Something for Everybody

Well, there truly is something for everybody...who's dumb enough to fall for it. The "send us your unwanted gold and we'll send you a fortune" ads have slowly been fading away, although they do appear on the insomnia channels. I can't imagine anyone with a lick of sense would be willing to put something as valuable as gold into an envelope and send it off to some unknown entity and expect to get anything back, let alone get back enough to match the value of what they put in aforesaid envelope. But I suppose there were enough people willing to do it that enough profit was generated to pay for the commercials. Good Lord, people, don't you have a jeweler near where you live? Where you could take your unwanted gold and get an estimate of the value? And see if it matches what gold is selling for on the open market? Having done that, couldn't you ask the jeweler how much he would willingly pay for what you have to sell? You would then have the right to accept or refuse on the spot. Bearing in mind that while it may not be the market price, it should be only slightly less than that, and you would be able to decide if it was worth selling.

But the newest one has me wondering - how many people are being taken in by this? Perhaps you have seen the commercial for CardWOO. "Send my your tired, your poor -" Oh, wait. That's not it. Oh, yes, here it is - You send for a prepaid envelope to ship your gift cards in the hope of getting cash for those cards you just don't want. Why wouldn't you want them, you may ask? The commercial tells me that some people don't like the store, can't find anything they want in the store, would rather have cash, etc, etc. So here comes your envelope and you load it up with all those gift cards "cluttering up your junk drawer or your wallet". And you think that in a few days all that money will roll in and you can pay off your mortgage or buy that Ferrari or book a cruise. Fuhgeddaboudid. Not gonna happen. Go to the company web site and read it. (take a sandwich with you 'cuz it's really long. It will tell you absolutely nothing. Oh, well, it will tell you that they will decide if they want to buy your cards or not. They will decide how much they will pay you for your cards. They will NOT be responsible if your cards, in their prepaid envelope, never reach the company red flag, red flag! And if they reject your cards and send them back, they won't be responsible if they never reach you. There are sooooo many opportunities for deception here. I didn't say you were being deceived. No, I didn't. I said there were opportunities. But anyone who buys into this without being fully informed has no one else to blame if it has a less than happy ending.

If I get a card and I can't use it, I'll wait for an appropriate occasion to re-gift it. You can do what you want.

Where've You Been?

I haven't been here so if you've been looking for me, I'm still around. Been trying to dispose of junk, junque, and just plain crap. In between, I've been shampooing carpet, a section at a time. I cannot believe it's Holiday Time again. And as usual, I try to do everything at once and end up by not finishing any of it.

I spent Thanksgiving Day doing exactly what I wanted to do. Which was nothing. Now as usual, my family dinner will happen on Sunday, and I'll enjoy it because someone else will cook it for me. It's a tradition I started many years ago when my youngest two always had "other plans" (read girlfriend) and I began accepting invitations from older, already married, sons. So I would cook my family dinner on Friday or Saturday, depending on individual schedules. It worked quite well for many years until the youngest got married and had his own home and family. He went to his in-laws on THE day, and I to somewhere else. So youngest's wife decided that she would continue my tradition and have a dinner for me. (I don't do in-laws, even though I'm invited.) Don't misunderstand - I have nothing against in-laws, but they come in large quantities and I don't do well in crowds, unless it's my own crowd. And even my own crowd, much as I love 'em, is only tolerable for limited periods.

I had to go out today for milk, the bank, and the dry cleaners. You will notice that I did not mention Black Friday Door Busters, which are, to my mind, a bunch of hoo-hah. Or as Colonel Potter used to say, mule muffins. Haven't heard any reports of violence, but I'm sure that somewhere in the country it got out of hand and tomorrow's news will have all the gory details.

The bank wasn't busy, and I was in, made a deposit, and out in less than three minutes. The market, where I bought the milk, wasn't too busy and I was in and out of there with dispatch. The dry cleaner's had two ahead of me but still not a long delay. I did make an unscheduled stop at the hardware store for some lamp repair stuff - same story, in and out. My Black Friday commerce took me all of about 35 minutes, including travel time. No bargains, but no crazy crowds either.

So I will wait for my Sunday turkey and smirk at the wild and wacky people who got up at 3:30 AM when they could have slept in.

Huh?

It's Hallowe'en and while I am prepared in case little goblins show up, at 7:30PM, none has so far. Of course, there isn't one light on in the whole street. I heard from someone that pickin's were slim on her street as well - blames it on the economy.

Meanwhile, I pass the time watching something called Sister Wives. Yet another reality show on TLC. Where do they find these people?

Anyway, premise is this polygamous family who "want to show everyone what our life style is like". Oooookay. What it's like is three women who appear to be normal, but the fact that the weasel they are "married" to makes me gag has me wondering how normal they could possibly be. And now he has added another "wife" to the mix. Along with her three children from a previous marriage. Now this fool has three other wives with an aggregate of 13 children (all his) and he's slobbering over this new chick who doesn't appear to have much to say except, "howdy".

All the while, one of the "old" wives is preggers with her sixth child. All three of the koo-koos live in the same house, divided up into three suites so each wife and her offspring has their own living quarters. Hubs spends rotational nights with each one. His interaction with the kids seems limited and they don't seem too enamored of Dear Old Dad. F'rinstance, when he was packing to visit Candidate #4, who was living four hours away, none of the kids was around to say goodby to him.
But that's none of my concern.

