phone call from last night, but I can't . Pardon me if I don't look happy for now. But I thought I was done...

Some Snow

Just a little, thank goodness. Not a lot.
Melting already, dripping over eaves
Plonking on sky lights.
Sun shining off the white
Makes sunglasses a necessity.
People sighing relief, no more running
For bread, milk, gas, candles.
We're stocked up for the next one!
Except the supermarkets are bare.
I'm finishing up my writings today
Brushing off the dictionary, the Strunk and Whites
Clacking keys in the warmth of the sun and
Radiators.
Pulling words out of air and fuzzy brains,
Wrapped in the snug sack
Around my feet
Listening to the water drip
Finding ways to write what I see and hear
While the sun shines off the white.

What a Difference a Week Makes

The snowman wrapping paper
Was waving a cheery hello
One week ago

The tape dispensers were full
The ribbon rolls curling up on themselves
The piled up bags
Became piled up boxes
Gaily wrapped in
Bright reds, greens and sparkles.

But the snow man is waving good-bye now
Delegated to the wrapping paper graveyard
Of leftover scraps-too big to throw away
To small for a whole gift.

The boxes are emptied of their treasures
The trash cans full of ribbon
The tape dispenser is empty but for one small
Strip left-not even enough for a gift.

The pings of electronic gadgetry
The dings of new emails
The click of tapping messages on new phones
Are the only reminder that one week ago
 There were promises and secrets to reveal.
The faint tap, tap, tap of the tree's needles
Counting out the time of the season
Done, once again.

Guess what I got for Christmas?

Do you remember saying that to your friends when you were a kid? It was always followed by something of amazing proportions, so amazing that those you were trying to impress were properly, we'll amazed!

Well, I got something to impress this year. An iPad mini. Yes I asked for one, but I didn't really expect to get one. I'm typing on it even as you read this. Even if my friends aren't amazed, I still am. Our son, the resident expert of things Apple, gave me a tutorial the other night. I think that was worth whatever the price of this little thing. Having mother and son sitting side by side trying out apps and finding the nuances--well the commercial says it--priceless.

One of the most amazing things though was the fact that one of the things in iTunes was this nifty thing which allows a person to "take classes" at one of the colleges offered. I can take a class for free!        This is truly amazing, if I can kill the word one more time. I can log into some big name university or even some small place and take a virtual course! I was so excited by this prospect that I just about cried. What a wonderful thing to be able to do! I've signed onto two courses and began listening and learning already.

So I'm sharing with you what I got this year for Christmas. What did you get?

Christmas Eve Day and Night

The day before Christmas is always a busy one at our house. We put up the tree which has been lodged outside the kitchen window since it's purchase either a week or a few days ago. This entails much muttering, moving furniture, locating boxes in the attic with appropriate lighting and hanging ornaments. There is cooking to be done for the next day, there are presents still to be wrapped, there is conversation and laughter and by the time my head hits the pillow around 1:30 or so, I'm exhausted. But it's a busyness I wouldn't trade for the world. When both children are in residence, their bantering, their earnest conversations that can't happen over the phone, just their presence fills my heart as much as they fill our home. They remember stuff we forget and vice versa (although they usually remember much more than we do!).

But when we go to church on Christmas Eve I am invariably filled with so much more than just their presence. I usually attend church by myself, something that I'm used to and comfortable with for the most part. But when the pew is filled with the family, the wonder and mystery of the night is compounded even if we get there a little late and have to sit in the balcony. And just for a brief hour or so, we sing together, listen to the story of Christmas together, share the peace with the family of the church I've become a part of, and there is nothing that needs to be done or finished or anything! It is a holy night in so many ways. The kids laugh because almost every Christmas Eve, during church, I am filled to the brim with so much emotion that invariably I shed a few tears. Sometimes they are tears of tiredness, but many times its just the pure joy of the night and it's meaning and being surrounded by the family of blood and the family of faith all in one place together.

