The Last Day

It's December 31st. 2011. One more year. Who would have ever thought? Next week will be three years since my cancer diagnosis. The following week will be three years since my surgery for colon cancer. That was followed by six months of chemotherapy. And iron infusions to bring my hemoglobin level back up to normal. And lots of doctor appointments and blood work and CT scans etc., etc., etc. Thus far, my blood work has been better than good. My hemoglobin is normal. My CEA, which is a tumor marker, has been good. My CT scans have shown "no mass, no active disease."

For each of those three years, I have hosted Christmas, just as I did pre-cancer. This year, for the first time, I made peace with the fact that there is no perfect Christmas. Something will go awry. And who cares? We all have our health, (well, most of it), we all have jobs, and homes, and plenty to eat and we are together.

Yesterday, I mailed all my "thank you" notes and paid all my bills. I had strength enough to do three loads of laundry. And my mind is okay because I can still figure out the daily cryptogram without a hint.

I'm ending 2011 with a clean slate. You know what would be nice? To say the same thing next December 31st. Until then - Happy New Year.

When Do We Stop?

About four or five years ago, my grown children got together with their children (my grandchildren) and had a portrait taken and framed for me for a Christmas gift. Needless to say, I was enormously pleased. There were, at the time, ten grandchildren and while I had many photos of them individually, or in their particular family groups, I did not have even a candid shot of all of them. Together. At the same time. So this picture was especially meaningful.

During this past year, our family welcomed yet another grandchild. (We thought we were all finished!) She is a cutie. I planned on photo shopping her little face into the grandchildren photo. In addition to the newest grandchild, my eldest grandchild welcomed a daughter of her own, making me a great grandmother. And me so young!

Well, family once again decided that a new grand photo was in order. The logistics were tricky, since eldest granddaughter, her husband and their baby live in Arizona. Flying in for the Christmas holiday called for some tight scheduling. Their arrival was late evening on the 21st. That meant earliest photo session could be held on the 22nd. and pushing for a finished photo by the 24th. for presentation on Christmas.

Well, the 25th. arrived, as it always does. My gift was presented. I unwrapped the package and stared at the photo for a long time. I counted the faces staring back at me. And counted again. Something was amiss. There were only 11 people in the photo. They were all my grandchildren. But not all my grandchildren were in the photo.

For some reason, eldest granddaughter opted not to be included in the new photo. For reasons known only to her. As her mother said, "That's our girl."

And I want to know, when does it stop? When does Mom stop making excuses for this woman? This woman who became 30 years old earlier this month. The woman who had long held herself to be the smartest woman in any room in which she found herself. The woman who recently wrote a treatise on what one should have acheived by age 30, including realizing that one is not the center of the Universe. Fans of the blog, who have in the past nominated her for President, Queen and sainthood, were quick to comment on how succintly she had summed up what should be expected by the time one reaches 30. Putting a meal on the table; not blocking the grocery aisle with your cart; wishing folks Happy Holidays and screw'em if they object because you didn't say "Christmas" or "Hanukkah" or whatever particular nomenclature you prefer.

But just as though she knew of Granddaughter's intent as to declining to appear in the Grandchildren photo, another blogger left a comment which added her own take on what a 30-year-old should be able to do. To do something you don't really want to do simply because it would mean a lot to someone you care about and who cares about you so suck it up and just do it!

That comment was particularly appropos in light of the pontificate tone of the blog and the refusal to add to a Christmas gift that would not have impacted her life at all (her daughter, her sister and her brother are all in the picture) since she only comes here once a year. But this whole event has become a non-event and other than the fact that her Mother still defends her bad behavior, I don't particularly give a flying falafel. And this is when it stops.

We Are - Ashamed

The whole Penn State thing. I'm very sad. I'm not a rabid Penn State fan. And Joe Paterno is a football coach. I don't even like football. Nothing about the game excites me. But the scandal that is monopolizing everyone's interest is making me very sad.

Is Sandusky a monster? I don't know, he hasn't had a trial yet. Should the Board of Regents have fired JoePa? I don't know. Because I don't know what they know. But they needed a scapegoat to make themselves look righteous, so I guess they had to. Oh, and Spanier, too. God knows how he fit into the chain. It didn't sound like he had ever been in the loop when the accusation came to light. But, hey, somebody has to take the blame.

Coaches, presidents, athletic directors, out you go. You let Sandusky ply his evil trade and did nothing.

What makes me saddest is the fact that the original witness to this horror is still at work with the football team. And as of Thursday, the new interim head coach intended that this person, this cowardly wimp, would be on the sidelines in his position as one of the coaches. It was only when he received death threats that he was placed on "administrative leave with pay". Yes, I know his name, but I won't say it because it tastes bad in my mouth.

It makes me sad that this man was 28-years-old when he says he witnessed Sandusky sexually assaulting a young child in the locker room. He scurried out like the weasel he is and went home and called his Daddy and asked him what to do. Why, at age 28, would it be necessary to ask anyone what you should do. Do? DO?? You should make your presence known as you dial 9-1-1. The police would have arrived and the legal process could have begun. But no. Our witness slept on the information and then went to Coach Paterno the next day and told him what he saw. He says. We don't know what he told Paterno. But Paterno did what he was supposed to do and reported it to the next-up the chain of command. Now, current wisdom has it that Paterno should have called the police. And told them what? That his grad assistant said he saw a sexual assault taking place. And when was this, asked the friendly officer. Oh, sometime yesterday replies Paterno. And what do you want us to do about this now? You have an allegation that cannot be corroborated because the perpetrator and his victim are gone, and when he is tracked down and questioned, do you think he will admit his crime?

