tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-313343922024-03-07T20:13:14.580-06:00Blog to the BoneNot-so-earth-shattering updates on the life and times of little meAmyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03656235714427761274noreply@blogger.comBlogger293125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31334392.post-83803741208277933042012-06-23T11:36:00.003-05:002012-06-23T11:36:25.729-05:00Is anybody out there?Just seeing if this still works.Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03656235714427761274noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31334392.post-51574950803720390342010-07-23T21:27:00.002-05:002010-08-31T17:12:58.750-05:00HomeschoolingI never thought I would be a homeschooler. Homeschooling was for religious fundamentalists, back-to-nature extremists, and parents who believed their kids were the new Einsteins. Homeschooling was for the extraordinarily anal and the extraordinarily loose, not for ordinary people like me. I lack the organization, the discipline, the follow-through to push my kids through the scientific method, daily baths and well-rounded meals. I lack the easy-going, stream-of-consciousness, follow-your-bliss free spirit to focus on Japanese folklore for three weeks followed by concurrent units on locking mechanisms, archery and sculpting clay. I lack the patience. I lack the desire. Or so I thought. Because this fall, I will join the ranks of those educational Froot Loops.<br /><br />Kayleigh will be in 11th grade. The plan is for her to take art and electronics at the high school and the rest of her subjects at home. With me. State law allows her to take two classes at her home district school while being homeschooled, as long as there is space in the classes she wants. The school can choose to allow her to take more than two, but they don’t have to. She is required to take 875 instruction hours per school year and study, minimally, language arts, reading, math, science, social studies and health in sequentially progressive courses. <br /><br />We’re busily gathering advice from other homeschoolers and researching curriculum. In some respects it’s exciting. Kayleigh is delighted at the thought of studying history that does not involve the American Revolution or Civil War. But in other ways, it’s pretty daunting. I don’t really remember much about chemistry. I mean, when’s the last time I needed to know the atomic charge of calcium? The last time I took chemistry. <br /><br />It’s not just daunting academically, either. Kayleigh and I have a lot in common, and I think we get each other. But we also are very different. We’re motivated in different ways and our interests are often miles apart. Basically, we can drive each other absolutely nuts. I know that’s true of any mother-daughter pair, but we’ll be stuck together. She can’t slam a door when she doesn’t like it that I’ve asked her 14 times to focus on the limit of X as it approaches infinity rather than what her Achilles tendon feels like when she repeatedly bangs it against the metal barstool – just as I can’t throw my hands up in frustration and stuff my face with chocolate in said situation. Just wait until we’re both in the throes of PMS. Eek.<br /><br />Kayleigh is a smart kid with a unique temperament. She also has ADD. Although she has usually done well academically, she has never really gotten along with school. School is very regimented, and there is little room for creativity or exploration. She has the rule-centeredness of most first children, but her head is happiest, and perhaps most productive, in the clouds – or, more accurately, in the worlds she created in her mind. She did not excel at rote memorization of math facts, and a packet of instructions for a history project or an English paper that basically tells her line-by-line what to write is completely overwhelming. But she slogs on. The perfectionist in her has kept her going until recently. <br /><br />She is a well-behaved child. She doesn’t need to be lectured, yet again, on what constitutes acceptable behavior at school, unlike the children who have cut her hair, spit in her face, sworn at her and dubbed her a reject. Hell, even the rejects have finally rejected her. She was often unaware when other children tried to befriend her, likely a result of the ADD. As time passed, they stopped trying. The teachers she didn’t enjoy have called her aloof and oversensitive. The ones who saw past her shyness and self-doubt think she is bright, talented and a joy to teach. They encouraged her to open up more, but after years as a square peg, she gets no satisfaction from participating. Even now that her classmates simply see past her and she could probably say and do anything without social recourse, she remains silent. It is her defense and offense. <br /><br />I hope that in the last two years of high school we can give her opportunities for meaningful exploration and expression free from the bounds of brick walls, lengthy assignments designed to prepare her for her next standardized test, and judgmental classmates. We are proceeding with hope and excitement, as well as a bit of fear and nervousness. I think we’ll be OK.Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03656235714427761274noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31334392.post-4518898298008543082010-06-21T16:31:00.000-05:002010-06-21T16:32:05.192-05:00To DadIf you were here on Father’s Day<br />I’d feel your rough hands and bristly whiskers<br />I’d light your cigar and play some Spike Jones<br />I’d broil you a steak and buy you a beer<br />If you were here.<br /><br />If you were here on Father’s Day<br />I’d watch you wind your watch at your dresser<br />I’d smell the Old Spice on your neck<br />I’d listen to you play the piano and not even plug my ears<br />If you were here<br /><br />If you were here on Father’s Day<br />I’d ask about when you met Mom<br />I’d show you your growing grandkids<br />I’d tell you how treasured you were and are and always will be<br />If you were here<br /><br />I love you.Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03656235714427761274noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31334392.post-50153372697347562552010-05-28T14:02:00.005-05:002010-05-28T14:44:40.195-05:0040! Happy birthday?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjS8XPx5QJ89kpSq5oNpx8tyrCX-mLRoxo102-03fvDCtLSXXR56tCC3OXtgq3RQesPh3zKf1yfkRpNrtVtKKfvvJR6TZNlNhgikTHQwKXtMISE-Wa3tRnbL-aBGZ83fD4i4FOeTQ/s1600/cookie.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjS8XPx5QJ89kpSq5oNpx8tyrCX-mLRoxo102-03fvDCtLSXXR56tCC3OXtgq3RQesPh3zKf1yfkRpNrtVtKKfvvJR6TZNlNhgikTHQwKXtMISE-Wa3tRnbL-aBGZ83fD4i4FOeTQ/s400/cookie.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5476406441833724338" /></a><br />This is my birthday cookie (and my unwashed hair). The cookie was huge, as you can see, and delicious. Highly recommended: <a href="http://www.ladyfortunes.com/">Lady Fortunes.</a> They make custom cookies for all occasions. Cool.<br /><br />I recently turned 40. I'm not thrilled.<br /><br />Turning 30 wasn't bad at all. I tend to think of the 30s as the heyday of adulthood. You're still young, but you've moved past your 20s, where people still treat you like you're 17 and don't know anything whether you know anything or not. You're often building a family and a career and your body hasn't betrayed you yet, or at least not much.<br /><br />But 40. Forty is a time to reflect on how much youth you wasted, all the doors you've closed, a time to feel the creaks in your joints and examine the wrinkles on your neck - when did those get there? Your children are older and snottier and demanding more of your money and sucking you of your innate protective tendencies. Your parents are older and dottier and demanding you clean their bathrooms after you've picked up their prescriptions.<br /><br />But 40. Forty is also a time to exploit your withering hormones and tell everyone exactly into which dark crevice(s) they can stick their, uh, demands. Forty is a time to do the things you were too afraid or too broke to do when you were younger. It's a time to re-live some of your glory days or live them the way you would have if you hadn't been busy with building that career and family. It's a time to reacquaint yourself with your partner now that the kids aren't sleeping between you. It's a time to eat at decent restaurants instead of cheap, family-friendly ones. <br /><br />And it's a time to buy some new toys. Men get themselves a nice new sports car. And women, that is, this woman, got herself a nice new (used) motorcycle.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEil5p_aSo3Y9YiP-02zcp_t2pdiuia8qObTq6BzrOiPDBtxboSnd7_I5haHX_YVOjG3GzZBPki9a-0OKxBNhgSGYs8VNVQhsWM9nECkgHiBF4T0v9OAxFSKZUJSHkY-_sm6NuTjAQ/s1600/JuliaJoy.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEil5p_aSo3Y9YiP-02zcp_t2pdiuia8qObTq6BzrOiPDBtxboSnd7_I5haHX_YVOjG3GzZBPki9a-0OKxBNhgSGYs8VNVQhsWM9nECkgHiBF4T0v9OAxFSKZUJSHkY-_sm6NuTjAQ/s200/JuliaJoy.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5476407226180811826" /></a>This is Julia Joy. I always wanted a Julia. And Joy goes without saying. Red. It matches the drum set I got when I turned 30. Heh.<br /><br />I had a motorcycle years ago, but I sold it when Kayleigh was little. I wasn't using it and we needed the money. I always kind of regretted it, and every spring and fall since then I've looked through the want ads to see what's out there. This year, Julia Joy was out there. I love her and will take very good care of her. <br /><br />Those milestone birthdays are so good for giving us an excuse to spoil ourselves. Bring on 50, baby. <br /><br />Just give me a good 10 years first.Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03656235714427761274noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31334392.post-8276182232625213632010-05-27T11:19:00.003-05:002010-05-27T21:55:28.328-05:00TiltFood has been a struggle of mine for, well, most of my life. I didn't eat enough or I ate too much or I didn't eat the right foods. I just could never do it right. You'd think feeding yourself wouldn't be so difficult. Open mouth, insert food, chew, swallow, repeat. Stop when full instead of repeating, literally, ad nauseum. <br /><br />I climbed on the scale today after six months of stress eating. You could call it comfort eating, but I haven't been comfortable – not with my choices, not in my clothes, not with my life. But compulsive eating is how I deal with my problems. It's not dealing, though, is it. I stuff my face with food and stuff those difficult emotions down with it. <br /><br />It's definitely a learned behavior. In fact, as a kid, I didn't eat much at all. I liked most food, though, and was growing properly. But my brother Clinton teased me because of how little I ate. "You don't eat enough to keep a bird alive," he would say. Given my family history of enormous women, a slender girl might be cheered rather than ridiculed. But, no. It didn't occur to me that my brother was rather overweight and had his own food issues. I was a kid.