I hope your Christmas is blessed and joyous and filled with busyness, love and laughter. Because that's why we have the season after all, because He wanted to bless us with his presence.

Merry Christmas!

Growing Up, Together

Knowing my siblings who read this post, they will no doubt think I am going to write about them. But alas, not this time sibs.

Our daughter got married a couple of weeks ago. She and her new hubby had a truly beautiful wedding and the wonderful thing of it was all (or most) we held near and dear were with us to celebrate. Our family, our friends, their good friends. All together under one roof for one night. It was intensely wonderful because we could see the connections between us all, the family, the friends, all wanting the best for the newly married couple.

And then the big celebration is over. The ballroom has been cleaned, the magic of the evening swept away with the mundaneness of everyday living.  People go back to work, back to the gym, back to doing the wash, setting the table, running the vacuum. It all goes back to the minutiae of the minute. And I began to think about what I have learned through my marriage of 34 years. And wondered when did I learn it? When did I learn not to push through the wall of his non-communication? And simply wait until he was ready to tell me whatever it was. When did I learn that my way isn't always the right way (tho it still seems sometimes to me that it must be!)? When did I learn to listen for the rhythm of our give and take without just taking all the time? When did I learn patience? Well, this last one is easy, I still haven't learned it. But I am more patient than I used to be I know for a fact.

When you live with a person whom you love, you begin to change subtly. It isn't suddenly or overnight. I think you begin to try to fit together better, making one whole rather than stubbornly staying in pieces. At least, if love is present, it's more like warm wax. Molding and shifting to become one candle instead of two. But I remember at the beginning of our married life, that it was difficult. We were still used to being these two different people. He did things one way, I another. This was the way his mother did things, this was the way my mother did things. Our daughter has lived with her now husband for a few years beforehand and knows some of those quirks already. But I think marriage brings things out in relief that she might not have noticed before. And I wonder if she saw the shifting, re-adjusting, give and take that her parents were doing? Or did she just assume that her life would be the same and didn't realize that changes had to happen? Did I show her by example the right things or the wrong things? And maybe she learned from my stubbornness the right way to do something which would have been the opposite of me?

But as I said, her newly married life is just beginning. So perhaps its too early to say. I'm glad she is surrounded by loving family and friends. For that surely makes a difference.

Lazy or Crazy

There is so much you can say about getting ready to go to a wedding. Especially if it's your daughter. There is so much you would like to express: the sentimentality, the angst, the bafflement of certain attendees' behaviors. I'm not sure this post will do it justice. But at least I can put a dent in the proceedings and what it feels like and leave the rest for later.

If you were to ask me what I did today, which by the way, the hubby asks whenever I pick him up from the train station, my reply wouldn't sound like it took all day. But it did in actuality. The only actual scheduled thing to do was pick up the dresses (daughters and mine) from the seamstress. During the morning I went to the hotel where some of the guests will be staying to verify a couple of things with them. Then I went to the local stationery store to figure out a problem with the gift bags. Luckily, the young man I talked to had a brilliant idea which didn't cost me a penny, so it was a great trip there! I went over to the nearby clothing store that opened not that long ago and realized that I would be needing a new winter jacket as the one I have used for the last-um-10 years or so is falling apart. So I bought one! Just like that. I went to one of those boxy stores that sell electronics stuff to get a new cover for my beloved phone as the old cover cracked (again) and couldn't be fixed this time. I dropped off a HUGE bunch of plastic bags at the local supermarket. They recycle them so I felt very virtuous. Then home to work on the "Welcome" bags for the hotel. By then it was time to pick up the dresses and then I had a manicure/pedicure appointment.