Now that the new wife/concubine/mistress/whatever is "legal", whatever that means to them, she is ensconced in a home half a mile away from the "compound", a place of her own which none of the other three have. Would I be ticked? You betcha!

Mr. OMYGODWHATDOTHEYSEEINHIM has a job in advertising, and the word is that he has lost clients because of the revelation on TV of his life style. Meri, the original wife, was the only one employed outside the home, and has lost her job (in the mental health field!!) since the advent of the show. But I'm sure that TLC is providing plenty of dollars to this freak show. The authorities are taking a long look at the group, since polygamy is illegal. Funny, even if the marriages are not true civic unions, it is apparently against the law where they live to present yourself as married if you aren't.

To add to the nauseating factor, he has the gall to drag some of his old kids and a couple of the Stepford Wives down south to help pack and move Miss Dumb-As-A-Stump and her kids to her new home. (To make it more interesting, one of her kids has Asperger's Syndrome, which I'm guessing entitles her to some gubmint money.)

How these unfortunate children are being dragged into this is making me cringe. It isn't as if they signed on to live a polygamous life-style. And they don't go to public school. And the daughter who wants to go to the Naval Academy doesn't have a prayer because her education is limited by the schooling she is receiving.

We've had our share of multiple births, and dwarfs who want to prove they can be self-sufficient, and people who hoard and people who need intervention for their addictions. Every Tom, Dick, and Mary bakes cakes, and fishing for crabs, lobsters, and other sea creatures is supposed to be riveting entertainment.

All of this reality is becoming way too unreal. And far creepier than the Hallowe'en kids that I wish were here instead.

The Sunday Funnies

There was a time, maybe about 25 years ago, that I couldn't call my Sunday complete until I had read the comics section. I had favorites, of course, and some I never bothered to read at all. Prince Valiant was one I never read. That said, I admired the astounding attention to detail of the artist, and that was a case where I just "looked at the pitchers". Now the comics section had changed quite a bit from the time I was a child. Some of my old favorites were gone - Smilin' Jack; Li'l Abner; Dick Tracy; Alley Oop; Mary Worth; Gasoline Alley - lost either to discontinuation of the strip or because the strip no longer existed. Over the years, lots more of them disappeared and were replaced with some stuff that just didn't hold my interest. And so, as I aged, I was less and less interested in the funnies.

Until this week. The last time anyone read the funnies to me, it was Fiorello LaGuardia, Mayor of NYC, who read them on the radio during a newspaper strike so as not to deprive people of the continuity of the strips that were following a story-line. But this week, my five-year-old granddaughter read Hagar the Horrible to me, giving it a twist that only she could conceive.

Bearing in mind that she is in Kindergarten, and while she is accomplished at printing her name, first AND last, and her sister's name, she has not yet learned to read, but she enjoys looking at the pictures and telling the story as she perceives it.

Thus it was that Hagar, (the boy) was dressed for Hallowe'en. He was dressed like a "warrior" who "kills people" and they "don't get alive again". And Helga, "the girl" is dressed "like a Grandmom" and "she cooks".

I'm sure the rest of the story was just as compelling, but I had to leave the room so as not to insult the child by laughing. (By this time, I was actually holding back a snort! Or maybe that's a snert?)

After regaining my composure, I sat with her and turned the page, and she was barely able to contain her delight when she realized there were even more comics on the inside pages. I offered to read them to her but she said she would read them herself. Her interpretations could actually get me interested in the funnies once again.

There's nothing like the point of view of a five-year-old to make us realize how jaded we have become.

What Shall We Name the Baby?

I was sitting here the other day pondering the names we give our children, and wondering what it is that drives us when faced with giving to a person, who maybe not even be here yet, or in some cases maybe not even in utero yet, the appellation by which said person will be known for the rest of his/her life. (Okay, can we agree that where I use he/his/him it will mean either sex and is in no way snubbing the femmes? Thank you)

So, back to naming the baby. Naming my own children was not too difficult. The first one was named after his father - yes, he became a Jr. on the moment of birth. But I was young and thought it was expected. I now know better. The second and third sons were named what they were named because I thought the names, first and middle, had a nice ring to them, although in the case of the second son, his middle name was a family name that could as easily been a regular name. Son number four has a first and middle name that I liked all by myself and would have named #two or #three except the last name I had at the time just didn't fit with #four's first and middle. The first and middle name of #five was a mutually-arrived at decision with #five's father. (Who was, BTW, also the father of #four.)

I happen to think that all of my sons have perfectly handsome names, and if any one of them wished to use any variation of their names, they would be equally mellifluous-sounding. Wise of me to think that while they were given those names, they at least had an option in the manner they chose to use them. To wit: First and Last; First, Middle, Last; First, Middle Initial, Last; First Initial, Middle, Last; First Initial, Middle Initial, oh, you know.

In my own case, I was given a first name, which came with a last name. NMI. I have always disliked my first name. Not hated it, exactly, but never thought it had any character or pizzazz. At one point, age 12ish, I desperately wanted my name to be Lisle. pronounced Lie-ull. No, I don't know why. Anyway, for a time I insisted my step-sister call me that, which she did but never without a snicker. But I'm stuck with the name I never really cared for, and I had no options. Until I was confirmed in the church when we got to pick a middle name. At the time, I was in the middle of an episode of religious zeal and having just seen the movie The Song of Bernadette, that's what I chose. The same people who gave me my mundane first name spent no time at all trying to talk me out of my choice and so I ended up with a middle name that offered no options once I came to my senses.