While I cannot answer as to the fairness of the firing of the four people who were sacrificed in order to make the university look good, it certainly seems fair to expect that the witness who suffers from Yellow-stripe-up-the-back syndrome should have been the first one to do the perp walk off the campus.

I guess he saved his own bacon when he testified to the Grand Jury. But he's still being paid by the school. And that makes me sad.

BOO!

Monday was Hallowe'en. Grandkids were all excited, having had a party at school and their little costume parade and half-day. I wasn't up for going to the parade. Nothing I could put my finger on, just not very up-an-at-'em.

But I showered and dressed and moved enough to get to their house to see them all dressed and ready to go Trick or Treat-ing. One was dressed as a Postal Carrier. Managed to get a regulation letter carrier's bag and her Dad had attached a couple of stuffed dogs to the pants of her outfit.

Her sister was dressed as Captain Hook - a recycled costume from when her big sister was younger. And off they went with assorted aunts, cousins, and other relatives to cruise the neighborhood for treats. They returned an hour later, flushed with their sacks of candy, but not ready to call it a night. Off they went to their church where they were holding a Trunk or Treat and a party with hot dogs and popcorn and hot chocolate. They arrive home with yet another sack of hyperactivity.

My littlest grand is only 8 months old and she stopped in (with her mom) to show off her Minnie Mouse outfit.

With all the unrest, and unemployment, and poverty, it's nice to know that we can still manage to give the kids a treat to continue the tradition of Hallowe'en.

Occupy This

So we have young people once again camping in the streets in front of financial institutions and complaining that they have massive student loans that are burdensome. Hmmm. They would like to see the nation's wealth more evenly distributed. Hmmm.

I'd like the wealth to be more even distributed, too. I'd like the taxes I paid all my working years to be refunded to me. It was burdensome. But it was my responsibility to pay for my share of the costs of government. So I paid.

I'd like the wealth to be distributed so that the money I paid for the mortgage on my home to be refunded to me. It was burdensome. But I paid it off two years ago.

I once had some overwhelming credit card debt, but I managed to pay it off. It was burdensome but I bought the stuff with plastic so it was only fair that I pay for it. Yes?

Sorry, but the college crowd enjoyed the years of money dropped in their laps while they went to school, got an education (we hope), enjoyed the social life and the pizza and beer parties. Tuition wasn't the only thing paid when the checks came in. I personally know one young woman who used some of her senior year check to buy a car from a classmate. Was it brand new? No. Beside the point. She didn't seem to be concerned about how the money would be repaid. Now that she has graduated with a degree in multimedia (?) the piper has asked to be paid for the dance. And it's "burdensome".

Years ago, I can remember my Father, who worked very hard for his money and never had an opportunity to attend college, insisting on paying the milk man in advance. It was his contention that once we drank the milk, it was too easy to forget that we owed somebody for it, so he would leave money every Monday for six quarts to be delivered one at a time during the ensuing week.

Thinking that student loans should now be forgiven certainly gives me pause. These people - the ones who went to college with borrowed money - they must not have taken any econ courses. The money these young scholars borrowed was my money. You see, I have a bank account. That means that the bank has my money and they use it to lend to other people for businesses, for mortgages, car loans, and yes, college. Now there was a time that the bank would pay me for the use of my money. It was called interest. But those days are gone. They still pay me interest but not so you could notice. It's about .025 percent. They haven't begun to charge me for letting them use my money as yet, but I'm holding my breath.

Now they have graduated from college, with degrees that, in this economy, are unusable. And they are moving back home with Mom and Dad. Who have probably gotten pretty used to not having Junior or the Princess around for the past four years. But they won't turn the kid out and after all, they weren't using the spare room.

If I was Mom, it would be plain that as long as I'm getting up and going to work every day, I expect the same from my offspring. Can't find a job in your field? Find something else. Cashier at the Piggly Wiggly. Man the counter at Burger King. Try your hand as a barrista at the local coffee hut. Babysit. Mow lawns. Sure it's hard work. But it's honest work. And you can give Mom and Dad a couple of bucks and throw a few on the loans. Usually, if you ask real nice, Sallie Mae will work with you, as long as you give them something to rely on. Just like you relied on them while you were getting your education with my money.

SCRAPPLE

If you've never eaten it, you don't know how good it can be. Scrapple, that is. It's all the little bits of the piggy that can't be converted into ham, pork chops, roasts, bacon, etc. It's the snout and the tail and every little "scrap" in between. Mix that up with corn meal and some spices and form the mixture into a square shape in a pan. When it sets up, it can be thinly sliced, dredged in flour and fried in hot fat until golden brown and crispy. Serve it for breakfast with eggs or pancakes. It tastes good when a little of that pancake syrup drifts onto the scrapple. Or have it for supper with mashers and corn. Have it for lunch or a snack. It's just scrapple. But when it's done right, it's as good as it gets.