I'm going to stop on this minute by minute minutiae as it probably borders on the mind-numbing and really I just wanted to talk about the experience of the salon. I don't go to get my nails done. I do them myself if I want polish on them. I mostly stay on the nail (learning to color in the lines of a coloring book helped with this I'm sure) and when I make a mistake I can mop it up with a tissue. But when you go to a salon to have it done, it lasts longer and probably looks better too. The pedicure thing, though, I'm not really a fan. First of all, my feet are cold. Almost all the time. So to have to go out when it's 40 degrees without socks is tortuous for me. Add to that most of my dress shoes are closed toes. Nobody sees my feet but me. So what do I care if there's polish on them or not? But for the wedding, I'm wearing pretty sandal heels and I know that my feet will look better with polish on the toes, so I went ahead and made the appointment.

The biggest problem with going to these places is this:  the people who run most of the establishments in this area are Asian and they have to wear masks because, I'm sure of the horrendous fumes that nail polish exudes. I wear hearing aids. If I can't hear you, I read your lips. Unless you're Asian and you're wearing a mask. In which case the communication becomes decidedly more complex, involving hand gestures, eyebrow arching and a lot of repeating. The pedicure comes first because it takes so much longer than the manicure. Not only does the person working on your feet, well, work on your feet, they also massage your legs, scrape away the rough dead skin (you've been accumulating since the last time you did this) and--at this place--the chair they place you in has a built in massager for your back! What a treat! The other interesting thing about this place was the daytime TV. I rarely watch television during the day as I'm working. I knew soap operas were still on, but I had no idea that there were other talk shows besides Ellen DeGeneres. The one the salon patrons were watching solicited audience opinions on everything from whether a family should get another dog (instead of a chinchilla--don't get me started with that!) to whether a man and woman should break up or stay together. The salon was buzzing with the customer's opinions on the matters at hand, with the Masked Asians adding their two cents worth every few minutes. It was pretty lively. When one of the "regulars" came in (she apparently gets new acrylic nails every two weeks or some such thing), she regaled us with her health stories of recent past while the owner of the salon chimed in with his own health issues. Before I knew it, my feet were done and my nails were drying under the little whirring fans. Of course, for me all conversation ceased at that point as I couldn't hear over the little fans and everyone seemed to have calmed down and began watching Ellen. I left enlightened and feeling as though maybe there wasn't such a problem with two hours of downtime from running around. And they decided all around that getting another dog was a good idea, instead of the chinchilla.

More on wedding preparations as the week progresses...stay tuned!

Eleven Days and Counting

I'm an occasional visitor to Facebook. Yes, I have a page, yes, I put stuff on it once in a while. Mostly, though I snoop at other pages--catching up with my children, friends who have left my sphere of the here and now. My children have "friended" me happily, so I can go and browse when I want without feeling like I'm nosing through their bureau drawers (I NEVER did that! Honest!).

Anyway, while looking at our daughters page, it mentions a countdown. We have a wedding coming up. Hers. She is counting down the days till she and her fiance will become husband and wife. It has been an interesting and exciting time for the family--we've never planned a wedding before. There were and are myriads of things that need planning, doing, fixing, arranging, and need I add, to pay for, as well. There seemed to always be something that needed to be done, or thought about, or (in my case) prayed about. And although things could be stressful, by and large my daughter and I get along just fine most of the time, so we weren't fighting about things, or bickering back and forth. She is getting a little short tempered lately, but as far as I can see, she seems fine, as does the fiance.

And then the other day I got to thinking about some things. Even though she has been living out of our house for a while now, her life will be different. She will be a wife. She will change her last name (she decided to do that, I didn't weigh in one way or the other). Her father is hoping she will have a telephone plan with the new hubby. And it seemed to me that she wasn't little any more. Okay, okay, I know she isn't little and hasn't been for a while. But when people get married they become "big people". Or at least that's always the way I looked at it. Married people are grown-ups. I know several people who will point out that just because someone is married does not mean they are mature--but I'm not talking about that anyway. I'm thinking that the way I've looked at my daughter will change subtly. In ways that even she and I haven't come to figure out yet. The responsibilities that she will have now will not rest solely on what her father and I think, but what her husband thinks. They will make plans and arrangements that have nothing to do with my opinion, my beliefs, my point of view. And that's as it should be. But it will be different now. It made me sad a little. Thinking that things will change. It made me a little melancholy doing the PowerPoint presentation looking at the pictures of her growing up and changing before my eyes, knowing that the changes that I witnessed almost every day, will be witnessed by someone else every day.