Of course, I, as many others of my age and location, wasted no time getting pregnant and married and being known as Mommy. I was still busy being Mommy when my first-to-get-married son presented me with a baby girl who would be calling me Grandmom. She was followed over the years by siblings and cousins, all 10 of whom call me Grandmom.

Now if we add to the unliked first name, the unwieldly middle name, Mommy and Grandmom, all the character names of all the roles I have played on stage, it occurs to me that it really doesn't much matter what name I was given.

I do recall one woman, upon being told what name I had selected for #five, shrieked loudly into the 'phone, "What the hell kind of a name is that!?" This from a woman who named her only son Guido.

Was That This Year?

Okay, here's a rant. On many occasions, when stopped at a traffic signal, I glance at the surroundings and of late have noticed a proliferation of yard sale signs tacked/stapled/nailed/taped to trees and utility poles. In fact, I've had the dubious pleasure of watching someone put the sign on the pole. Just when I'm about to ask the sign putter-upper if he/she knows that the tree or pole to which he/she is affixing said sign is private property, the light changes and in my neighborhood, you better damn well be prepared to move the exact second the light changes. Or suffer the horn-blowing that is sure to ensue if one's foot is not immediately off-the-brake-and-on-the-gas.

Since I'm not the Private Property Police, it's probably okay that folks want to publicize the sale of tacky junque, which if they don't want it, what makes you think you do?

But it surely grinds my gears when the asshat doesn't have the good sense to come back and take the bloody sign down when the sale is over! Fact is, some of the signs have been on that tree/pole for months. Since we don't live in graffiti-ridden area, and most people are pretty respectful about littering, the yard sale signs are a singular blight on our small communities.

But I have what I consider a way to , if not eliminate these eyesores, at least decrease their numbers. I hope you'll join my crusade. It's pretty easy. So many people are "walkers" in the quest for physical fitness, slip a plastic bag in your pocket tomorrow when you leave for that constitutional. Keep your eyes open for unattractive yard sale signs littering your neighborhood. Since the miscreants have to put their address on their signs, cue ominous music: duh duh daaaaaah we know where you live. After you have collected all the signs along your route, return those suckers to their rightful owners. You can nail them on their tree; slip them under the door; mail them back; or if you're feeling particularly bold, knock on the door and hand 'em over. I suggest you only do the latter if you're sufficiently able to run fast!

Elections have a way of bringing out those odious lawn signs that pop up all over printed with Vote for Doofus thereby perpetrating another eyesore because the law that says the signs must be removed following the election isn't always enforced. I'll bet Mr. Doofus would like to have his signs back. You think so, too? Well, let's make sure Mr. Doofus gets those signs back - on his lawn. Be even better if Mr. Doofus didn't win. (Cue sound of gleeful cackling.)

At the Beach

A week at the Jersey Shore. Wildwood Crest, to be precise. The southernmost end of the Wildwoods. All that's left after the Crest is Cape May and the Atlantic. Ocean, that is. This was my third year of vaca with my youngest son and his family. DIL rents a condo and we do spend the week in comfort. This year's was beach-block. In the Crest, that's very desirable, because crossing the sand to get to the edge of the ocean is quite a walk in itself. In North Wildwood and Wildwood it's an even longer walk. The Wildwoods do have a lot of beach. If you are a beach devotee, you probably have heard that Wildwood is a loud, rowdy,raucous, drunken-party kind of town. You must come to the Crest. It's not at all like you've heard.

So we had a three BR, two bath first floor condo. Nicely furnished and clean as a whistle. Balcony overlooking the well-maintained pool and grill area.

Breakfast in the condo, sandwiches and snacks on the beach, dinner at one or the other of the hundreds of restaurants in the area. Some are good, some are very good and some are just revolting. One night of a seafood feast but we bypass the over-priced all you can eat seafood buffets and opt to cook our own feast in our condo. Shop-Rite has some excellent deals on crab, shrimp, scallops, etc. Our feast, with left-overs, cost about a fourth of what we would have spent at Urie's.

The boardwalk is as gaudy, glitzy, crowded as I remembered from my childhood vacations. The only difference - it was fun then. And it's still fun for the kids. At one spot on the BW, at one of the numerous pizza joints, there was a man tossing pizza dough in a showy manner. He delights in selecting someone, usually a child, from the onlookers and making the dough into a t-shirt. It is kinda cute and they take a photo which can be seen on Facebook. My eight-year-old Granddaughter, who is a ham anyway, was one of the lucky girls who wore this silly garment and had fun doing it.

Lazy days building sand castles and hauling buckets of sea water up the beach to moisten the quick-drying towers seems to be a lot of fun. For the kids. As for me, sitting quietly and reading my Kindle is fun enough for me.

A day in Cape May to wander the shopping district (high-priced clothing, for the most part), and roam the book store. Enjoyed watching the people climb into the horse-drawn open carriages for a half-hour tour of the residential streets with the charming Victorian homes. Forty-five dollars for one person, $60. for two and increments for each add'l passenger. We passed on the trip. Cape May does have a wonderful Zoo/Park and is run by volunteers. Wholly operates on donations and endowments. The animals are scattered about in native habitats, for the most part, and the fences that surround them are mostly disguised. We didn't go this year, but it is a nice way to spend a few hours.

The consensus? A week is too short.