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So yesterday was my birthday. Seventy-six. I didn't have a cake. The Fire Marshal refused to give us a permit for the candles. Tuesday isn't the optimal day for a celebration. I spent it grocery shopping. Since I've been watching my intake so as to drop a few pounds, it takes no little effort to make sure I'm buying the good stuff. Reading labels is time-consuming. But since I'm down 15 pounds, I'll keep doing it.

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The Big Canteloupe Scare has people being irrational. Every store has a sign that advises the origin of the fruit on display. Can't imagine any market would be willing to risk selling a melon from the Colorado farm where the Listeria epidemic began. I'm not making light of this, because people have died, but we must temper our fear with logic. I'm having a canteloupe that my market assures me did NOT come from Colorado, but from Southern California.

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If you like peanut butter, you should stock up. I have it on good authority that the peanut crop suffered this year and the price will be substantially increased. And I can guarantee you that if the crop next year is amazing, the price will not be reduced. Look what happened to sugar and coffee.

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I have grown weary at last of watching TV news. The over-dramatization makes me insane. And every unfortunate story repeats evening, late evening, early morning, midday for days on end. And all this without even having all the facts. No point in watching just to catch the weather forecast, which, we all know, is seldom right. What a scam. Show up, pontificate about the isobars and the Canadian highs and the Gulf Stream and low pressure systems. If you're wrong, well, at least it sounds as if you know what you're talking about. And you never get fired. You just get to be wrong every day and they pay you for it.

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In re: our recent extended low pressure system, it has been very hard on the joints. The Ritis boys are a bad lot, and Arthur is the worst one. My thumbs and my right knee are suffering and I've taken more ibuprofen than ever. It should be improving any minute now that the sun has made its annual appearance. Wish me luck.

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So there you have Scrapple. It tastes good with any meal. Some like it with catsup and some with pancake syrup. Straight up is good, too.

Forty Days and Forty Nights

The rain was coming down and the river was coming up. It had been raining for four straight days with only occasional breaks. Irene had come and gone and some people were still cleaning up branches and leaves and the utilities were busy restoring power to homes with downed lines. Laundry was piling up and there was little motivation to do anything because of the gloom.

We began hearing stories of flooding north and west of here and it seemed to be worse than the usual "lot of rain" and "lowlying areas" that we frequently hear. By Wednesday, it was becoming evident that this storm was quietly wicked. People were being rescued from fast-rising creeks and streams and the West Branch of the Susquehanna was causing real problems in Mountoursville and that area.

On Thursday morning, the announcement came that areas impacted by Agnes in '72 were under orders to evacuate. That meant Forty Fort, Kingston, Plymouth. Even though these areas are protected by an upgraded levee system that held in the last two alerts. In effect, get outta town. By eight PM. So carry a few pictures upstairs (optimistic, eh? who says it won't reach the second floor?) Pack some clothes, meds, laptop and Kindle. Prepare to abide by the law. And then it gets really serious. Evac time has been advanced to 4 PM. Not willing to wait until the traffic reached fever pitch, I locked the door(s) and left. Went to West Wyoming where there was no history of flooding and hunkered down for however long it was going to take. Better not be too long because I only brought enough clothes for two days. I did, however, remember to bring the expensive foods from my freezer. Not wanting to come home to a power-outage and garbage in the fridge.

And then, after dinner, the terrible news. West Pittston was being flooded. And the crest wasn't expected in Wilkes-Barre until 2 AM Friday. Businesses were inundated to the roof. The little drive-through coffee shop at the corner by the cement bridge was washed away and laying on its side down the block. Homes were taking in water where there had never been flooding before. Some people we knew living in W. Pittston were spared, but others we knew were counting the flooding in feet. Basements, first floors, in some instances higher. Heroic efforts on the part of some volunteers prevented the next town down-river from suffering the same fate.

The television was on constantly and the scenes were heart-breaking. Many folks up-river had seen this before and were covered by flood insurance. But most of the people in W. Pittston were not covered. And why should they be? They had never seen flooding prior. So as the hours wore on and the next day brought more fears, we watched. The rumors were rampant. There was trouble with the levee in Forty Fort. There was a breach. There wasn't a breach. But of course, the media has to report it whether or not it was confirmed. Now that we're sufficiently panicked, the straight skinny is - no breach. It's a "boil" and "we"ve contained it." Next thing we know, the flooding down-river has reached new highs. Nanticoke, Shickshinny, Bloomsburg, Knoebel's. And the river has crested at 42+ feet. Levee is only supposed to be good to 41. And all of the numbers that were being reported were wrong. The supposed crest was to be 38+ feet. National Weather Service lost the gauges that were to measure the crest so they "guessed." And the levee protection was obviously incorrect, or we'd be wearing waders and shoveling muck instead of writing this blog.

Getting from one side of the river to the other is a frightful task. I canceled my cardiologist appt yesterday. Took three tries to get to the Pierce St Bridge and then found it so backed up with traffic that I called the office from a nearby parking lot and told them I wouldn't be making it.

Brenna was late for dance class, despite having left early, because there are only one or two routes that are available. School is closed for the entire week, as parents shovel out houses and children are staying with relatives out of town.

This is the fourth time in 36 years that I've been evacuated due to the possibility of flooding. I don't think I want to go through this again. I'm betting my house will sell fairly easily since the levee has proven invincible. Living on a mountain sounds like a pretty good idea.