<br /><br />Still, I heard stories of my sister Cynthia eating 16 pieces of French toast for lunch. "We had to go to the neighbors for more bread!" my mother would say, a twinkle in her eye as she reminisced. I always asked how big the bread was but was just told it was bread size. I couldn't possibly have eaten 16 pieces of French toast. I could hardly finish one piece of French toast. Think of the size of my little stomach. Cynthia was much taller than I was (and is and am, in fact) and thinner, too, and could eat 16 pieces of French toast. My parents raved about her boisterous exploits in and out of the kitchen and enjoyed her company, and as a kid, I felt less valued because I had a more moderate temperament and appetite. They would never joyfully regale anyone with stories about me eating 16 pieces of French toast.<br /><br />As I got older, I started taking more food. I tried so, so hard to eat more. I thought I was supposed to. I thought everyone wanted me to eat more. Maybe they did. Maybe they didn't really care how much I ate. I don't know. I only know how I felt, and that was that I didn't eat enough to make my family happy. My dad would make meals and be angry that there were so many leftovers. My mom would pour me more milk and plop more meat on my plate without asking if I wanted more, declaring, "Milk, Amy," and "Meat, Amy." Yes. There it was. <br /><br />Sometimes I would put the food in my mouth, chew it, then spit it into my napkin. Especially the meat. I just couldn't stand that gristly old beef roast my mother would make, so blackened and stringy. She got wise to that napkin trick, though, and scolded me. Other times I tried slipping my food onto other people's plates when they weren't looking. Again, moms have eyes in the backs of their heads, and it didn't work.<br /><br />The only time food was ever taken away from me was when it was dessert. "Your eyes are bigger than your stomach," my dad would say. "You'll never finish all that," my mom would say as she'd snatch a good portion for herself. <br /><br />When I was about 9, I noticed I was getting heavier. My thighs started rubbing together. It hurt and gave me a rash. On a particularly sweltering summer night, as I sat watching television in our dark, humid living room with a big bowl of strawberry swirl ice cream in my lap, my dad said, "Amy, you're fat!" <br /><br />I looked down at my exposed belly and the bowl of ice cream I didn't even like but whose chill felt so good against my sticky skin. "No, I'm not," I said. He'd always been proud of my strength and athletic ability, and to have him think I was fat was a huge blow to my ego. <br /><br />"You are!" he said. <br /><br />"I am not!" I yelled. He laughed and walked away. I wouldn't talk to him the rest of the night. I knew how he felt about fat people. Fat people weren't athletes; they were sissies and slobs. I didn't want to disappoint him.<br /><br />I probably weighed about 70 pounds.<br /><br />My parents lived through the Depression. If there was something salvageable on a piece of food, they salvaged it. And they wouldn't buy more until that nasty shit was gone. So, bruised, sour, rotting apples sat in the refrigerator drawer next to shriveling oranges and darkening bananas. Bread would get so dry that the jam, which had nearly reverted to juice, would run right through it. I used to take empty lunch boxes to school and beg food off my friends. I just couldn't stand the ick factor of our sandwiches. And there was no way my parents would buy me a loaf of Wonder Bread and a jar of Jif. If my dad didn't like it, we didn't buy it. <br /><br />Once at the grocery store, in the most thrilling of aisles, the cereal aisle, my dad told me to choose whatever I wanted. I looked up at him, knowing he didn't really mean that. He meant, choose Corn Flakes, Bran Flakes, Shredded Wheat or Cheerios. He probably figured I'd go with the Cheerios since, to him, they were junk food. But I kept a close eye on him. I knew I couldn't get the Sugar Pops or Cocoa Puffs. When he was beginning to grow more impatient, he looked away, and I snagged a box of generic frosted flakes. I put it in the cart backwards so he couldn't see what it was. He saw the plain, blue box and was likely assured I hadn't gotten the Froot Loops or Cookie Crisp. I made sure to keep the box surrounded with other groceries as we shopped.<br /><br />When we got to the check-out, he took the box out of the cart and finally saw what it was. His face turned red and he held it up. "Who put this in our cart? We don't get this crap!" Then he looked down at me. <br /><br />"You told me I could get anything I wanted," I said, and I started to cry. I was embarrassed to cry, upset that he was angry about a box of cereal, mad that I was right he hadn't really meant I could get what I wanted, only what he wanted me to want. He relented. Kids are famous for grocery store meltdowns, and he caved with grace.<br /><br />As the years went by, he loosened up about cold cereal. I think I was about 20 when he finally read the nutrition information on the Shredded Wheat box. He said, "There's not much junk in Shredded Wheat, but there's not much of anything else, either." What an epiphany to have in your 70s.<br /><br />As a teen, I quickly learned I got attention from the popular kids if I had a big bag of Skittles around. Or M&Ms. And you know how most teenage girls spend all their money on clothes? Not me. I spent it on food. I knew pizza delivery guys by name. I knew the best and worst delis and cafes, and I was the youngest person hanging out at Steep & Brew, the ultra-hip, dark and smoky, mostly gay coffee joint downtown. (It’s not like that anymore.) I had definitely learned how to eat more. <br /><br />And it showed.<br /><br />One of my former tennis teammates (former because I stopped going out for sports) jogged past my dad and me one day. He said, “You should do something like that. When you’re active you eat a lot, and when you stop being so active, it’s hard to stop eating as much as you did, and you gain weight.” <br /><br />He was probably trying to be helpful. But it hurt. Every 16-year-old girl wants her dad to tell her what a pig she’s become. Right?<br /><br />I am sort of momentum-driven, so when I had the fortune of getting mono in 11th grade, the weight that fell off from being so sick stayed off. And I lost more. And once I got out of high school, I headed to Mexico. I can tell you, if you want to lose weight, there’s nothing like a couple months of diarrhea to strip the pounds away.<br /><br />How awesome it was to come home and buy new clothes and get a real job and meet people who liked me. It was a confidence booster, and I kept shedding fat. <br /><br />When I shrunk to a size 9, my sister and mom told me I was too thin and they were worried about me. Now, as I mentioned, my sister is a few inches taller than I am. Yet, she wore a size 9 even after her second child was born. Apparently I was supposed to be the fat one. It pissed me off.<br /><br />My weight stabilized there for several years. I ate what I wanted when I wanted and ignored my family’s incessant remarks. I loved oat bran and pizza and seldom ate candy or cookies or ice cream. My mom told me I was no fun at all.<br /><br />And then I met Eric. <br /><br />At work one day, I bought a Hershey bar from the vending machine. Oh, it was perfect. The chocolate was so sweet and sour and it melted just right in my mouth. I had another. Oh, man. It was good. <br /><br />When I got up to get another one, my friend Rekha said, “Amy, my god, what is going on?”<br /><br />I stopped and looked at her. “What?” I said. Ain’t nothin’ wrong with me.<br /><br />“I’ve never seen you eat a candy bar, ever, and now you’re eating three? When you want a snack you eat a bagel. What is wrong with you?” She was laughing, but she meant it.<br /><br />I laughed it off. Then I realized I was eating instead of dealing with this craziness called love and the fact that I would have to hurt my boyfriend because there was no way I could stay with him after meeting Eric. I didn’t get the third candy bar. I don’t remember what I told Rekha.<br /><br />I did put a little weight on, and my family was pleased. Eric told me he wouldn’t want me to be any heavier. He liked skinny women. He thought it meant they took care of themselves and had a healthy relationship with food. (He no longer believes that to be the case. And he's always been totally on my side, supportive, gentle and caring.)<br /><br />I was a pleasant size 8 when Eric and I got married. And then the weight started coming up again with all that eating out new couples do. And then I got pregnant, and that was pretty much the end of being thin ever again. God. Oh, sure, I lost most of the 55 pounds that I gained with Kayleigh. Then my dad got sick (sicker) and then he died and I ate my way through my grief. I lost some of that weight. It was harder. Eric and Kayleigh put the pressure on for another kid. I told Eric I wanted to lose some more weight before we attempted conception. I hit my target weight, which was more than I wanted to weigh, but it was acceptable and reachable, and we had at it. <br /><br />I tried harder not to get so big with that next kid. And it worked. My doctor congratulated me for keeping my weight under control, that it was hard to do. <br /><br />My weight went up and down after Kelsey was born, but last year I tried rather successfully to lose it again. I bought some smokin’ jeans and girly tops and felt OK about myself.<br /><br />And then my mom’s health fell apart, and my diet fell apart with it. I can feel that I’m almost at the end of my grief bingeing, although I’ve been thinking that for a few months. My clothes don’t fit. I weigh almost as much as I did when I was at my most pregnant with Kelsey. My percent body fat is obscene. I don’t want to turn into my mom, whose health would have been a completely different story had she kept her weight down and moved her body. I don’t want to do that to myself or to my family. But I can’t seem to stop eating and it just makes me feel bad.