Been a While

I haven't been around. Well, I've been around, just not around here. Had some bad days - not terrible - just bad. Then went on vacation. And it's been too bloody hot to even think let alone think of posting.

I've been like the weather. Dry. Very dry. We definitely need rain. Got some today, and while it's welcome, it's not sufficient.

I still stubbornly maintain my stance against the air conditioner in my window. Haven't installed it the last couple of years, and despite the intense heat and humidity of this summer, I'm holding fast. What the hell. My youngest son has central air in his house, and I have a key. Or a walk around the Dollar Store gets me a brief respite from the Dog Days. Their A/C is going whether I'm there or not so it doesn't cost them extra when I peruse the merchandise. Buy something. Don't buy something. They don't care. What's that across the parking lot? I do declare it's a Mickey D's. Stroll over and get a Smoothie. Sit and sip a bit. A stop at the market for some watermelon. Linger a while in the frozen food aisle.
A "cool" way to spend the afternoon.

Home for a chicken salad and sliced tomato supper. Nothing too heavy. A frosty pitcher of sweet iced tea awaits. Sit on the screened-in front porch with a good book and a tall cool drink. Sun is low in the sky and the ceiling fan in the bedroom makes the night tolerable.

No strenuous activity during the hot spell, except when the electric bill arrives. I can be forgiven for that big, wide smile, can't I?

Soon it will be Fall. Then Winter. The hot, humid weather nothing but a memory. And I have vowed never to complain again about being cold.

As for vacation, it was lovely. Met a magician at dinner; had a turkey platter that would have fed a small country; granddaughter got a pizza crust t-shirt. Come back tomorrow for details.

I Guess It's Me

I don't get Facebook. I didn't get My Space either, when it was all the rage. Oh I joined My Space at the insistence of some friends. Only problem was it repeatedly refused to let me sign in - to my account. Frustrated me no end so I abandoned it.

Then, Chris Hansen does all those exposes of predators who frequented My Space chat rooms and suddenly My Space lost cred. And along comes Facebook. I got a tip that someone I had been searching for might be found on that site, so I signed up. The only people I found were those who only shared their info with "friends". Since I had little interest in befriending these people, I closed the account. And after I did, I got an e-mail from the nice folks who run the place assuring me that I would change my mind, and when I did, they would welcome me back. Nice to know they're keeping my seat warm. But it seems to me that the only reason people want to be on Facebook is to see how many "friends" they can garner. Apparently it gives one a sense of achievement to get to say. "I have xxx number of friends. I'm so popular."

Now the thing that makes me crazy is the New Age of Advertising where companies ask me to join them on Facebook. They offer coupons, and contests, and information about the product. On Facebook. Any takers? Not I, sez I. May not mean much to the giants of industry, but I refuse to do business with a company whose only identity is how many "friends" they have. The point of being in business is to have customers. And the way to get customers is to have a good quality, reasonably priced, readily available product. Tell me about it on TV or in the newspaper. And give me a coupon to introduce it. My return purchases will tell you how friendly I am.

Like I said earlier, I don't get it. If you really think all of these "friends" are friends, tell 'em you're moving and need help. That's when you find out who your friends are.

Dance Recitals and Ugly People

My two youngest granddaughters are dance students. The little one takes ballet and tap, while her sister takes ballet and jazz. She did take tap for a couple of years but switched to jazz last year. I'm not a big fan of jazz, which in recent years has become more hip-hop and less Bob Fosse. Anyway, they had their dance recital(s) over the last two weekends and it's important to them that Grandma attend. I love to see them dance. The only drawback is that one must watch everyone else's kids dance and while the really little ones are cute, the rest of the evening(s) are very long. So, the first Friday, the little one appeared in two numbers - one being her ballet and the other being her tap. She did a good job and basked in the glow of floral tributes, compliments, and lots of hugs.

Saturday night, the older sister had her ballet recital as one of the Munchkins in The Wizard of Oz production. This is her first year as one of the "Big Girls" so she has to work her way up to a premiere role. Since she isn't yet nine years old, it will be three years before we see her on pointe. The young lady who danced the role of the Wicked Witch was a remarkable dancer, although she was a bit on the heavy side. So we got to hug Our Girl, and give her flowers, and tell her how wonderful she is, and then we got to go home.

The following weekend, the big girl had her jazz recital, on both Friday and Saturday evenings. For the first time, the dance school she attends had a young boy in the jazz class. The choreography of her routine called for the boy to lift her during the performance, and for her to cartwheel over him. They both did a nice job and the audience cheered and applauded as they took their simultaneous bow.

I attended the Saturday evening performance and was seated with my son, his wife, and his sister-in-law. In the row in front of us, a man, a woman, and a young boy were seated together. You may be sure that anyone at the recital has a very close relative or an extremely special friend's child. What follows is what was related to me several days after the show.

The jazz dancers were performing, and the girls were wearing pink and black striped shirts, under-leggings and long black shorts. The only boy was dressed in blue and black striped outfit and a ball cap. The woman in the row ahead remarked, "Is that a boy?" and her male companion said, "Yes". The woman responded with, "What is he? A faggot?" The man said, "Leave the kid alone".

The person who heard this exchange was too taken aback to say anything, but I'm afraid I would not have been so reticent. In the first place, why would an adult make that kind of remark about a kid? Within earshot of the kid who had accompanied her? In public? If this sorry excuse for a human could see how ugly she is, she would hide from the world.