Water, Water Everywhere

Shades of Samuel Coleridge Taylor. Rain just keeps falling and doesn't seem like it plans on stopping any time soon. My walks have been severely curtailed, and today, I said, "That'll do."

Near my house there's a strip mall with an overhanging canopy the length of the mall. I parked my car at one end and walked briskly to the other end. Then I crossed the parking lot and went to the pharmacy where I had a prescription refill waiting. It was drizzling when I crossed but I toughed it out and didn't unfurl the umbrella I had brought along. Got my scrip and crossed back over to the mall walk. Briskly walked back to where my car was parked, (conveniently close to the dollar store) and did a quick turn in there.

Now the rain has continued through the day and I won't be going on my usual nightly mile-and-a-half. How am I supposed to continue my weight loss if I can't get my exercise? No, I can't do jumping jacks nor can I jog in place. But I can ponder where my next improv walk will be when the rain continues tomorrow. Which the weather forecast says it will. In the meantime, I'll work on my jigsaw puzzle and try not to think about the brownies in the freezer.

The Earth Moved

Yesterday was a really nice day. Started out a bit chilly for August, and when I walked in the AM, I wore a long-sleeved shirt. It was what the old folks used to call, "brisk". I had to run warm water over my hands when I got back.

I had my breakfast, chatted on the 'phone and decided to visit my favorite store to see if I could get some more of the delicious thin-sliced steak that I had earlier in the week. Sad to say, they were out. K-Mart didn't offer anything new. The Chinese dollar store, on the other hand, had some new stuff and I made a modest purchase.

After I ate my lunch, I was standing at the kitchen sink, cleaning out my coffee pot. I haven't been able to get the inside really clean since I got it as a gift, almost a year ago. The opening is too small to get my hand inside and so I settle for wrapping a wooden spoon with the dish cloth and giving it a lick and a promise. Yesterday, I bought a bottle of automatic dishwasher gel, (I don't have a dishwasher) thinking this may be the answer.

So, I'm standing at the sink and it began to move back and forth. Ever so slightly, but noticeably. My first thought was I'm having a stroke. My second thought was should I take the aspirin first and then call 9-1-1 or vice versa. I glanced up and noticed that some little items on the curtain rod were swaying and the back door, which was open, was swinging back and forth. And then I knew. Earthquake. And then the swaying stopped. I was feeling ever so slightly disoriented, but I knew. I called my daughter-in-law and she said she hadn't felt anything, even though she was only about nine miles from me.

I went out the front door to see if any neighbors were out but the street was quiet. I came back and got a drink of water and collected my thoughts. Remembering the time years ago when another quake rattled NEPA. It had originated in New England, where it was severe enough that it rang church bells. I was sitting on the toilet when the shock reached Luzerne County. You can bet I got up quickly!

Anyway, I finally realized that there would be news reports and turned on the TV. Sure enough, all the newsies were hard at work reporting the story. Earthquake originated in Virginia. All the local office buildings in Wilkes-Barre and Scranton emptied out with all the workers milling around and wondering what happened. September 11 was on everyone's mind. Of course, in the day of instant communication by cell phone, the word spread quickly and eased the minds of the apprehensive. Then came the speculation that some infrastructure damage may have occurred. The nuclear plant, various bridges, some of the taller buildings; all reason for concern.

Having learned where it originated, and that thus far it didn't seem to be devastating, I went back to what I was doing. Worrying about it would be non-productive. No way I could stop it if the "big one" should happen.

Happily, the dollar store gel did the job and the inside of my beloved coffee pot is all shiny and new once again. And this morning's coffee was especially mellow.

Of Banks, and the Men Who Rob Them

Picture it. Normal Monday at the bank. Here comes a fellow, maybe desperate for some cash to feed his family, and informs the teller that he has a bomb strapped to his body. Well, if somebody said that to me, I would hand over the "robbery pack" without hesitation. That's the package of money ready to go with the exploding dye inside. Remembering back to the days when I worked for a loan company. We always had a big cash drawer on Friday nights and while robbery wasn't as prevalent as it is these days, there was always the possibility. Our owner told us not to be a hero. Hand over the money and don't reach for the phone until the thief is out the door. I'm sure bank tellers are told the same thing. Give it up without question.

So anyway. Here's this crook, takes the money, goes out to the parking lot and gets in his car where an argument with his girlfriend ensues. Now here's where it gets strange. Although having just robbed a bank, it does seem strange that instead of driving off, he argues with his girlfriend. But it gets stranger. The Big Bad Bank Robber goes back into the bank and returns the money. Then he gets back in the car and leaves.

The police arrested him at his home a couple of hours later.

I'm not going to ask you to guess if this story is true or false, even though I'm pretty sure you think it's a figment of my imagination. It actually happened today in Conyngham, Luzerne County, Pennsylvania. Who could make this stuff up?

I can only guess at the scenario in the car. She asked how much he got. He said, "You want to count it?" She said, "Well, it better be enough for my nose job." He calls her an ungrateful witch and takes the money back inside.

That gene pool could use a free pour of Clorox.

This is for My Follower

As of today, I have succeeded in losing 15 pounds. I'm walking a mile every day. (Well, almost every day) Except when it rains and thunders and lightnings. I'm prudent.

We went to Wildwood Crust this month and had a lovely time. I'm in such good shape, I managed to walk the boardwalk without stopping to rest every 15 feet. Even walked around the Cape May Zoo and was disappointed when everybody else was ready to leave and I was still having fun.