<br /><br />I love my mom. I love all my family. I want to honor them and the love we share by being better than I have been. I want to be healthy for all of us. It’s just so hard. Bad habits and coping mechanisms are pretty hard to overcome. It makes me feel weak for not being able to just put down the candy bar or turtle sundae or 5th slice of pizza and stop. What am I getting from food that it’s worth the pain and the guilt and giant, roly-poly belly? (I do like my boobs. They’re big and soft and squooshy boobs like I always thought I’d have, not the little pimples I had when I was young and trim.) I honestly don’t know. I feel less frantic, less afraid. Maybe I just feel less. <br /><br />Because what I have to feel these days isn’t very pleasant. My parents are dead, my daughter is sick, my husband’s health is always on the edge, I just turned 40. Midlife crisis? I suppose. Then I think about people with real problems and feel like I should be grateful, and I am, but apparently not enough.<br /><br />I just need to move my ass, shut my mouth and get that momentum going in the right direction again. <br /><br />My new motorcycle should help with that. But that’s a story for another day.Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03656235714427761274noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31334392.post-50884660345982526892010-04-18T19:01:00.004-05:002010-05-08T15:50:46.378-05:00My Mom, the end<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZk-7kXup9DHqkc12r4WLXwTsiFD05MA6lwULLxEwkkaoN6SSe2ScI_kYl-dXfhmqTZeumvDQMjT6jogwHC0F-pFKTVjhpyBHTHDOAKL_cVs8nRGE9Vr95qsBf0_WrXDg2FLEYlQ/s1600/Grandma.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZk-7kXup9DHqkc12r4WLXwTsiFD05MA6lwULLxEwkkaoN6SSe2ScI_kYl-dXfhmqTZeumvDQMjT6jogwHC0F-pFKTVjhpyBHTHDOAKL_cVs8nRGE9Vr95qsBf0_WrXDg2FLEYlQ/s400/Grandma.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5461632007800458962" /></a><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Donna Jean Boughey Wagner</span><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">July 16, 1925 - February 24, 2010</span><br /><br />So, it's taken me a long time to try to write this. I'm not sure how much detail I want to rehash. It's strange getting used to someone being gone. It's strange going to my mom's house, sorting her things into piles for her children, the inevitable garage sale, and Good Will. <br /><br />I hate seeing her clothes. Her jacket was slung over her walker in her living room, just waiting for her to come back, but she won't. I avoided washing a bag of her laundry that I'd taken to my house from the hospital, and when I finally opened it, only a couple of weeks ago, the clothes still smelled like her. It was a gut punch, and I bawled my eyes out, clutching her stained sweatpants as I leaned over the washer.<br /><br />What was she thinking those last few weeks? <span style="font-style:italic;">Was</span> she thinking? She couldn't speak well, she'd been very confused and hallucinating. As it became clear her body wasn't going to work the way she wanted it to, she just seemed to check out. She withdrew, settled into her own mind. <br /><br />We had to just let her go. We honored her wishes as set forth in her health care directive, and we felt like we were killing her. It was freeing to have decisions already made, and made by her, so when we were asked how to proceed, we could say, this is what she wanted. At the same time, we likely hastened her death in doing as she asked, and there's no feeling of liberation in that. There is the knowledge, though, that she suffered less and that we did as she wanted. Still, what if she changed her mind? We'll never know.<br /><br />I talked to her before I left her the last time. I told her she was a good mom, that I was glad she was my mom. I thanked her for giving me a good life and teaching me everything she had. I thanked her for being a good grandma. I told her I hoped Heaven was real and that Dad was there waiting for her. I told her I'd miss her. I told her I loved her. I touched her face, feeling her full cheeks, her wrinkly forehead, her round chin. Then I kissed her goodbye and went home. She died a few hours later.<br /><br />So now we're all getting used to life without her. We've been busy trying to settle her estate, and I've enjoyed seeing my siblings more. It's funny the different memories we all have. <br /><br />My kids had a hard time, and it brought up a lot of memories for Eric of his mother's death and life. We've held one another a lot in the last several months. Love and hugs are good healers. And so is time. Sometimes it seems like it's been so long since she died. Other days I remind myself it really hasn't been long at all. <br /><br />Now Mother's Day is coming up. What a strange day it will be without her.Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03656235714427761274noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31334392.post-9098957320461645402010-02-06T17:00:00.003-06:002010-02-06T17:49:50.278-06:00Eric says it's time for My Mom, Part 3Today I got a call from the VA Hospital informing me that Power of Attorney was activated, and I am named in that capacity. Any decisions regarding my mom's treatment would be mine to make. What a bizarre feeling.<br /><br />The plan was, she was going to come stay with me starting February 4. But before we got her room ready and before she was ever discharged from the nursing home, she got a little goofy. She has had trouble distinguishing dreams from reality, and her motor control and speech have deteriorated. On Tuesday, the nurse called the doctor about her motor control, speech and dazed mental status, and the doctor ordered her to the hospital, suspecting a stroke. It's been a rapid slide since.<br /><br />I hadn't given the VA the most recent POA papers my mom had signed, which also names my sister as POA, but I told the doctor over the phone that she was on her way with said papers in hand. Now we share the responsibility on an either/or basis. I think my mom chose us because she planned to stay in our homes and we'd need the ability to act on her behalf.<br /><br />I don't think she'll be staying with either of us any time soon.<br /><br />Today, my sister says, my mom was traveling. She was heading to Venezuela, with a stopover in Miami, to visit her boyfriend, Cesar, who is 86. She also picked some strawberries today. Yesterday she planted roses and paid her bills and was quite annoyed that she didn't have any stamps or underwear. She saw my dad and our neighbor Lenny, who died in 1987. There were birds in her room. She believes she is at home.<br /><br />Now, some of this is plain hilarious. Seriously. Cesar? He speaks English, by the way. It's also difficult to watch her struggle to figure out what the hell is going on, and she really tries hard. She held a pen in her hand and worked diligently to write out a bill to UW Health. She was apparently satisfied with herself, so I snatched the paper away from her as soon as she paused and told her I'd put a stamp on it at home. Later, after I left, she lined up tissues on her table and tried to write on those, paying more bills, just like a little girl playing pretend. <br /><br />It's not heartbreaking to me to see her mind go, and I'm surprised at that. She is busy and mostly at ease and content, except for her underwear and the stamps, or whatever the problem of the day is. I think if she were aware that she wasn't really there it would be heartbreaking. <br /><br />What is more heartbreaking is seeing how my kids and my siblings are dealing with it. She's our mom, you know? Kelsey said it made her sad that she can't make cookies and cakes with Grandma anymore. Kayleigh is sad, too, and worried Grandma is going to die, and angry that Eric is supporting me – to her mind – to the exclusion of everyone else's needs. <br /><br />On top of it all, I'm horrifically sick. I don't want to go down there and pass on my germs to her. She just doesn't need that. So I'm hunkered in bed with Tylenol and cough drops and a chocolate malt (thank you, Eric), resting, coughing, sneezing, moaning, and hoping I get better soon, just as we're hoping the same for my mom. <br /><br />The doctors are hoping that a different dose of antibiotics will knock out an infection and help clear her mind. We'll just have to wait and see what happens.Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03656235714427761274noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31334392.post-13105911899956192472010-01-21T20:46:00.003-06:002010-01-21T21:39:11.353-06:00My Mom, part twoFirst, thanks to everyone for all the support and love you've given me and my family. We've all needed it, and we all appreciate it. Thank you. I'm not usually so out there with my emotions, but I had to unload.<br /><br />Second, my sister spent a lot of time at the hospital and nursing home with my mom over her winter school break, and I am so grateful to her for that. It's not the way she had planned on spending that month, but she was such a comfort to my mom – and to me. Knowing she was there and having her stay at my place was a huge stress-reducer. We spent mornings chatting increasingly later, and she cleaned my microwave and kitchen sink! I told her to bring her clean-freak friend next time and take care of my whole house.<br /><br />So, my mom just finished two weeks at the nursing home and expects to be there another week or so. She's been making slow but good progress in rehab. She was frustrated at how slowly they were taking it, but they explained that many exercises put strain on the heart, and with a new pacemaker, they have to very gradually increase the workload. She seemed OK with that explanation. Prior to that, my sister reported, she'd been a little snotty sometimes about the exercises she was doing. My mom tends to poo-poo things as silly or pathetic, but it seemed like she got more on board after being told why things were moving at the pace they were.<br /><br />Despite progress, she's still very weak and increasingly dizzy and light-headed. We spent ALL DAY at the doctor today, and they're trying to figure out what could be causing the dizziness. It seems to accompany some pretty serious dinginess on her part. She couldn't find words today, and mispronounced a lot of them. It was as if she were totally hammered – like, about-to-pass-out hammered. (I've never seen her that hammered, by the way. She just falls asleep when she drinks.) She also couldn't remember her Social Security Number, which really, really made her mad.<br /><br />It was nice to kidnap her from the nursing home for the day. We had an appointment at a clinic I didn't know existed with a doctor I'd met before at an urgent care. I think she might have been the one who took care of Eric after a bee sting. Anyway, she was fantastic, very kind, patient, and thorough. Most doctors can't seem to wait to get out of the office, but she really took her time, asked a lot of questions, and seemed to genuinely care about what she was doing and for whom. Nice. <br /><br />The afternoon was spent at the VA hospital in cardiology. (I even managed to call a couple of sources while she was having an EKG. Smokin'.) Her pacemaker is working fine, but they changed a setting to see if it would help her light-headedness. We ended up spending a little more time there than expected because they really want to try to figure out the dizziness. We'll be going back in a month.