As for the young dancer, at age nine he fears being labeled gay by his peers. He's a Little Leaguer with a crush on one of the fifth grade girls in the dance class.
He's taking dance for movement improvement so that when he plays sports, it will enhance his capability on the field.

Would it be poetic justice if this woman's own progeny turned out to practice an alternative lifestyle? I'm only sayin'.

Heroes

Last evening, I attended the Jefferson Awards dinner and award ceremony at the Ramada, along with my youngest, Palmer and his wife, Stacey. The Jefferson honors local people with the spirit of volunteerism and selfless giving. Palmer was nominated because of his decades-long devotion to firefighting, both as a volunteer and career, and his helping hands whereever needed, from coaching soccer and Little League, and recording Coming Home to benefit the families of those deployed to the Middle East. Offering a helping hand to family, friends and people he didn't even know. Just because that's how he is.

The awards are sponsored by the Times Leader, and there was a cocktail hour followed by the usual banquet fare; slice o' melon, limp salad, chicken, rice, a tablespoon of vegetables (really. A tablespoon), and two tablespoons of chocolate mousse. But we weren't expecting much more. It wasn't about the dinner anyway.

We were seated with a woman who was a Nurse Practitioner who had instituted programs to provide health care for migrant workers and other needy people with no insurance, and an 18-year-old man who ran fund raisers in his high school to support a food pantry in the area, having raised almost $2,000. cash in addition to food contributions.

The presentation of the awards, an etched glass plaque, was accompanied by a voice-over reciting the achievements of the seventeen nominees. Seventeen remarkable people, from the 16-year-old young lady to the 89-year-old senior lady who does more in a week than I do in six months. It was inspirational, and humbling, and embarrassing to realize that I do nothing to enrich the lives of others. Hell, I don't even enrich my own life.

Five of these exceptional folks were chosen as finalists, and one overall winner of an expense-paid trip to Washington DC to represent NEPA at the national Jefferson Awards dinner.

At the end of the evening, Palmer told the organizer, Rachel Pugh, that I was the "What's in it for you?" lady. She was very excited and insisted I must be introduced to Richard (Connor). We chatted briefly. He now has the face to put to the e-mails I send when I agree with something he wrote.

It was an uplifting couple of hours. Makes me want to go out and adopt a kid. Well, maybe not. But something.

Seeing Red!

About 10 days ago, I received a letter from the Northeast Regional Cancer Institute asking me to participate in a research project. Because of my cancer diagnosis of colon cancer, and the fact that my area has a 27% higher incidence of this cancer than the rest of the commonwealth. They are attempting to determine the reason for this increase so as to prevent it in the future. I immediately returned the signed consent form indicating that I agreed to participate. An appointment was scheduled for me to be interviewed, and meantime, I was asked to fill out a survey of my dietary habits in the year prior to my diagnosis. The survey was pretty heavy on low fat vs. full fat, sugars, carbs, red meats, salty snacks and all the other foods that really aren't optimally nutritious.

Yesterday, I went to the appointment as scheduled, and met with a delightful woman who questioned me on other aspects of my life that may or may not have contributed to my cancer. The appointment lasted about an hour, during which she took a sample of my DNA for genetic testing, which consisted of the scraping of the inside of the cheeks and the tongue, just like on TV.

In the course of the conversation, she told me that the institute was grateful to me for agreeing to participate in the study, since they had a difficult time getting people to do so. People who, like me, carried a diagnosis of colorectal cancer. Refusing to participate in a study to try to determine causative factors. Which might possibly help future generations if discovered. I am furious. I am so furious I could spit. How can anyone deny my children and my grandchildren and their children the possibility of seeing this scourge eradicated in their lifetime?

What could conceivably be reason enough to say, "No" to this endeavor? What would possess a person to forget the chill of hearing their diagnosis so to inflict that chill on those to come after?

For a lousy hour and a half (the food survey took about 30 minutes) it is possible to be the link in the chain that discovers the reason for the tumors that grow in the dark, unseen even as they erode the gut and spread to places where they can't be removed. God preserve us and protect us from such selfishness.

I Do So Have a Heart!

Yesterday, I had my six-month check-up with my cardiologist. I go to see him to make sure my aorta/pig valve is still oinking along. Apparently, it is, because he tells me it is. Not being an expert in the field, I take his word for it. And I don't have to go back for six months.

The other members of the health care team are all on a three month schedule and it seems like I should be able to stretch that out by now. If I had a rash, or some big old ugly festering sore that needed to be looked at and treated, I'd be happy to go as often as requested. But everything that I'm being checked for is on the inside and not visible to the naked eye. My office visits could pretty much be accomplished with a 'phone call.

"Joan? This is Dr. Whooziz. How are you feeling?"

"Doing well, Dr."

"Are you exercising regularly?"

"Well, not as regularly as you'd like, but I get around okay."

"Are you maintaining a healthy weight?"

"I've actually lost two pounds since we spoke last."

"That's good. No chest pain? No palpitations? S.O.B.?"
(No, he didn't call me a bad name, that means shortness of breath)

"No, none of the above Dr. Things are fine, I think."

"Okay, Joan. If you have any questions, save them for our next chat."

Now, I'd have pretty much the same conversation(s) with Dr. Whatzis and Dr. CutUp.

Of course, there remains the matter of the fee - or no fee. No office visit means no $$. So, I go to the office every three months, and we have basically the same conversation. The only difference is they get to bill my insurance, and I write out a check for my co-pay.