This past weekend, I went on an excursion with my #2 son out to Williamsport. No, not to the LL World Series. He had a bit of business to attend and then we spent the rest of the trip checking out the sights. Drove slowly along Millionaire's Row and marveled at the homes that were built back in the days when lumber was king. Many of them look well-maintained but some are showing their age and lack of TLC. Quite a few rented out as apartments for college students. Penn College of Technology and Lycoming College are there.

The downtown seems to have quite a few independent shops (as opposed to chains) and then suddenly, we were in a parking lot, surrounded on three sides by brick buildings and all three covered in a spectacular mural. Depictions of people who had a part in the history of the city. And the detail is amazing. If you have time to just go for a ride some weekend, do head out to Billtown and check out this gem on Fourth St. Take your camera.

Diets and Do They Work?

Well, as promised, I'm back to report on my progress with the Dukan Diet. Sadly, I have not progressed as far as I hoped. I lost 10/12 pounds (depending on which scale you want to believe) rather quickly, but have stalled there for about six weeks. In my defense, it took me some time to get into the walking-20-minutes-a-day part of the regimen. I'm not, or should I say, have not, done much walking in the past several years that didn't involve a shopping cart. Walk all over the supermarket, or the Big Box store, as long as I had a cart to hang onto. And I do walk when I mow the grass, but that involves hanging onto the lawn mower. But flat out going for a walk is not something I do.

However, on June 7, on advice from my Personal Trainer, (my youngest son), I began by strolling to the corner of my street and back. I did that for several days and then walked a half block more each day. 'til I stepped up a little farther and a little farther until I was walking completely around the block. Took me 20 minutes. Time passed and I was doing that walk in only 12 minutes, so I have been extending my distance each evening to get me to the 20-minute mark. The past few days, however, have been extremely hot and humid and it's folly to think that I need to face that exertion. So I cut my walk down to a do-able distance.

Getting back to my stall at 155#. I was doing everything the diet called for. The oat bran, the protein, the permitted vegetables. Drinking the water. Diet Pepsi. Splenda sweetener. I decided the plateau was caused by my not walking the required amount. Until I did, on June 7, begin to walk, sure in my mind that the exercise was the answer and I would begin to lose. Weight, that is. But five weeks later and I'm still stuck. The absolute only cheating I have done was one bagel at four weeks and that was without cream cheese. Oh, yes, some baked sweet potato strips two weeks ago. I figured WTH, I'm stuck.

Now, I'm seriously considering moving on to the Atkins, since it is a little more liberal than Dukan. I am, however, reading the book, and researching what I can find on Atkins, just as I did before I started Dukan. And while I do that, I will continue with Dr. Dukan and his Oat Bran Galettes, and 20 minute walks, and if by some chance I begin once again to lose, I'll stick with him.

I've never been fickle. Just fat.

Long Time Coming

Quit smoking. Had open heart surgery. Had gall bladder surgery. Had cancer surgery. Had chemo. All of this within five years. Now just quitting cigarettes is a sure way to gain some weight. Couple that with the weeks of recuperation following surgeries when there is nothing to do but watch TV and eat. A sure bet that the pounds are going to pile on. But sooner or later it becomes necessary to face the fact that there is nothing to wear and if you don't go buy some clothes, you can't leave the house. But if you go buy the clothes, you're admitting that you've made peace with your girth and that is the biggest defeat of all.

There is no lack of ways to lose weight if you can commit to one of them. You can pay for Weight Watchers. You can buy Nutrisystem meal delivery. Have you called Jenny? Atkins, South Beach, The Zone. The hot dog diet, the cabbage soup diet, the grapefruit diet. And here comes this French guy with his book that promises to help you drop the unwanted pounds if you'll stay with him. The Dukan Diet, unabashedly named for the doctor who devised the plan, and who promises that if you do as he says, you won't gain back what you lose. And he takes great pains to explain what you need to do to, and why you need to do it, based on the body's memory of how it feels to have full fat cells.

So after investigating what people were saying, I bought the book. I bought the Oat Bran and the Greek Yogurt. I devoured the book and believed most of what it contained. He's very convincing, this Dr. Dukan. I started the diet on the 15th of May, and I'm now 10 days in, six pounds down, and in the second phase. There isn't much more to say except I have no problem feeling full with the amount of food I'm allowed to have.

Yes, I miss chocolate. And cookies and milk. And grilled cheese sandwiches. And according to the book, (and my motivation) I'll once again be able to indulge, within reason, in all my former delights, while weighing considerably less than I do now. Oh, yes, I won't be able to indulge on Thursday(s) for the rest of my life. Because once I'm free of the fat and stable in my new found body, I will have to observe Protein Only Thursday forever. The doctor said.

Stay tuned for further developments.

Somebody Got it Right

From time to time, we read about a new product that promises to be better than anything you've used in the past. We see commercials on TV for new products all the time. That doesn't mean the product(s) will be available in your area when the ad appears. Or here comes your Sunday paper with all those wonderful coupon supplements enclosed offering cents-off on a new product and after cutting them out and heading for the market, they aren't carrying the product yet. Very frustrating when the product seems like something you'd use. By the time the product arrives in the market, the coupon has expired. Don't we all hesitate to take a chance on an untried product without a price reduction?