<br /><br />Between appointments we went out to lunch. She'd been so excited to go out to eat. Institutional food is just the pits, although she says the nursing home is better than the VA, which she considers a wonderful incentive to anorexia. Bummer that her food was a little cold, even after she asked them to warm it up again. She did, however, have two cups of real coffee, not nursing home coffee, which she suspects is really decaf even though they say it isn't.<br /><br />Fussing with the wheelchair was a hoot. It has two different foot rests, which bugs her, and I had to figure out how to take them off and put them on again. I also had to hoist this wheelchair into my little bitty car. Cheap entertainment, folks.<br /><br />Anyway, she made it through the day, tired but ticking. I guess that makes two of us.Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03656235714427761274noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31334392.post-73072614826199869222010-01-16T13:31:00.004-06:002010-01-16T13:40:10.917-06:00Balance and flexibility: life's gymnasticsThis has been a busy work week and still a tense one with my mom in the nursing home. I don't like having such important parts of my life so uncertain.<br /><br />I thought freelancing would be a good way to have some flexibility in my personal and work lives. I wanted to work but also be available to my family. And mostly that's the case. But then I got a whole bunch of work all at once, and the thought of all that money and more recent clips sounded good to me. Gotta keep your name out there, right? It was also right around Christmas, which is a rather busy time, that I got all these jobs. I figured that'd be OK, though. Then my mom had her problems, and all of that piled together made me think freelancing wasn't quite as flexible as I thought. <br /><br />For now, balance. I do what I can for whom. We'll see what the future holds when it unfolds.Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03656235714427761274noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31334392.post-54193738349885025252010-01-07T21:55:00.003-06:002010-01-08T09:22:24.285-06:00My MomHow do you watch the woman you care most about in the world slowly slip away? <br /><br />On Wednesday I drove my mother to a nursing home. My siblings and I knew she never wanted to go to a nursing home. She protested, but on the day she relented. Part of her seemed to know she needed rehab after losing a lot of strength during a recent illness. The rest of her was mad as hell, resentful, surprised, betrayed, defeated, placating, depressed, disbelieving, sad.<br /><br />When my husband and I bought this house, we bought it with her (and our) later years in mind. Everything is on one level – just right for an old fart or even a young fart. Walking through the first time, she said, "This is my room," referring to the room that is now my daughter Kelsey's. <br /><br />Over time, my mom has grown weaker, slower, sleepier. Her body and her breath are shorter. Her eyes don't work, her hands don't work, her legs don't work. She slurs her words. She eats poorly. She smells bad. But she maintains, even now, that she is well enough to live in her own home, even after telling us on Christmas Day that she would need to move in with one of us kids soon. <br /><br />She can't even get in bed by herself. She shuffles and grunts and wheezes from her bed to her chair to the toilet with assistance, and a lot of it. She falls asleep mid-sentence. There were times last week, in the hospital, when she woke, she couldn't distinguish dreams from reality. Not all of her dreams are nice, little old lady, cookie-baking, sweet grandma dreams. Her paranoia and lack of logic frightened all of us. Fortunately, her mind seems to have cleared.<br /><br />And now she lies in a hospital bed in a little corner room in an institution full of other women and men unable to care for themselves, with the hope that rehabilitation will make her strong enough to go home again. An activities chart hangs on the door: Bingo, cards, sing-alongs. They wear bibs at meal time, and scarcely a meal goes by without that drab, drippy, lifeless fruit cocktail. She will stay with the bingo, fruit cocktail and bibs until she stops making gains in rehab or until 20 days is up, when Medicare stops paying 100 percent, whichever comes first.<br /><br />When the kids and I arrived last night for a visit, she was asleep in her bed, her food tray on her table over her lap, a mug of hot chocolate in her bent hands, resting on her chest. She didn't wake until I touched her head, running my hand through what is left of her coarse, white hair. She was happy to see us, but she didn't have much to say. She kept falling asleep. I imagine she was worn out after the activity of checking out of the VA hospital and into the nursing home. It's a lot of change, a lot of newness, none of it welcome.<br /><br />Seeing her there, after driving her there, I feel like a traitor. I said she could live with me. I work a job that lets me choose to work or not so I could be more available. I bought this house, this plain rectangle, with her in mind. She expected to be welcome here, or with my sister or my late brother's family. She never wanted a nursing home. <br /><br />"I'll never go to one of those places," she said. "My kids will take care of me. That's why you have kids."<br /><br />I always believed it was my duty to care for her. She took care of me growing up. I owe her. <br /><br />But it's more than obligation. It's also a privilege; an honor; a maddening, difficult, heartbreaking joy. I love her. I want to help her. And I failed her.<br /><br />After she settled in, she lay in her bed and looked around at her little room. "So this is where I live now," she said. "Until I get better." We all hope she gets better.<br /><br />She says she will not use her money to pay for her care. She wants us kids to have it, not a nursing home or at-home nurse. I think she will have to change her mind about that. She needs more assistance than we can give her ourselves. She should have put her house in trust or transferred ownership years ago. We talked with her about it years ago, but she just said she'd never go to a nursing home; they would drag her out of her house in a box, or her kids would take care of her. She should have taken better care of herself. She should have eaten right and kept her weight in control and gotten up off her ass and moved her body and stayed active and strong. But she didn't do any of these things. And now she is suffering for all of it. And so are we.<br /><br />I imagine she will move in with my sister when she leaves the nursing home. My sister has no kids at home and she eats meat and she plays Scrabble and she talks more than I do and she seems less terrified than I am. <br /><br />I hope my mom uses this time in the nursing home to get stronger. I am afraid she will just give up. I hope she forgives us for putting her there. I guess we'll see.<br /><br />So, how <span style="font-style:italic;">do</span> you watch the woman you care most about in the world slowly slip away? Sadly.Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03656235714427761274noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31334392.post-87461695355710758502009-12-23T22:31:00.004-06:002009-12-23T22:48:02.806-06:00Looking for inspiration in the bottom of my blogClearly, I've been neglecting blogging.<br /><br />Go read my prison series. <a href="http://teawithjam.blogspot.com/2008/04/guys-in-green.html">Part 1</a> <a href="http://teawithjam.blogspot.com/2008/04/guys-in-green-part-2.html">Part 2</a> <a href="http://teawithjam.blogspot.com/2008/04/guys-in-green-end.html">Part 3</a><br /><br />Check out <a href="http://teawithjam.blogspot.com/2006/07/grass-jelly-drink.html">grass jelly drink</a>, one of my first posts. Marvel how much thinner I was and realize how fat I thought I was.<br /><br />Some of my travel posts are cool. Or maybe it's just the photos I like. Whatever. The links are in the sidebar.<br /><br />The ones relating to my brother I like a lot. <a href="http://teawithjam.blogspot.com/2007/12/coca-cola-glass.html">Coca Cola Glass</a> <a href="http://teawithjam.blogspot.com/2009/11/november-is-lung-cancer-awareness-month.html"> Lung cancer awareness</a> We set up his fishing village under the Christmas tree today. I miss him.Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03656235714427761274noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31334392.post-56653963555403477602009-11-10T08:21:00.004-06:002009-12-20T21:21:53.347-06:00"Eastwick" gets hangedABC is burning "Eastwick" at the stake. The only prime time show I watch, "Eastwick" was just canceled after seven episodes. The show was cursed from the beginning.<br /><br />First, I watch it. <span style="font-style:italic;">I</span> watch it. I cancel things. "Eastwick" is only the latest casualty. I tuned in for silly reasons, namely Jaime Ray Newman, Paul Gross, and sex. <br /><br />Jaime Ray Newman played Kristina Cassadine on "General Hospital." If it weren't for fan loyalty, I would never have watched "Eastwick" in the first place. I only started watching GH a few months ago, actually, after spending the last year or so watching clips of Newman's former GH costar Nancy Lee Grahn. I loved Nancy on "Santa Barbara" when I was a teen, and reconnected last year when I needed some distraction from the nightmares of school and general insanity. <br /><br />Paul Gross is a god. Americans might remember him from "Due South," a show about a Canadian mounty in Chicago. I liked him best in "Slings and Arrows," a Canadian show so close to perfect my face is getting hot just thinking about it. He played Geoffrey Tennant, a nut job stage actor-turned artistic director who communicates with the ghost of his mentor/rival. The writing and acting absolutely crackled. Loved it.<br /><br />And then there's the sex. "Eastwick" was the latest iteration of "The Witches of Eastwick." The book came first, and there was a rather successful movie, as well. Any time you put witches and demons together, you're probably going to get some sex. And I like sex. So I wanted to watch because I like to watch. And the show, in fact, had some fun and sexy moments.<br /><br />A pleasant surprise was the humor. Well done. I was expecting more drama and fewer chortles. I'm sort of stingy with my laughter, but this show got me.