Oh, yeah, and I don't get to lie about losing two pounds.

Good for Another 3,000 Miles

It's been well-documented that I had cancer. I had surgery to get it out. I had chemo to keep it out. And now we have the follow-up stuff to make sure it stays out.

So on Wednesday, I finally got around to having the colonoscopy that I was supposed to have on the 17th. of Feb., except I got sick and couldn't have it. I did blog about it if you really want to know the sordid details. Suffice it to say here, I had the same reaction to the Bisacodyl that ocurred during the previous prep. The headache, the nausea. Undaunted, I refused to puke and I struggled the liquid down,
(yuk) and did what I had to do. I was not going to postpone this again.

Showed up at the Endoscopy Center as scheduled, checked in, had the scope with no complications, and when I woke up, the nice lady gave me a nice cup of coffee and two nice cookies, and I felt lots better.

Learned that there was a polyp which was removed and sent to pathology. Also, there was a hemorrhoid! I thought Dr Saeed got them all in January. He's not getting this one!

Had a nice breakfast, went to Fifth St. and hung out with the kids. Came home to a really good night's sleep.

On Friday, I got a call that the pathology was back and the polyp was benign. Until I heard the word, I wasn't ready to admit that I was apprehensive about the results. Funny. I really felt that the veil lifted. After a year of uncertainty.

But my sense of well-being was not to last very long. Because this is the week-end of the time change. Anyone who knows me knows my feelings about this bi-annual lunacy. Take daylight off the front of the day and put it on the back of the day. For nine months. Who decides these things? So now, the kid next door leaves for school in the dark. Maybe only for a few weeks, but what the hell? Why should he have to? When this was an agrarian society, it was nice that the farmers still had a little daylight at the end of his work day. Of course, most days, he was too tired to stay awake to enjoy it. So now, people can continue the frenetic pace late in the day. For what?

It is a tradition which has out-lived any usefulness. And I'm not sure it should even matter to me. The polyp was benign.

Snowday(s)

Last week, a snowicane, (I never heard of it, either), was predicted. A really big snow storm accompanied by high winds. In my day, this was called a blizzard. But then, I'm an old fogey. Some young upstart believes that newer is better. Since I've survived a few Honest-to-God blizzards in my day, I say, "Let's see what you've got".

I listened intently when my youngest son called to invite me to pack a few things and come to his house to spend the storm with his family. I politely declined, opting to spend the time at my home, where I have plenty of food, medication, and good neighbors who see to my shoveling.

Watched as much as I could stand of the news reports of panicked citizens storming the grocery stores to stock up on bread, milk and eggs. Me? If I'm going to head out to stock up on anything, it will be brownies and wine. But I digress. A routine interview will be with the snowplow driver/salt truck operator who informs us that the trucks will be running 'round the clock, and you can just hear the "ka-ching" sounding in his head as he speaks sadly about the time he'll spend away from his family.
"Stay off the roads and let the plows do their job".
"The Governor has closed the interstates".
"Here's a shot of the Turnpike, showing traffic moving well in the one open lane".

It doesn't really matter how much snow is predicted, the news reports will always be the same. PEOPLE! PLEASE! Snow should not be the lead story. This is Winter. This is the Northeast. It will snow. These are all facts. Let's face them and move on.

If I'm looking out my window at a frigid white landscape, I'd rather not watch more of it on my TV. How about dragging out the shots of the kids diving into the local pool in mid-July? Or the folks enjoying the rides and the food concessions at an amusement park? Can you find the interview you did with The Good Humor Man as he made his rounds on the hottest day of the year?

Do you think you can be a little innovative? Go ahead and shoot the shot of the mounds of snow the plow guy piled up. And the snow-covered interstates. And the frosted tree branches. Put 'em in the archives. I'd enjoy looking at them when the temperature hits 97F. in August.

Tiger, Tiger, Burning Bright...

Sorry? Really? For what? Getting caught?

Did your advisors tell you to invoke Mother, Wife, Children, Buddhism in your apology? Oh, yes, and The Game?

You took the counsel your Father lavished on you in his efforts to make you a man and you sullied his memory. You disrespected your family. You made a mockery of your talent. Turned your back on your religious upbringing. Slapped your fans four-square in the face.

But don't you worry about The Game. The Game will be fine. Jones, Palmer, Nicklaus, Trevino, Lema, Singh, Els, etc., etc.

The Perils of Pauline

I always tell myself that getting sick is not an option. Apparently, I don't listen to myself when I talk. Now, mind you, that is not to say I'm sick. Exactly. That's still in the discovery phase. But when two doctors and three nurses are concerned that I might be sick, I pretty much tell myself that I must be, and of course, then I listen.

Yesterday, I was supposed to prepare myself for my annual colonoscopy. When one day a doctor says you have cancer in there, and takes the tumor and part of said colon out of you, they make you let them look around in there every year to make sure the invader hasn't returned.

All in all, it isn't really that unpleasant. Before the first time you have a colonoscopy, the anticipation is really rough, because you don't know exactly what's going to happen. Well, wait. You do know, but you don't know how you're going to feel about it. You just figure it isn't going to be good. Let me hasten to assure you, (and convince you that you really should see about getting one the minute your doctor says you should), it really isn't as bad as you assume it will be. Trust me.
A nice nurse will help you into a gown, start an IV, a nice anesthesiologist will give you some drift away medicine in the said IV, and off you go. When next you open your eyes, it's all over. Lacking any discomfort in the rear echelon, you'll actually find yourself wondering if they somehow decided not to do the test. Because nothing hurts, or is uncomfortable. When they're sure you're awake and functioning, they'll let you get dressed and go home, where you'll just hang out, eat and watch TV for the rest of the day.