Recently, there appeared a coupon for a new quick-cooking pasta. Now, pasta is not exactly an all day project to cook, but when a product is offering to cut the cooking time in half, my ears perk up. So I cut out the coupon and took it with me on my next shopping trip. Lo and behold, there it was, on the shelf, the new product for which I had a generous coupon, which the cashier doubled.

Last night, I tried it out. Put hot water from the tap into the pot. When it came to a boil, which took no time since it started from hot, I put in the pasta. I set the timer for three and a half minutes. Took out the garbage, washed up a few dishes, and the timer went off. Strained the perfectly al dente pasta, and enjoyed my dinner. Lightning fast and good tasting. So I am happy to continue to purchase the new product, even at full price, since it is as advertised. If only all of life went as promised.

Mother's Day

Mother's Day. What a laugh. The hand that rocks the cradle gets a day in her honor. While pickles, yes, pickles, get a whole week! Something wrong about this if you ask me. So far, no one has. Asked me, that is.

Yesterday, Son 4 visited with his offspring. (He intimated that he'd be back today but hasn't made it thus far)

Today, Son 2 and his daughter, Son 3 sans wife and kids (long story), and Son 5, wife and their two girls paid a visit. Cards and flowers presented.

Son 3 became a grandfather two weeks ago and his wife is in Arizona with their eldest child who is the grandbaby's mother. (He was out there for a few days but had to return home for business reasons)

So to anyone out there who has nothing better to do that you're reading this, Happy Mother's Day. And to all you pickles, well...you know...

Cinco de Oh My O

The sun is in and out and the wind blows. Lots of big white (sometimes gray) clouds making it feel more like a late September day than an early May day. We've had enough rain to float an ark, if there was anyone who knew how to build one. (WTH is a cubit, anyway?)

I'm contemplating a diet (read "lifestyle change") that will, if I read it correctly, lose me the 27 pounds of lard that I'm hauling around. Now this particular regimen calls for 20 minutes of walking daily. That may be the stumbling, or even falling down, block for me at the outset. I have difficulty walking for the 20 or so seconds that it takes me to walk from the sofa to the fridge. That doesn't stop me, which is why I need to lose that 27 pounds. Or just under two stone if you follow the British table of weights and measures. I'll let you know how it plays out.

I had a visit last Saturday from my eldest and his lovely wife and their two astounding daughters. Both teenagers in years, but certainly unlike the typical teen of today. Not a "like" or a "you know" to make me grind my teeth. They play music, they spell, they write for the school newspaper, they ring the bells in church and they earn High Honors in the report card department. Too good to be true, right? They go to a restaurant and sit gracefully, order anything but burger 'n fries, and have intelligent discussions about current events. And they're mine.

Speaking of, being mine, that is, in March I gained another granddaughter. The 11th. grandchild is thriving. Only seven weeks later, I became a Great Grandmother for the first time. Right now, the little girl is in the NICU with some respiratory distress, but nothing with long-lasting effects, or so we are being told. Or so we (meaning me) are not being told. The Mother of this little one has no problem imparting health updates on Twitter or on the internet in a publicly-published blog, which I have been reading since she was a junior at University but she doesn't know it. I think it would be a good thing to be in on the developments without having to find out through subterfuge. I'm asking here for a vote. Do you think, after eight years, I should openly declare that I am present among the other readers of the often-too-revealing blog?

Back to Osama. The president of the USA has decided not to release the death photos of the bullet-riddled body of Bin Laden. That's one decision of his I can live with. But the blood-thirsty among us are raging to see the pictures. And the media clamoring for their release will sue to gain access to the gore. OMG, what have we become?

Lest We Forget

Yesterday, the news coverage was all of the killing of Osama Bin Laden. Today, it seems to be all about the information that led to the finding and killing of Osama Bin Laden. The celebrations taking place at Ground Zero, Shanksville, PA and the Pentagon are, in a way, a sad commentary on our collective psyche. What have we become to "celebrate" the death of any man?

Despite the fact that this man was the mastermind of the dastardly attack on our soil and our citizens, his death does nothing to ease the grief felt by those who no longer have their loved ones. His death does nothing to bring about closure. As if anything could. His death doesn't begin to explain the reason he plotted against this nation. Islamic Jihad doesn't seem to hold in this case, since there are many other nations that don't practice Islam as a national religion so why weren't targeted as well?

Before you mistake this as sympathy for Bin Laden, rest assured that I hold no respect for the deceased. He was a coward of the ultimate order. He encouraged his fanatical followers to carry out the suicide missions that caused the loss of our citizens. He didn't join in the mission himself. COWARD! He cowered in the shadows for close to ten years, hiding from what certainly would be retribution. COWARD! He didn't stand up for his beliefs but instead chose to hide his face, not only from his enemies but also from those he purported to lead. These are the acts of a coward.

Am I glad he's no longer able to encourage further deadly acts? Certainly I am. But still knowing that there will always be a despot to take his place, I am sad. It isn't as if killing Bin Laden will make the country whole again.

So in the wake of this news, forgive me if I'm unable to feel joy. The celebrations that took place are those we usually hold when The USA wins gold at the Olympics. Celebrations should be reserved for winning, not for killing. Since I'm certain that Bin Laden and his followers held the self-same celebrations when notified that the missions of 9-11 were complete, I feel shame that we take the same pleasure at his death and fear that it makes us no better than they.