<br /><br />Also a nice surprise were the actors. Paul Gross and Jaime Ray Newman were known quantities for me, but I'd never seen Rebecca Romijn in anything before. She's pretty amazing. Also amazing was Lindsay Price, who I'd never heard of before. I'll definitely be on the watch for them, as well as Sara Rue, who isn't one of the witches, but the BFF for Lindsay's character. <br /><br />So what killed this show besides me? There are a number of cliches we could blame, such as the line-up. It followed an entirely new comedy line-up on Wednesday. Maybe "Cougar Town" attracts a similar audience as "Eastwick," but I'm not convinced. I'm not watching "Cougar Town," a half-hour sit com about a forty-something woman lusting after much younger men, including high-schoolers. It's not funny to watch older guys have impure thoughts about young girls; it's equally unfunny when a woman is the lustful one. High school kids are just that – kids. Gross. Leave them alone. No, this show needed to follow something like "Desperate Housewives," which had a similar spunky, dramedic tone. And it definitely needed to follow an established series, preferably on a weekend, not be the last prime time offering on a mid-week night of all new shows. <br /><br />Another problem is that "Eastwick" needed to leave the gates running, and it started at more of a meander. It's cool to do that in a book and let characters and story arcs develop. But on television, there's no time. You've got an hour to hook an audience and give them a reason to return. After the first episode, it was apparent this show would not make it. There was not enough punch, not enough to make me invest in those characters, and I really wanted to invest in them. I wanted to, so I did, and came back for every episode. But without that pre-existing investment, there was little reason to tune back in, unfortunately. After a few episodes, the show was starting to find its stride, and although it's not quite there yet, the potential exists for some really good stuff. There's drama, mystery, humor, all wrapped in and around a pretty quirky idea for network TV – that is, these three surprise witches summon the devil.<br /><br />At least it's not another crime drama or hospital show. Or maybe that's why it didn't make it. Whatever the reason, I'll be sorry to see it go.Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03656235714427761274noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31334392.post-58886018702178933622009-11-01T13:26:00.006-06:002009-11-01T14:07:26.458-06:00November is Lung Cancer Awareness Month<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6jYCK_XcRr1k05EJBx4zAq36f4LX5ZGfDlI3HfdZIK2G4RZaYT6SjD29sb_HOmzzXRqfw8xx51mH7N1S49uJBYYDcbaCmRViUbahNYCsJL56sboZcwcAPUg4k5YZCiYmJ1s_1Bw/s1600-h/Clint.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 285px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6jYCK_XcRr1k05EJBx4zAq36f4LX5ZGfDlI3HfdZIK2G4RZaYT6SjD29sb_HOmzzXRqfw8xx51mH7N1S49uJBYYDcbaCmRViUbahNYCsJL56sboZcwcAPUg4k5YZCiYmJ1s_1Bw/s400/Clint.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5399224746110340130" /></a><br />This is my brother Clint. Clint died two years ago after a shockingly short battle with lung cancer. <br /><br />November is National Lung Cancer Awareness Month. Lung cancer kills more people every year than breast, prostate, colon, liver, kidney, and melanoma cancers combined, yet it receives a fraction of the research funding. October was Breast Cancer Awareness Month. Pink ribbons were ubiquitous, from the corrugated insulator on my coffee cup at Caribou to specially marked packages of M&Ms, with proceeds going to fund research and outreach. Public awareness, screening programs and research funding have helped contribute to huge strides in treatment and survival of breast cancer, and that is fantastic. Now it’s time to focus more attention and money on lung cancer, a disease that affects so many people, either themselves or someone they love.<br /><br />Like my brother. Clint was diagnosed in August 2007 and died that December. Although I shouldn’t have been shocked, I was. Only a week before he died, his doctors told my sister-in-law, Lee, they expected him to recover. <br /><br />He was not a smoker, not that it should matter. But some people seem to think that people with lung cancer deserve it because they smoked. That attitude surely contributes to a lack of funding for lung cancer research. According to the Lung Cancer Alliance, total research funding for lung cancer in the U.S. in 2009 is projected to be $199 million, down one-third since 2005. Compare this figure to breast cancer research funding: a projected $1.1 billion for 2009, up $50 million from 2005. <br /><br />Perhaps the lack of funding also stems from projected outcomes. Lung cancer is considered a death sentence, with 5-year survival rates just under 16 percent, compared to 89 percent and almost 100 percent 5-year survival rates for breast and prostate cancers respectively. Doctors don’t want to board a sinking ship, and the government doesn’t want to buy a boat with a hole in the hull.<br /><br />Clint and Lee had four kids. He will never see his children get married, never know his grandchildren, never gaze lovingly at his wife again. He will never tease me again, never show me how to be a patient, loving parent again. My mother had to bury her first-born child.<br /><br />I miss my brother. I think about him every day. His photo is on my hutch. His <a href="http://teawithjam.blogspot.com/2007/12/coca-cola-glass.html">Coca Cola glass</a> is on my dresser. His love is in my heart.<br /><br />Lung cancer needs to be talked about, and it needs to be eradicated. Check out these sites for more information or to get involved.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.lungcanceralliance.org">Lung Cancer Alliance</a><br /><a href="http://www.cancer.gov">National Cancer Institute</a><br /><a href="http://www.lungcancerfoundation.org">Bonnie J. Addario Lung Cancer Foundation</a>Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03656235714427761274noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31334392.post-16314384514671498192009-10-25T16:04:00.004-05:002009-10-25T16:42:14.276-05:00Come on, get happyI've started this post four times. Everything I write sounds so crabby and self-important I don't want to publish it. So, here are some happies instead. It's still self-important because it's all about me, but what the hell. I'll cap it at 20. <br /><br />1. Apple pie. OK, any kind of pie. But if it's apple, mine, because mine is better.<br />2. Roses<br />3. Sprite with ice<br />4. Lit candles in every room<br />5. Finding a clip of a favorite old TV show on YouTube<br />6. Butt rubs<br />7. Diamonds<br />8. Black pearls<br />9. Real hot chocolate<br />10. Puppies, dogs<br />11. Kittens, cats<br />12. Girl rats, even with giant, horrible tumors<br />13. Eagles<br />14. Fresh bread<br />15. Art fairs<br />16. My mother laughing so hard she coughs<br />17. Kelsey dancing<br />18. Kayleigh talking<br />19. Eric holding me<br />20. The four of us playing a board game by the fireplace<br /><br />How about you? What are some of your happies?Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03656235714427761274noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31334392.post-50328587946047928222009-10-07T16:47:00.004-05:002009-10-07T17:00:38.088-05:00Student Assignment ReportIt's progress report time at the high school, and my inbox is filling with files from Kayleigh's teachers. That she can get as low as 21 percent in Effort and still get in the 90s and 100s in the Knowledge and Skills portion of her grades is a testament to what a tremendous waste of time much of the homework assigned really is and makes me wonder what she would be doing if they actually challenged her. Good thing she challenges herself with other things. <br /><br />My favorite part about these reports is the label on the little icon that accompanies the email attachment: "Student Ass." <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHjHD9jQlEPmlsy5FoAuAEe3epi5JhzE_mI7LXbrJjADG_L3WOFq1LY9PwyccT-o_kJ_B-pKx8WCN22cZBPRWnOmUrnycDdI4ih_lV9bd0GiFeqBjHs2u0NnJ-foOkC8knxi418A/s1600-h/StudentAss.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 155px; height: 226px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHjHD9jQlEPmlsy5FoAuAEe3epi5JhzE_mI7LXbrJjADG_L3WOFq1LY9PwyccT-o_kJ_B-pKx8WCN22cZBPRWnOmUrnycDdI4ih_lV9bd0GiFeqBjHs2u0NnJ-foOkC8knxi418A/s400/StudentAss.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5389981230923354498" /></a><br /><br />Smokin'. What exactly is my daughter being graded on at this school? And do the teachers feel this way about all their students?Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03656235714427761274noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31334392.post-44633189861249865942009-09-30T20:45:00.002-05:002009-09-30T21:06:00.072-05:00Afternoon WoodPulling up the hill, I stopped short of my house and parked my little car in front of the neighbors' perfectly kept home and yard. My ragged yard was especially tatty with the pile of branches and leaves growing taller and wider at the curb as Paul and Michael took down our teetering honey locust tree limb by limb. They'd gotten pretty far in only a few hours, down to only a few large bare, branches.<br /><br />Michael scampered around the tree, cutting, and Paul kept his feet on the ground, holding hard on the ropes tied to the branches Michael had trimmed bit by bit, guiding the wood to the ground, away from our house, away from the maple tree, the ash tree, the ginkgo tree, away from the power lines.<br /><br />Kayleigh and I glanced up at Michael as we walked up the driveway. He stood on a solid branch, surveying his next move, his next cut.<br /><br />"You're crazy!" Paul hollered up to him. "You're not walking out on that."<br /><br />"I'll have to straddle it," he shouted back. <br /><br />Paul looked at me and smiled. I handed him two water bottles and 65 cents, his change. The water in my house is perfectly fine, as is my bathroom. They prefer to stay outside.<br /><br />"Straddle it?" I peered up at Michael. "I've never had that much wood between my legs."<br /><br />I smiled and headed inside.Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03656235714427761274noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31334392.post-43787170370284260872009-09-23T20:20:00.002-05:002009-09-23T20:23:15.473-05:00See you later<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGFGCQyq0FHv5eBRUEPN505i6Q28CN-plJ83wF1OOTgF1-9d0JYe9FwxgO6K04k70ZsJWHf6Ch6LvccTa_MPty09an6OFXG8WLG5xzO0ToqkiUtZgcFkmcZacgFnKPeUyg-CJrcg/s1600-h/Jackie.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 280px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGFGCQyq0FHv5eBRUEPN505i6Q28CN-plJ83wF1OOTgF1-9d0JYe9FwxgO6K04k70ZsJWHf6Ch6LvccTa_MPty09an6OFXG8WLG5xzO0ToqkiUtZgcFkmcZacgFnKPeUyg-CJrcg/s400/Jackie.