Will he notice the changes? As they grow together, will she realize that things are different now? I don't think I did until much later in life. And by then I forgot what was different anyway, I was too busy with the new life. Did my mother see things like that? I'll have to ask her.

And so we are at eleven days and counting. And I keep looking back and thinking how fast all those years went and how eleven days doesn't seem like enough time.

The C Word, Part 1

About 6 months ago, I realized I had a lump in my eyebrow. It wasn't big or anything. And it didn't hurt. But I knew it was there. And I would finger it occasionally just to see if it felt any different.  It didn't feel any different, but it wasn't getting any smaller either. Of course, after I really got to thinking about it, it felt like it was getting bigger. I was sort of freaked out about it. So I went to see a dermatologist. After examining it, she indicated that it was just some sort of growth under the skin and nothing to be upset about and did I want it removed? Well, yeah, I thought. Get it out of there! She numbed me up and proceeded to remove this lumpy thing. It was benign and it would heal before the big wedding coming up and no one would ever know it was there...because now it wasn't! They gave me an appointment for a follow up in three months, which ended up being September. So far so good.

I went to the appointment in September without any trepidation at all. After all the lump was gone and there didn't seem to be anything else to think about. As I sat on the upright recliner waiting for the dermatologist, the assistant came in and told me to remove my clothing and put on this paper drape thing with armholes. Why? I thought? They're just gonna look at the ol' eyebrow, tell themselves what a great job they did and that was the end of that, right? I know you looking at me askance right now and saying, "well, obviously she was wrong." The doctor came  in and said she was going to do a "body check". I immediately thought of the wrestling move and then dismissed it from my mind. She was going to look over the body for any abnormalities--luckily she wasn't checking my mind. She ran her fingers through my hair, a sort of weird feeling for me and then looked me full in the face, pointed to my lip and said, "well, that has to go." What? What has to go? The look on my face? What? So I asked, "what has to go?" She placed her finger on my upper lip and said, "this."

I've looked at my face for 58 years and I still wasn't quite sure what she was pointing at. She got a mirror and showed me the bump that's been there for a long time. I was of two minds at this point. Why this bump? How come you didn't see it when I came in for the other bump? And really what's another bump on my face to worry about anyway? She looked at the rest of me and decided that the bump was the only thing wrong. And then she began to tell me how she was going to "numb it up" and take care of it. I just assumed it would be another lump removal like the one on my eyebrow. But you know, I really didn't want a scar on my face for the wedding pictures, so I just sort of casually asked, will this leave a scar? She stopped prepping and asked what I was worried about. I told her the wedding of our only daughter was two months away and I didn't want to look like Scarface in the wedding pictures. It'll just be a little red, she said. You can cover it up with cosmetics. Fair enough, I said and she numbed it up and came at my face with a sort of sharp little wiry thing. She scraped and scraped, but she wasn't digging it out like the other bump. But of course my lip was numb and really you can't have a conversation with someone when your lip is being worked on, so I waited. When she finally stopped scraping, she said, okay, we're gonna biopsy this, but I'm almost positive what we're gonna find. She put the scraped stuff in a jar, gave me a bandage and handed me a piece of blue paper with instructions on how to take care of the "biopsy" site. She did not say it looked benign like the other lump. She did say, "don't call us, we'll call you" regarding what the results of the biopsy would be. Really? Don't call us? For two weeks, just sit around and worry and worry, but really, we'll get back to you. Very unnerving.