For anyone who reads this and doesn't get (or doesn't want to) the context, you can save your bombastic condemnation of this writer. I can't help how I feel, anymore than you can.

Now excuse me while I spend a few moments in quiet reflection on our own lost martyrs.

New News

Despite promises to do better, and failing to do so, and apologizing for same, it seems I haven't improved. Soooo, see preceding sentence. Rinse and repeat.
For your enlightenment and edification, much has happened that you don't know about. Yet. For openers, I have a new grandchild. That would be Number 11. A lovely little girl. The F's outnumber the M's in Grandchild Land. At least in this family. Funny, since all of my personal output is M. Out of the 11 Grands, only three are of the M variety. But this newest one is cute and I think we'll keep her. She was baptized on Easter Sunday and I guess that makes her official.

Now lest you think that I have no other new news, I've got news for you! You betcha I do! On Friday, I was informed that I now have my first Great Grandchild. Yes, you read that right. I, so young, am a Great Granny. The child of my eldest granddaughter. Also a girl. Also cute. She gave her Mom a rough couple of months by threatening the very body struggling to produce her. Granddaughter was on bed rest for a couple of months for very serious health reasons, attributable in full to the Fruit of the Womb. But now it's over and all are doing well.

Oh, yes, we also went to the circus. We do so every year and the two little girls, ages nine and five, look forward to it with great anticipation. The older of the two is enthralled by every aspect - from the clown who entertains during the set-up and the take-down between acts to the wire walkers to the animals and the motorcyclists in the Cage of Death. The younger sits quietly and waits for the cotton candy vendor. Once she has that in her hands, (and her face and her hair and her clothes) she is content.

And I had an Oncologist appointment last week and all seems to be well in that department. He gave me the go-ahead to buy green bananas so I must be okay.

Stay tuned - you never know when something new will happen.

Foiled Again

I don't think it's very nice of a company, a well-known, nationally recognized, brand name company at that, to sell me a product that is so damned outstanding that I loved it from the time I opened the box, to suddenly say, "Well, we're sorry, but we don't feel that enough of you folks out there are making it worthwhile for us to continue making this product, so we've decided, without asking you, to stop making it and tough".

Some time ago, I was in the grocery store, in no particular hurry, and looking at all the new products that I'd never seen before. There was a big display of gizmos that promised to suck the air out of your freezer bags so that you wouldn't get freezer burn and your frozen stuff would last longer. Of course, the gizmo only worked on the special suckable bags that were being made by the same well-known, nationally recognized, brand name company.

Since I live alone, and am notoriously frugal, (some call it cheap), I try to take advantage of big meat sales, and then I bag up individual portions and freeze. But food stored in regular plastic bags have a limited life in the freezer. Tends to get all dried-out looking and nasty, so you kind of have to eat it relatively quickly.

So back to the gizmo. It looked pretty promising and to add to the attraction, at a cost of $8.00, it fit into my frugality program. Better yet, there was a refund coupon included and it promised to get me a check for $5.00. In addition, the package included four of the bags that were necessary for the operation of the gizmo. I bought it. I sent in the required POP (proof of purchase) and my register receipt, and got my refund.

I had just purchased, at a really great price, a large package of chicken thighs, so I divided the package into four bags of two thighs each and sucked the air out. Ye Gods! This was beautiful.
Nice tight little parcels of chicken, neatly stored in the freezer.

Next time in the store, I purchased another package of the required suckable bags. And the freezer was neat and tidy with all my thrifty cuts of meat, safe and sound.

Each time I wanted to reclaim a package, I found the contents exactly the same color as the day I put it away. There were no ice crystals on the meat. It thawed and cooked so nicely. The only drawback to my miserly way of life was that the bags were not to be reused, according to a warning on the box. But that was okay because I was saving a bundle on the meat that didn't get all nasty while awaiting my ministrations.

But my freezer delight ended when the lights went out on the bag supply. Searching in vain in every store, even the hardware store, made me despair at ever finding the bags again.

So I wrote to the company, only to find that they discontinued the bags. How dare they?! I mean really, how dare they?!

Well, you can bet that I will no longer be purchasing any product that has the name "Reynolds" attached to it. Yes, the esteemed Reynolds company, that supplier of foil, narrow and wide, regular and heavy duty, even single sheets and non-stick foil, pulled the plug on one of the best inventions of the 21st. century. Because not enough people were buying them. Maybe because they failed to invest any of their excessive profits into an ad campaign to introduce them to the vast market of seniors and singles who would have stormed the ramparts to get the bags if only you had demo'd them on TV and in the stores.

Other companies make foil products and plastic wrap and plastic bags, Reynolds, you scoundrel. In future, I shall partake of their products and let yours decline on the shelf, and may all your frozen meat be infested with freezer burn.

Someday We'll Look Back and Laugh

In years gone by, before MacDonald's and Wendy's and Burger King, every dime store and drug store had a lunch counter, commonly called a soda fountain. It was quite busy at lunch time with workers on a midday break or shoppers resting up between errands. They could get a sandwich - egg salad was my favorite - and a beverage. And a seat. And most times, you could bump into someone you knew and chat for a few minutes. There was an afternoon lull, and the busy time came again when the movie let out. Couples stopping in for a soda to continue the date a little longer. Singles having a dish of cream, hoping to extend human contact just a little more.