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5384838260680609522" /></a><br />Goodbye, friend. I hope my brother met you with open arms.Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03656235714427761274noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31334392.post-75670905671792496792009-09-13T15:09:00.003-05:002009-09-13T15:26:27.677-05:00Odds and endsNew siding and windows tomorrow. We've moved everything away from the windows so they are accessible. My, I like my rooms with less stuff. Not that I didn't already know that.<br /><br />I am in the throes of a deadline. Two stories, due the same day. I've had ample opportunity to write. I try. I just really suck at focus. I've tried caffeine, but it hasn't helped. I've tried allowing myself to be distracted in order to get the distractions out of my system. That hasn't helped, either. I think I just need a lot of pressure. Too much pressure.<br /><br />Kelsey contracted her back-to-school illness already. She is a living, almost-breathing snot factory. She jammed her index finger up her nose and stretched her left nostril to the point where silver dollars could surely have had spare room. I said, "Could you please use a tissue to do that?" She continued her sinus diving and said, "I can't find the boogers when I use a Kleenex. ... Oh, there's one."<br /><br />So, the siding. When the guy tore the yellow aluminum off, underneath was dark green cedar. It's one of those old colors that seems to be coming back in style. The kids love it. I must say, I don't mind it. It's better than the yellow aluminum. But tomorrow I will have light yellow vinyl instead. And it will match my garage. Cool. I wanted a light color rather than a dark one, and I didn't want to re-side the garage, which was already light yellow. So, light yellow it was. They call it cream. I tell you, if anyone ever presented me with cream that color, I would have to mention being on a diet or something, because that is not a healthy color for cream. <br /><br />The windows are triple pane, also vinyl, with a wood grain interior. I'm happy about those. They are better looking than white, much cheaper than wood, and will hopefully make the house a lot warmer. Kelsey's room is in the northeast corner, and it is about 10 degrees cooler than the rest of the house in winter. Poor kid. You can feel the breeze in there. Kayleigh would like that, actually. What Kayleigh is not liking at the moment is having to clear a path to her windows. She has been a pack rat since she could grasp objects. I try not to object too much anymore because it's pretty pointless. I'd have to turn on the bitch-wolf mama me in order for anything to change, and I really don't have the energy, nor do I think it's very important. She'll clean her crap up someday in the next few years. That'll do. In the meantime, she just closes the door.<br /><br />So, back to my deadlines. Oh, I found a T-shirt that says, "Not now. I'm on deadline." Perfect.<br /><br />What are your odds and ends these days?Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03656235714427761274noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31334392.post-35768549919312545902009-08-28T20:32:00.000-05:002009-08-28T20:33:07.692-05:00Follow Your BlissToasted marshmallow Jelly Bellies + hot coffee = blissAmyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03656235714427761274noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31334392.post-80180439675582614392009-08-23T22:19:00.008-05:002009-08-23T23:50:16.865-05:00My Van is a Vampire, a traveling tale of synchronicitySometimes everything fits, like pieces of a puzzle. Sometimes things just go together, like bread and butter. Sometimes timing is everything, and the past and the present fuse in a way that makes futuresense.<br /><br />And sometimes the puzzle is a few pieces short of a box, the bread is moldy and the butter is frozen, and the only sense made out of the past, present and future is that you have always been and will continue to be a great big dork.<br /><br />I’ve just returned from a short trip to Traverse City, Michigan, and all of the above applied.<br /><br />To begin: My van is a vampire.<br /><br />There’s something about travel that causes menstruation. The last thing I want to think about when tooling around the country is what state my uterus is in. Believe me, I wish I could leave it home. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuLw86NCTf6ldXs4L8cugwchUCPzFs2c4Wtvc5csuvIE0E98uHXdpRnyuhOB6A1NWRTE9GANz6OZmBJk64iBudOWZznWCrT4qQr7-Wm8DKOn-fbR0s29XDAjz8AtKOGjkiUt8T4A/s1600-h/bathroom.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuLw86NCTf6ldXs4L8cugwchUCPzFs2c4Wtvc5csuvIE0E98uHXdpRnyuhOB6A1NWRTE9GANz6OZmBJk64iBudOWZznWCrT4qQr7-Wm8DKOn-fbR0s29XDAjz8AtKOGjkiUt8T4A/s200/bathroom.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5373371518561069522" /></a>I suppose that day is coming given that my moon time has lately caused more blood loss than childbirth. But it’s not just perimenopausal, whisker-sprouting broads like me who are afflicted. My poor teenager, who has enough stress simply as a result of her age and interests (or disinterests, as would be more likely), has to carry around period baggage. Going anywhere? Guaranteed to bleed. It’s one of our rules to live by. I just hope my jeans (Totally rockin’ Lucky deep dark blues that I got on clearance at Macy’s because, seriously, I’m never in style and I’d never pay full price for some scraps of denim. Think of my African daughter! The guilt….) wash out as nicely as the motel bedspread. <br /><br />I’ve been wanting to see Traverse City since I was a little girl. My grandfather was born in Traverse City, and my mom talked about it with such fondness and pride that the city has always held a regal spot in my heart. My great-grandfather, Quincy Edward Boughey I, was apparently a man of prominence in the city, and a street and a hill are named after the family – or after him, I’m not actually sure. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_Gagg458NqtaBeYfP3KPYDHFQXo8-Z6iw4JJcoo0nwk3cfAEf_PWsf4VOeQSv_YNUfWQscTqOJqwcB7jnx9G3C2t23ehFqhA_WVZjlsUsEyYdPKENMuKbfOdE7Lq3Yglg2eiEdg/s1600-h/BougheySign.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_Gagg458NqtaBeYfP3KPYDHFQXo8-Z6iw4JJcoo0nwk3cfAEf_PWsf4VOeQSv_YNUfWQscTqOJqwcB7jnx9G3C2t23ehFqhA_WVZjlsUsEyYdPKENMuKbfOdE7Lq3Yglg2eiEdg/s400/BougheySign.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5373371302189503138" /></a><br /><br />The girls and I visited Boughey Street on Boughey Hill. I laughed out loud when I saw the yellow houses on the corner. I grew up in a yellow house. I bought two yellow houses. We are re-siding our house and guess what color we picked? Yellow. Not that I love yellow. It's that we are too cheap to re-side the garage, too, and since we are re-siding, we want the house and garage to match. Right now, the house is a ghastly yellow six-inch aluminum siding. The garage is a less-ghastly, four-inch, light yellow vinyl. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMRGYXswyUAWUmrSeMHErhwBUATTpfjElwisbjJ7dQfiocmzT6NzFHi0SujScLmhCYXexXcQS-k-DD5E3Ke454MZ4MY2HN8qsi2-BXTIeeGacucTOXss1FLHAGAxEcal5SfbelyQ/s1600-h/AmyBougheySign.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMRGYXswyUAWUmrSeMHErhwBUATTpfjElwisbjJ7dQfiocmzT6NzFHi0SujScLmhCYXexXcQS-k-DD5E3Ke454MZ4MY2HN8qsi2-BXTIeeGacucTOXss1FLHAGAxEcal5SfbelyQ/s400/AmyBougheySign.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5373371029662939810" /></a><br /><br />Anyway, this particular trip came about because Eric, my ever-loving husband, decided to attend a seminar at Interlochen College of Creative Arts, about half an hour from TC. When I met Eric in 1990, he had this plastic board called a <a href="http://stick.com">Chapman Stick</a> that when he tapped he made music. Not much later, he quit. But a few years ago, when our lives blew up, he grabbed hold of his Stick again. This summer, Interlochen held a Stick seminar taught by Emmett Chapman, inventor of the Chapman Stick, and Greg Howard, Stickist extraordinaire. Eric couldn’t pass up this opportunity, and neither could I.<br /><br />Eric packed his Sticks (yes, he has more than one now) and his amps. He forgot a sweatshirt. He always forgets a sweatshirt. And why would you really think of a sweatshirt in August, right? I packed sunscreen and swimming suits and beach towels (and supermegavortex tampons and onlyslightlysmallerthandiapers pads). Northern Michigan missed the memo that it’s summer. Eric bought a sweatshirt to add to his collection of sweatshirts purchased on summer vacations. I drank a lot of hot drinks, unsuccessfully dodged rain drops and finally just holed up in our chilly, humid motel room reading <a href="http://harleyjanekozak.com">Harley Jane Kozak</a>’s second Wollie Shelley mystery, Dating is Murder. Saturday night, having finished the book, I flipped on the TV after hunkering under the blankets and who should appear on my screen but the lovely (and hilarious) Ms. Kozak herself. She has such fine features and exquisite hair. And she was hugging Scott Bakula. What could be better? Now I can say I’ve seen the last five minutes of “Necessary Roughness.” But I’d still like to see the whole thing for Harley’s sake.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBT_Amc_4lOqzNVSsuIapb3rlnqj8-evmi5Im3GOqRqzQ99JbRIPR4Eazg4Jch7WnBJqczClPmeAcVUjYTLVsxEB6BlVD-JA-B-LMgtMmQcPZPru0L8DSI5LVQk3_Mv2eZAXrQ1w/s1600-h/StoepelHelen.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBT_Amc_4lOqzNVSsuIapb3rlnqj8-evmi5Im3GOqRqzQ99JbRIPR4Eazg4Jch7WnBJqczClPmeAcVUjYTLVsxEB6BlVD-JA-B-LMgtMmQcPZPru0L8DSI5LVQk3_Mv2eZAXrQ1w/s400/StoepelHelen.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5373372276305617698" /></a><br />My grandfather, Stoepel Boughey, son of the aforementioned Quincy Edward I, was visiting from Florida that awful day in 1986 when Harley's "Santa Barbara" character Mary was tragically killed by a poorly tethered neon C. My grandfather and I were finishing up a rollicking game of cribbage when the poor, fallen, crushed nun Mary said, “God’s here,” and I bawled my eyes out while my grandpa laughed at my anguish. "Santa Barbara" was a funny, crazy, well-crafted (for a while) soap opera. They even did one episode in iambic pentameter, but that was well after Harley's unfortunate departure.<br /><br />So, tragic deaths and Traverse City: In poking around Traverse City history through the magic of the Internet, I discovered my great-uncle Quincy Edward Boughey II, my grandfather’s brother and nemesis, was a telephone man who died as a result of electrocuting himself installing a phone in his own home. My brother Doug is a telephone man. <br /><br />See? Past and present. Things go together. Just not the way you might expect. <br /><br />Next time: Peaches, porn, grinders, bars and brown people – Wisconsin and Michigan really are miles apart.