Now as to the prep, that's somewhat more unpleasant. You have to spend an entire day subsisting on a clear liquid diet. Their interpretation of clear liquid does NOT include milk, ice cream, yogurt or anything red. You may have Jell-o as long as it isn't red. You may have bullion, chicken or beef. You may have freeze pops (not red). Coffee or tea but no milk therein. You may have as much of this stuff as you like. Just about the time you are lulled into a sense of security, believing this is a snap, you'll get down to business. You'll take a couple of laxative tablets. (Snap!) Haha. A couple of hours later, we get down to the real business. GatorAde (except red) mixed with 238 gms. of Miralax. Snap, you say? That's 64 oz. of GatorAde, sport. Two quarts. A half gallon. And you are expected to finish it in under two hours.

Plan on spending most of the rest of your evening in the bathroom. Take a book. Take a puzzle. Take the phone. Take a drink. You'll be there a while. Until you're completely empty. By the time you're empty, you'll be going to bed.

The next morning, you'll go to the appointed place, coffee-less and breakfast-less, have your scope, and come home. God willing, the results will be negative. And you'll only have to go every five years if you have no history.

But I have a history. So, yesterday, I prepared to have my annual look-see. And all was going well in the Jell-o, bullion, coffee department. Until about 2PM when a headache set in. (From hunger, I assume) 3PM I take the two laxative tabs. 6PM it's time for the Big Gulp. The phone rings. I have a brief conversation during which I simply cannot find the words I need to say. I AM saying words, but they aren't the ones I want. After about a minute and a half, I say goodbye in a confused babble and go back to my guzzling. Two glasses in and I'm nauseated. And here it comes back up. Figuring I'll feel better now, I try for another glass. And here it comes back up. Again. Call the Doctor. Tell my story. Am advised to call in the morning and cancel the procedure and the next time, they'll try a different prep.

In the morning, the nurse is concerned that there is something more going on than a little puke-fest and insists I see my PCP. Today. She even has the scoping doc call my PCP to tell him he needs to see me today.

Needless to say, everyone is treating this whole episode, (the-not-being-able-to-
form-words episode, which is called expressive aphasia), as something very serious.

So the PCP tells me that it may be something as innocuous as hunger, low blood sugar, stress, or discontinuing my daily aspirin for five days in preparation for the scope. Or, it could be a stroke evolving, a clot, an abdominal aneurysm, or some other catastrophe waiting to pounce. That means we have to have a few tests to try to determine the cause of my faltering speech. I am instructed that should this event occur again, I am to take an aspirin, call 911, and jump in the ambulance that will take me to the ER. This is apparently not a trifling matter.

Today, I went for an echocardiogram, a carotid duplex, a Holter monitor, (which I will wear for 24 hours and dutifully record any untoward "events" that take place before I return it tomorrow). Then on Monday, I will have an MRI and on Tuesday, I will have an MRA, both of which could be done at the same time but my insurance company will not pay for both of them if they are both done at the same time, so they have to separate them even thought the insurance company KNOWS that the doctor will order both at once. What a dodge!!

They could just tie me to the railroad tracks and wait for a long freight train.

Where've You Been?

I have learned, much to my chagrin, that I'm sometimes empty. And in the world of blogging, that's apparently not a good thing. Not, that is, according to the prolific bloggers who manage to blog every. single. day. And so they do their best to make me feel inadequate, unworthy, and incapable by calling attention to the fact that I'm not always here.

First, I'm not always here because I have other things to do. Things that take priority over blogging. Like what, you ask? Like seeing one of my many health care practitioners. Like going for blood work. Like CT scans and colonoscopies. Going to the drug store to pick up prescriptions and refills of same. Now to all you folks who think not blogging every. single. day. makes me ineligible to have a computer, much less a blog, I hope you feel very, very small for judging me in the face of my health issues.

Second, I also have grandchildren who require, nay, love, Grandma's attention. Since said grands don't live with me, I have to get in my car and drive to where they live so that takes me away from my blog on occasion. And the kids don't judge me for not blogging every. single. day.

Third, and finally, the judgemental bloggers who rave on about those among us who fail miserably at the blogging game, the ones who post every. single. day., are more often than not lacking in ideas for a meaningful post and simply put out reams of drivel, pointless and banal blatherings that neither inform or interest, simply to be able to feel superior to the rest of us.

's okay. In the Archives of Life, when the blogs are lined up, The Critic will write, "She was busy beating The Big C." That, mon ami, trumps yours every. single. day.

HoHum, I'm Going to Bed

In the category of "Who Cares?", NBC is moving Leno back to late night TV. I'm sure this makes a whole lot of people very happy, not to mention NBC affiliates who were unhappy with the primetime Leno show as lead-in to their 11 PM news. Me? I don't care. As for Conan O'Brien (Conan, who?) I don't care even less, or more, or whatever.

What kind of talent does it take to sit behind a desk, ask a pseudo-celebrity a question, not listen to the answer while silently formulating a response/retort/non-sequitur, being not even mildly amusing in the process?