So like a good little patient, I went about my business and tried (really I did) not to think about the word biopsy, what it means, why it triggers certain things in my mind and oh, by the way, don't call us we'll call you. By the second week I was antsy, so I called. They said the person who needed to talk to me would call me back. Which she did, while I was at work. She left a number. I called. She was with patients and couldn't talk right then. She'd call me back. Which she did when I was in the bathroom. So I called back. She was back with another patient. By this time, I had no patience, so I said, "I'll wait." They tried to discourage that adamant stand, but to no avail. Nope, she was talking to me this time if I had to stay on the phone and listen to their way-too-chipper ads about getting rid of wrinkles, fat and age spots for the next few days. Eventually the assistant doctor got on the phone, though and said, well, the biopsy says you have basal cell cancer. And there it was. The "C" word.

I've dreaded that word for most of my adult life. My father had bladder cancer which seemed to metastasize everywhere eventually. It is not something I want to remember much. But the "C" word brings out every single memory I've ever had of this disease. And they are not pleasant ones. I think I stopped breathing for a few moments and then the tears began to roll down my cheeks. I'm relatively sure I wasn't making any gasping sounds, but the doctor said, "are you alright?" knowing full well I wasn't. She explained that basal cell skin cancer doesn't metastasize anywhere except to maybe other places near where it is already. It doesn't "infect" other body parts.   It's a relatively easy fix/cure/whatever you want to call it. She didn't seem particularly concerned. My smart ass self thought, "well of course, she's not concerned, she doesn't have it." But that wasn't fair really. She told me I would need a consultation to discuss what we would do next as a course of action. She said we should schedule that consult relatively quickly. But I have to say, I wasn't ready to do anything quickly. I was still processing. I am still processing. The consultation happened the day after my birthday--Happy Birthday to you! As I follow up with this post, I'll keep you informed.

I know it's just a word. A powerful word, but just a word nonetheless. If it had been some other more "evil" kind, I would probably still be sobbing on the phone instead of going about the business of working, getting ready for a wedding and cleaning up after the cat. I am doing those things, but that word is still in the back of my mind, lurking, it's shadowy specter haunting my waking and even sometimes sleeping moments. I wish I could dismiss it as easily as some others. But so far, I haven't been able to. But I'm working on it. Every day.

Time Spent, Spending Time

I'm sitting here waiting for the phone to ring. Hubby and I have a routine. He calls when he's at a certain place geographically on the train, and I go to pick him up. It's almost always about 6:00 or so. It's fruitless to begin dinner if I haven't started it by 5:45 as I'm never quite sure of the timing--when he'll call. If he'll call while the pasta is still cooking. If the potatoes will be done, or I'll have to turn them off and they'll get all mushy while I ride over. The ride itself isn't that long, maybe 5 minutes or so. It's the sitting at the station or getting caught at the light or the unbelievable amount of people pouring out of the train station at any given moment who feel they have the right to walk directly in front of your car, because, of course, they have the right of way (fat lot of good that will do them in an ambulance being rushed to the hospital for their arrogance). So on many days, I just sit and wait for the phone to ring. Truth to tell, I usually write this blog then. I know I can get some idea down before the phone interrupts and who knows? sometimes he's late and I can continue on my writing without interruption. Invariably, the phone will ring sometime before 6 and it will be some unknown number. We have these new phones which announce the number in a droid-like dialect. Usually it will say, "out of area" or "unavailable", putting the accent on the wrong syllable and sounding like a Russian operator trying to sound out a word in English.

When I come home from work, I'm usually inclined to do a bunch of little short-term things...take in the mail, let out the cat, change the clothes. I'm almost never inclined to begin dinner and have it done before six. I realize that I have enough time to do that when I'm done work. But there always seems to be something else I could do with that time. I check my personal email. And of course, I check other blogs to see what people have to say or even comment about. Cooking for me has never been about the enjoyment in the kitchen. It's almost always been about the, "well we have to eat, so what do we on hand?" philosophy. So finding the something to do before the phone rings is almost like a competition. What can I do before the phone rings that won't bother me when the phone rings to go pick hubby? 

And the phone is ringing, so I'm off. Dinner once more not begun, but a blog successfully posted. It's a good day.