<br /><br />Check out Harley Jane Kozak's blog, <a href="http://thelipstickchronicles.typepad.com/the_lipstick_chronicles/">The Lipstick Chronicles</a>, which she shares with the rest of the Book Tarts, a group of women who write mysteries and blog about life and its many accompanying mysteries.Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03656235714427761274noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31334392.post-43193208558717395072009-08-16T22:54:00.007-05:002009-08-22T07:27:38.269-05:00Let's get some shoes<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWki41OAQP-dx1plhHM-JCMw-AqsGabJc85srKNjUwuNhxjQbyKq-TM9wQJsZkMilZa6ueHsrBSzyB0iifyI95xcfLW3Ou_Ilpwtzhmmss-6I2s_hwwwKQmskYHF3QZ_ltSDCJlQ/s1600-h/chucks.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWki41OAQP-dx1plhHM-JCMw-AqsGabJc85srKNjUwuNhxjQbyKq-TM9wQJsZkMilZa6ueHsrBSzyB0iifyI95xcfLW3Ou_Ilpwtzhmmss-6I2s_hwwwKQmskYHF3QZ_ltSDCJlQ/s400/chucks.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5372763703018521698" /></a><br /><br />Eric bought new shoes today. I love shoes. I guess I really am a girl. <br /><br />(Eric got some fancy Nikes on megasale at Kohl's. Apparently they can even communicate with his iPhone. That's a little scary. And what are they saying? "Slow down! Wait for your wife!" "No, move faster – she's PMSing!" I don't know. I don't want shoes calculating my steps and calories burned and likely mapping where I've been and sending it to my insurance company so they can deny my claims for being a lard-ass, or worse, to the government for being a liberal. Wait, that's OK again. For now. Babbling – shutting up.)<br /><br />When I was little, before I was in school, I had a pair of hiking boots. You know the ones that everybody wore in the '70s? The suede, round-toed clodhoppers with black, very marking soles, heavy as a broken heart. Loved 'em. My brother Doug had a pair just like them. Of course. Anything that Doug had I had to have, too. He was Jesus. And he had a Jeep that he apparently thought could walk on water because he was always getting it stuck in the muddy bottoms of a mucky river.<br /><br />I had some other boots, too, when I was even younger. Rain boots. Someone took a picture of me wearing nothing but my boots. And when my Kelsey was little, I took a picture of her wearing nothing but her boots. I thought it would be cute to put the two photos next to each other – like mother, like daughter. The psycho at Walgreen's who developed the film called the police, fearing my little naked 2-year-old might be the victim of some variety of sexual abuse. How you can look at a picture of a child, scarcely past a baby, and even have sexual thoughts cross your mind is beyond me. I hope the police investigated the lunatic. <br /><br />It's funny how many of my shoes I remember. I had an ugly blue pair of knock off All-Stars in kindergarten. My first-grade shoes were remarkably similar. My mother told me to write my name on them, so I took a magic marker and wrote absolutely everywhere. I was perfectly content, but she had a fit about me ruining them and she should have known better than to give a magic marker to a child (yes, she should have) and I'd have to wear them anyway. Well, then I was ashamed of them, embarrassed, and I absolutely did not wear them. She had bought me another pair a couple sizes up, and I wouldn't wear those either when I finally grew into them, even though I hadn't marred them with even one black dot. <br /><br />Many of my shoes didn't fit well. My mom wanted me to get a lot of wear out of my shoes so she didn't have to keep buying them. So, I got them too big and wore them until they were way too small. When my toe pushed out the end of one particular pair I was quite fond of, overtaking the sole, my dad declared my feet had been damaged because of my ill-fitting footwear. I think he might have been right, actually. My big toes point the wrong way, as though I've been wearing high heels since birth, and I certainly haven't. He was always in my corner after that, getting me comfortable shoes I liked, even if they cost more than $4.99.<br /><br />I wasn't at all brand conscious until about 5th grade when Nike waffles started appearing on the feet of my friends. Even though I thought they were weird and ugly, they were making quite a splash, and I didn't want to be left out. I fondled and sniffed a pair of blue ones with a daring yellow swoosh at Athlete's Foot one day at the mall. How I pined for them. Sometime in middle school I talked my mother into getting me a pair of Nikes, but not the nice blue and yellow waffles, just a pair of light blue ones with a plain sole and a white swoosh. Very subdued, and much cheaper. But it was still a hard-earned accomplishment. They weren't really any more comfortable and they didn't wear any better, and that disappointed me a bit. I didn't insist on name-brand shoes ever after, but my mom still didn't like spending more than $8 on my feet. Unless the shoes were leather. Bring on the GASS. Ugh. I had to wear those big clunkers forever. <br /><br />These days, well, I'm not exactly sexy in my selections, but my feet feel good, crooked toes and all. And I'm willing to drop decent money on a pair of running shoes, but you'll never find me at a boutique shelling out for couture. (Unless I drop about 30 pounds and decide to get some thigh-high black leather boots. I'll definitely blog about that and include pictures. Please don't call Walgreen's or the police.) I do have a pretty cool collection of Chuck Taylors, though. My latest: light blue oxfords with fuzzy clouds and farm animals and little silver lightning strikes.<br /><br />Eventually I'll have a photo of my sweet Chucks. Kelsey took my picture, but it's been sitting on her camera, and now I can't find it. And I wrote this so long ago, that the photos I popped in there from around the web (with full credit and links, of course) have gone the way of ether.Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03656235714427761274noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31334392.post-44920330796725302122009-08-13T12:45:00.002-05:002009-08-13T13:02:23.395-05:00Who's that kid with the Oreo cookieOreo limited edition Strawberry Milkshake creme: edible, nothing I'd ever buy again.<br /><br />Of the non-ordinary Oreos, I like the mint and the peanut butter. I seem to recall a mocha flavor, but it might be my mind's wishful thinking.<br /><br />Speaking of mocha: Nestle's Mocha Crunch – eew. I don't think they're making it anymore because, you know, eew. Awful color, funky consistency, chemical flavor. nass-tee<br /><br />I do like it when candy companies do limited-edition flavors. Some are fantastic, like Kit Kat's dark, mint and orange flavors. Yum. I wish I'd stockpiled those darks. Apparently they have dark minis in multiflavor bags, but they're in there with those awful white chocolate ones. So not worth the money. Spew.Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03656235714427761274noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31334392.post-9937370303056855642009-07-30T23:28:00.004-05:002009-08-10T15:00:59.198-05:00The Things We Keep<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0Mi0hOFBzPkVM0M-Z4_rBgY__qOQIx5y6GZqynLw0N4nANZg6LNlylCoWme2IpoXlNUdmp9q-XQnNV31ewffe0o6EW5E_kc_lVPF4RZsoKMW430RNphFmilNIVfQmdxQyBQVOLg/s1600-h/diploma.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0Mi0hOFBzPkVM0M-Z4_rBgY__qOQIx5y6GZqynLw0N4nANZg6LNlylCoWme2IpoXlNUdmp9q-XQnNV31ewffe0o6EW5E_kc_lVPF4RZsoKMW430RNphFmilNIVfQmdxQyBQVOLg/s400/diploma.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5368427592612765762" /></a><br /><br />My diploma arrived on Thursday. Very nice. Now I can slip it into a drawer with other stuff I want to keep but don't really want to look at very often.<br /><br />It's funny the things we keep. My Girl Scout sash. Little slips of paper with things the kids have said. My softball T-shirt from 8th grade. A Kelsey doll in a wedding gown that I'm saving for Kelsey's bridal shower, should she ever have one. A clay ash tray I made in second grade art class. Cards and letters and papers and awards and more diplomas – and I thought I wasn't into <span style="font-style:italic;">stuff</span>.<br /><br />But I keep those things because they mean something to me, because they take me back to a particular time in my life, because the people involved mean something to me, because the people involved mean everything to me.<br /><br />Now my big red diploma folder will nestle among my pink, wind-up bunny that I've had since birth; a brand-new Twitter T-shirt that Nancy Lee Grahn signed because I was playing celebrity whore; my dad's Army pouch containing some foreign coins from his wartime travels, if you want to call them <span style="font-style:italic;">travels</span>; and a host of other things too numerous to mention or even remember without peeking.<br /><br />But sometimes I peek, and I remember the things I keep.Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03656235714427761274noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31334392.post-66605276446568798612009-07-13T20:34:00.004-05:002009-07-13T22:51:39.384-05:00California dreamin' on such a summer's dayWhen I was a kid, I was hopelessly smitten with the Little Rascals. I loved their adventures, their ingenuity, their perseverance. I loved that the good guys won, even if they got shamed on occasion, and friends stayed friends even after misunderstandings, quarrels and outright betrayal. I loved that adults were usually buffoons. One thing I didn't notice as a kid, because it seemed normal to me in the era in which I grew up, was that Our Gang was an integrated group; white kids and Black kids played together and thought nothing of it. <br /><br />The Little Rascals made me feel connected to my parents. They grew up in the '20s, '30s and '40s. I imagined my mom building firetruck go-karts out of junk she found after scrapping around in dirt lots. I imagined my dad camping in a cave with his brothers and buddies, literally scaring them shitless with his graphic and spirited storytelling and particular flair for practical jokes. I imagined my parents happy and engaged and busy with the joys of childhood during a time when people were hungry, when men left their families in search of work, any work, anywhere; when penicillin, had it been available, would have knocked out my dad's scarlet fever, which forever damaged his heart, and my mom's strep, which took her out of all but two weeks of third grade and took nearly all the body fat and muscle her little body had. <br /><br />Those kids – Spanky, Afalfa, Darla, Butch, Scott, Stymie, Buckwheat, Jackie, Chubby – were so real to me. One night I dreamed about them. We were friends, and I knew all their last names, which was a big deal to me, I remember. It was awfully disappointing to wake up and realize I didn't know those incredible children, that we weren't going to have one exciting adventure after another, that we never had, and I still didn't know their last names.