I haven't watched the Tonight Show since Jack Paar left in '62. Well, not completely accurate. I watched one episode of Johnny Carson when my son phoned me from California that he was at the taping and I should watch. I did, but my son was cut before airing. I never forgave Carson for making me miss an hour and a half of good sleep. Before that, I watched Steve Allen, a true Renaissance man, as he hosted the show during my teen years, back in '53ish. He had a wonderful cast of characters and gave them a spot to perform in true variety-show fashion, without interjecting his own personality into their spot(s).

Jack Paar. What can one say about this man that isn't noteworthy? He had a knack for making you come back tomorrow, just to see what he'd got into overnight. He'd make you laugh. He'd make himself cry. He could be serious without being dry. He interviewed Fidel Castro, and engendered controversy. He went to Berlin when The Wall went up, and engendered controversy. He quit the show on-air in a fit of pique over a joke of his being cut. And with the thanks of a grateful insomniac nation, he returned several weeks later without missing a beat.
Opening line on the night of his return? "As I was saying..." Ya gotta laugh.

Jack surrounded himself with a stable of zanies the like of which has not been seen since. Peggy Cass, Dody Goodman, Cliff Arquette in his Charley Weaver persona, raconteur Alexander King, Jonathon Winters, Phyllis Diller, Genevieve, comic/author Jack Douglas, Oscar Levant. People who knew the value of intelligent conversation.
His writers included Dick Cavett, George Carlin and Garry Marshall. People who made it worth sacrificing REM sleep. And every night, he said hello to Mrs. Miller. An elderly fan who arrived every night early enough to be one of the first in line for entry to the auditorium. When it was brought to Jack's attention that she was there every night, he made sure she was never turned away, and by default, she also became one of his "regulars". A lonely soul who had her fifteen minutes, if only because Jack said,"hello".

I suppose the pretenders who followed Paar led up to the generation that thinks texting is civilized discourse. Because after all, why listen to someone else talk when u can b talking urself?

Things That Warm Your Cockles...

We've been in this extended cold spell, along with most of North America, for far too long. The thermostat clicks every 10 to 12 minutes, signaling the kicking-on of the furnace, which signals the whirling-dervishing of the gas meter, and I'm going to need a good stiff drink before I open the next gas bill. But this is, after all, northeastern Pennsylvania in January. Can't ask for a heat wave.

Want a temporary warm-up? A cup of cocoa with melted mini-marshmallows floating on the top. Real cocoa, not the powder in a packet kind.

Or cinnamon toast made the way my great-aunt Pru used to make it. Toast the bread, spread liberally with butter and sprinkle with cinnamon-sugar, and a few minutes in the warm oven, (there's an additional warm-up). Slice it in three slender strips and savor. Once again, however briefly, I'm a six-year-old with a cold, and Auntie, childless herself, knew how to comfort her nieces and nephews.

How about this for a warm-up? Chicken noodle soup - not that stuff in the red and white can - but the real thing, simmering on the stove, while a pan of brownies bakes in the oven.

Don't you love the way the windows get all steamy and the drippage runs down the pane when you go on that Geeze-it's-freezin' cooking spree? Sure, you do. Go on that cooking spree, I mean. I can't be the only one.

Maybe you like the way it feels to put on a sweatshirt straight out of the dryer. Or socks.

If you have a fireplace, (I don't), you could toast your tootsies while you snuggle up with the Times' Sunday crossword. Wrapped in a cozy afghan. And maybe nodding off for 20 minutes or so.

Me? I got the warm-up of all time last night. Looked after my two youngest grandchildren for a couple of hours. We played a game, and we had ice cream with chocolate sauce and sprinkles. And then a bubble bath, which is their very favorite thing. As I was putting on my shoes to leave, the eight-year-old hugged me and said, "We're really lucky girls, Grandma. Know why? Because we have you for a Grandma."

If that doesn't warm the cockles of your heart right through February, maybe you better get started on that chicken soup.

A New Day

Christmas has come and gone, New Year's Eve and Day - come and gone. And I'm still here. Amazing. Last year this time, nobody was optimistic about that.

Last year this time, I was lying in the hospital with blood flowing into my arm. Remember I told you how cold the incoming blood is and how your arm gets really cold and then you need blankets? Yeah, that. This is the anniversary I celebrate today.

A night in the ER best forgotten, but burned into the brain...BP, temp, the usual questions, blood drawn, IV inserted, a digital exam, two bottles of contrast to drink, n/g tube insertion (and thankfully removed!), a CT scan. I'm sure I forgot something. Actually, I forgot a lot of things.

My son, who was with me the whole time, told me some of the incidents that transpired but that I don't remember. I've tried, believe me, until my head hurts, but nothing he told me returns. I'm sure it's because I don't want to remember anything else about that night. Anyway, there was enough horror to come that I do remember.

For the next two weeks, I was treated to ekg's, blood work, 19 IV insertions, (because they kept blowing out due to poor veins), colonoscopy, cancer diagnosis, surgery, echocardiogram, clear liquid diet for almost the entire time, six roommate changes, and an infection in my incision which required re-opening and irrigating and packing. I'm sure I forgot something.

So, celebrate, while it may not seem to be the appropriate description, is what I'm doing today. Because I'm not in the ER, or the general population, or in the OR. Celebrating because I'm home without roommate(s), and eating whatever the hell I want, which does not include Jell-o.