The soda fountain. Home to a sandwich or ice cream or even an "ammonia coke" if you were a bit weak from all your exertion. There was also pie. And coffee or tea. The taps, three of them, that dispensed Coca Cola, root beer and seltzer. The lower steel pumps that held the syrups - cherry, lemon, chocolate - at your fingertips with just a push. And the covered containers that held crushed strawberries, crushed pineapple, gooey marshmallow, nuts in syrup, cherries - all dispensed by the ladle in each. The bowl holding golden ripe bananas for splits. The tall stainless cup that held the syrup, seltzer and ice cream before it was slid onto the mixer to blend until the thick concoction was poured into a tall glass to be savored while giving your feet a rest.

And the soda jerk. No, really, that's what he was called. He wore a hygeinic lab coat and a white paper campaign cap. He expertly constructed a sandwich, whirled to remove the milk shake cylinder from the mixer and pour the drink into the tall fancy glass, delivering sandwich and shake simultaneously and planting the straw dead center into the shake with a flourish. Watch him split a banana expertly, lay it into the fancy oblong dish, layer it with three perfect scoops of chocolate, vanilla and strawberry ice cream. Top each in turn with crushed strawberries, crushed pineapple, chocolate syrup. A sprinkle of crushed peanuts over all and a generous mound of whipped cream. And then. And then. Three ruby-red maraschino cherries. A work of art! And he so young! Except I didn't care for those dry shards of peanut on my ice cream.

I was pregnant, very, with my first child. It was Summer and in D.C. that meant h.o.t. Hot as only D.C. can be in August. I had no a/c and the fan in my apartment couldn't even move the humid air, let alone cool it. I lumbered down to the drug store, on a mission to have a CMP and a tall glass of iced water. If you don't know, a CMP is a Chocolate Marshmallow Peanut sundae. I hoisted my preggo self onto a stool and rested my bare arms on the cool, marble counter. I watched as the soda jerk prepared a couple of dishes of ice cream for the Dad and his two little girls who were seeking respite from the heat, just as I was. At last, the young man stood before me and as he wiped the counter with a damp cloth, asked what I would like. I smiled sweetly and said, "I'd like a CMP, please, and do you have wet nuts?" His face turned red and he stared, unbelieving, at me. My face turned red and I fled the store. To this day, I have never had another CMP.

Two Years Clean

Today I saw the surgeon. The very nice man who rearranged my digestive system. I've been seeing him every three months for the past two years. With the exception of a few times early on in the first year when there was a glitch or two that required more frequent seeing, or on his part, looking. Everything is pretty much as it was before the cancer was removed, along with some of my original parts. At this point, all test results - CT scans and blood work - show that there has been no recurrence. This is, of course, good news. And while I would wish that some of my issues would go away, I am required to take the doctor's optimism at face value, and believe that I can continue to live a good life.



So I left his office with instructions to increase some of my medication, get a repeat blood test to check for carcinogenic embryonic antigens (CEA), and a return appointment in six months. Yep, six months. It seems that reaching two years without a recurrence is a big deal and we can extend the time between appointments.

That leaves the oncologist, the cardiologist, Mammogramist (?), and of course, my primary care physician. Not to mention the G.I. Guy who does the colonoscopy. With all these professionals taking care of my health, I should live forever. As if.

Don't Yell!

Okay, okay. I haven't been around. And you miss me. Yeah, right. When I started this, I fully intended to write every day. So far, I isn't working. But, hey, I have other things to do.

I wake up about 5 am ish every morning, drink my coffee (Love that programmable pot!) and read the paper. That would be the Times Leader. I do the Jumble, the Cryptogram and Sudoku. Then another coffee with my morning bagel. Check the e-mail, read a blog or two, do a jigsaw puzzle. Really heady stuff.

About this time, I'm doing the dishes (from the previous night's supper). Make whatever calls I have to make. Usually calling a doctor's office for refills of prescriptions. Write a check or two to pay my bills. Look around to see what needs attention - dusting, vacuuming, tidying. That doesn't mean I'm going to dust, vacuum or tidy.

I look through the store flyers to see if there are any sales on items I might need. I note which stores have the deals and plan to get there at some point during the week. Of course, I don't always make it, but I plan, I plan.

About every three weeks, I have a load of laundry to do. Wash, dry and fold. There's a 65 minute job done.

Now that the clothes are clean, I'll shower and change. By now, it's time to think about lunch. Make lunch. Eat lunch. Rest up from the exertion of lunch.

Read a bit. Take out the trash. Rest up from the exertion.

Watch Cold Case. Think about supper. Have a snack while I think about supper. Cook supper. Eat supper. Put the dishes in the sink. Rest up.

Watch the news, a little TV. Read. Pretty soon it's time to think about going to bed. Which is a whole thought process of its own, never mind the planning that goes into it.

So you can see that with all the planning and resting up, there isn't a lot of time to get on in here and blog.

I ask that you don't yell at me for several reasons. Even though I intend to blog every day, what with all the other things that require my attention, I sometimes get so bogged down in the minutiae of my days that I'm too exhausted to do much else. You do see, don't you?

While it's nice to know that you miss me, it's important that you understand how screamingly busy I am. If I promise to do better, you must promise not to yell. Thank you.