<br /><br />At one point I asked my mom where movies and TV shows were made, and she told me California. Hollywood. Well, I had to go there. <br /><br />I talked about California all the time. I looked at pictures of California. I imagined standing atop the Hollywood sign. I pictured myself hobnobbing with Mike Douglas, my favorite talk show host. Every time my mom and I sat in the car waiting for my dad to run into some store, I climbed into the driver's seat and pretended we were driving. My mother would ask where we were going, and I would say, "California!" and she would laugh at my youthful obsession.<br /><br />When I was 16, I had a layover at LAX. It was my first California experience. By then, I had given up my California dreamin' for the most part. I still hoped to move to San Diego, establish residency and go to college there. But I knew it was pretty unlikely. Still, a little part of me was glad I finally made it out there.<br /><br />My next trip to CA was one where, two months before we were married, I tagged along with Eric on a week-long business trip to Apple in Cupertino. We arranged to get out there early and leave late so we'd have time for fun stuff, and we had the most fabulous hotel room, only because they hosed our reservation and didn't have any other rooms. It was bigger than our apartment! Loved it. The plan was, he'd go to Apple all day and I'd bum around all day and we'd do whatever at night. We had a rental car, so I could head to San Francisco or meet up with my friend Brian who was living with his parents in Los Gatos while working for Mac Week magazine for the summer. Brian had friends up at Berkeley who would love to hang and do martial arts, and it all sounded perfectly perfect to me.<br /><br />I stayed a day.<br /><br />My dad had dropped us off at the airport (It was Eric's first time being driven by my dad. I warned him, but his knuckles were pretty white by the time we arrived.) then picked up my mom for a little country drive before the NBA finals came on TV. They got out to the micropolis of Token Creek, which consists of a bar and a ball field, when my dad said, "Honey, I don't feel well." Then he fucking died.<br /><br />Never fear, fair reader. He was approaching a stop sign in front of the aforementioned bar and ball field when he went into defib, so the car wasn't going very fast. My mom reached over and tried to cut the ignition, but her arthritis was too painful, and she couldn't do it. As they sailed through the stop sign, she knocked his leg off the accelerator and steered their jaunty little Ford away from a parked car. <br /><br />Someone at the ball field noticed and yelled for others. He ran alongside the car, opened the door, and got his foot on the brake. After he turned the car off, he dragged my breathless, pulseless, lifeless father, whose skin was already peeling away from his fingernails, out of the car and onto the ground and started CPR. A young woman approached and offered to do the breathing. A man came up and said he was a doctor. <br /><br />My mother stood by and cried. She had never believed in CPR. She thought people should just be left to die and stay dead. She worked in a hospital and saw a lot of people resuscitated only to live a brain-damaged, burdensome life. She didn't want that. But she didn't stop anyone trying to save her husband. Nor did she believe it was going to work. But it did.<br /><br />"I have a pulse," the doctor shouted. The pulse came and went, and these strangers pressed my father's chest and breathed their air into his lungs until an ambulance arrived. It had been rerouted from a nearby fire and arrived quickly, no small miracle given their rural location.<br /><br />They cut his shirt off him, got paddles on him and a board under him and sped away to Madison. Someone helped my mother to the hospital and returned my parents' car its rightful driveway. My mother hasn't driven since, probably, 1939.<br /><br />So, anyway, there I was in sunny California, plotting my adventures. My mother had a helluva time finding us. We hadn't thought about telling anyone our specific whereabouts. Duh. And cell phones were known as car phones and were the size of a brick. They came complete with lots of cords and a Monte Carlo-sized magnetic antenna to adhere to the car's roof, and we obviously did not have one with us. But we had a message at the front desk: Emergency at Amy's house. <br /><br />We arranged for my return trip, spent a day wandering Muir Woods, miserably, and that was it for me in California.<br /><br />My dad came through pretty well. He was weak and confused for a couple days, and couldn't remember what happened. He had an automatic internal defibrillator put in when he was strong enough, which went off 13 times before he finally died three and a half years later.<br /><br />Eric's been back to CA for lots of business trips, but I haven't accompanied him.<br /><br />This week, though, I am going. The girls and I are heading to LA on Thursday, my mother's 84th (or 85th, depending who's asking) birthday. Yes, LA is a smog-laden traffic nightmare. I don't care. I'm going to sink my toes into the sand. I'm going to watch the sun set over the Pacific. I'm going to eat too much. I'm going to take a picture of the Hollywood sign. And I'm going to look for Spanky's star on the Walk of Fame.Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03656235714427761274noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31334392.post-25531757494842820772009-07-03T09:27:00.012-05:002009-07-03T11:11:34.162-05:00Old StuffGood Will kicks ass. I went in for a small jar or cup or bowl or plate or something to put my pot shards in. <br /><br />Did I write about my shards? I don't remember. I guess not. When I was in Santa Fe, Jackie and Dorothy took me to their friends' house for a picnic. Isn't it pretty?<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1O8H-1I6KacCDRdLJS7heWtB0ML1wx8FwluOEfqoMSlvmNLElneLDrZPrf3CKR8Jc3MlOuCovS02XnQ1y4hq8gg2IyeEtYvjbs6IETxdv8wqA9GVKIkYsghhTRGo9rs0QBYhKPw/s1600-h/hangingbaskets.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1O8H-1I6KacCDRdLJS7heWtB0ML1wx8FwluOEfqoMSlvmNLElneLDrZPrf3CKR8Jc3MlOuCovS02XnQ1y4hq8gg2IyeEtYvjbs6IETxdv8wqA9GVKIkYsghhTRGo9rs0QBYhKPw/s400/hangingbaskets.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5354250076715050898" /></a><br /><br />The house is built on an old midden and shards just spring up out of the ground. Every time there's rain or good wind, they wander the yard and find something that hasn't seen the light of day for roughly 1,000 years. They have a huge bowl full of them – gorgeous things. Some have paint, some you can see where the coils were pressed together, some show the rims of bowls or handles of pitchers. They also have a giant velociraptor bone they found. Anyway, it was a very fun time searching their land. This is their front yard, where I found most of the shards. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzfx5W1WuAigdfzgzD9UXtOO1MudUryBoww8RCKTyy5_kgJ_ZAoiFhOyCrNopLafPfzYVlJkzrPnE7Gm6F-AosOmIw3CGOHBie5dY39lLE68o7Bx2mnDv_10Jlvbfjl0RkgtDCnw/s1600-h/shardyard.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzfx5W1WuAigdfzgzD9UXtOO1MudUryBoww8RCKTyy5_kgJ_ZAoiFhOyCrNopLafPfzYVlJkzrPnE7Gm6F-AosOmIw3CGOHBie5dY39lLE68o7Bx2mnDv_10Jlvbfjl0RkgtDCnw/s400/shardyard.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5354250425485232882" /></a><br />The ones I found are small but so, so cool. Since it was private property and I had permission of the owner to keep them, my shards are totally legal. Apparently, you can't keep any artifacts found on public land. <br /><br />Shard hunting is something I've always wanted to do, and it was such an unexpected treat to be able to do so. The shards are between 800 and 1,200 years old, according to the property owners, Joan and George, who did some research and asked some scholarly types about them, as well.<br /><br />I wanted something to put the shards in so we could see them and take them out and touch them. And I'm cheap, so Eric and I went to Good Will. I love the stuff you find there.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4GeFh8TSCS7NxkmjUARThzTmcopqOAvJj8FLckkeyhCO3cx8N9Z88ttC6cPV-yWYu9LTBxi5hFTShfgKM3MgCNbEp3kn_SwFZV8-cjQWZwW8bhAEP9VjXbkYT7njBEtkSvLzYtg/s1600-h/goblets.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4GeFh8TSCS7NxkmjUARThzTmcopqOAvJj8FLckkeyhCO3cx8N9Z88ttC6cPV-yWYu9LTBxi5hFTShfgKM3MgCNbEp3kn_SwFZV8-cjQWZwW8bhAEP9VjXbkYT7njBEtkSvLzYtg/s400/goblets.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5354248830991166242" /></a><br />A toast to the bride and groom.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGptCW9JVL0K8eWOHRz6L6qfV0FCtNhSqZch_4jOG6ZvoCtdsPPH65QoF_CcR_h2y7YwhczKC86hIEscZVXObh1KqPE-K7LhmnnsZvJ22jxShmHqOOyOytnKFfKKhWx32u9dLsXA/s1600-h/WaterBongle.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGptCW9JVL0K8eWOHRz6L6qfV0FCtNhSqZch_4jOG6ZvoCtdsPPH65QoF_CcR_h2y7YwhczKC86hIEscZVXObh1KqPE-K7LhmnnsZvJ22jxShmHqOOyOytnKFfKKhWx32u9dLsXA/s400/WaterBongle.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5354248836253894690" /></a><br />Water bottle, water bong, water bongle – dude, whatever.<br /><br />Eric got a new case for his glasses. It is hard plastic, closes solidly and has a nice, felt-lined interior. It also says NBA on it, but what do you want for 39 cents? He says he's going to put a sticker over the NBA logo.<br /><br />Here are my shards in their new home. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXGZ8t7SnCaLyRnXGJvFrPNsLh62qTBlwu4uGEbOzgm63cV24Z2YihC-1C_SA9wRhv7rwBs2H6P9NaceDByj9W1G4D4EXymqEtEZMXGZx-L-vgG2bSAbk3CAHEjI2YTtw36e543w/s1600-h/shardglass.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXGZ8t7SnCaLyRnXGJvFrPNsLh62qTBlwu4uGEbOzgm63cV24Z2YihC-1C_SA9wRhv7rwBs2H6P9NaceDByj9W1G4D4EXymqEtEZMXGZx-L-vgG2bSAbk3CAHEjI2YTtw36e543w/s400/shardglass.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5354265341266715346" /></a><br />I'm not sure I like them in a glass. A plate might be better. They'd be easier to see and pick up on a plate. But if I change my mind, then my 69-cent glass will be put to use in the kitchen and I'll head back to Good Will for something more suitable.Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03656235714427761274noreply@blogger.com3