Tuesday, December 16, 2014
My life is not pointless
This morning one of my dear friends posted on FB "Life without God is like an unsharpened pencil - no point." Wanted to post a funny comment but resisted as that never goes over well.
I keep quiet out of respect.
Truth is, I do live a life without her perspective of God. But my life is not pointless by any measure. I am religious in an unconventional sense. More spiritual than religious, which is a valid belief system. I have come to respect and expect those moments that challenge my thinking and understanding of the way things are. Those moments of understanding at how tiny a space one occupies in the cosmos and then, like a gift, humility appears. Those moments when your heart almost bursts from love or from despair. Quiet moments. Loud moments. Obvious and subtle moments. Moments that prove my life is filled with an abundance of meaning.
I would post this comment on my friend's FB but then what? I would have to defend something I don't really understand, nor care to set boundaries around. It just is. I like it better that way. No real attachment to specifics. More of a deal or bargain. I accept that for my part I will be a good citizen while I am alive, and in return, I get to have a good life.
So far it's working out.
Next topic: Define "good life."
Wednesday, November 12, 2014
Aging: The good, the bad and the ugly
The good parts include:
- watching your children become respectable adults
- grandchildren to corrupt
- no longer caring what other people think of you
- feeling smart
- knowing what's really important
The bad parts include:
- thinning bones
- thinning hair
- thinning skin
The ugly parts include:
- increasing physical and mental deterioration
- dependence on your children, if you're lucky
- abuse, neglect and exploitation
We really need to work on that last part.
- watching your children become respectable adults
- grandchildren to corrupt
- no longer caring what other people think of you
- feeling smart
- knowing what's really important
The bad parts include:
- thinning bones
- thinning hair
- thinning skin
The ugly parts include:
- increasing physical and mental deterioration
- dependence on your children, if you're lucky
- abuse, neglect and exploitation
We really need to work on that last part.
Thursday, September 18, 2014
No going back... I hope
Oh man. The cat is outta the bag. Violence against women and children is not cool.
In a whirlwind of activity starting over the summer, NFL players one by one were arrested, charged and then benched and then not benched. Just like in summer's past. What was different this summer? Social media. It hit back with a vengeance.
This is truly a watershed moment. The moment in time when minds changed. It's not ok to beat women and children. For any reason.
We still have a ways to go to figure this thing out, especially regarding the source of this violence.
Here's the best thing I read all week:
http://www.nytimes.com/2014/09/18/opinion/punishment-or-child-abuse.html?ref=opinion&_r=0
In a whirlwind of activity starting over the summer, NFL players one by one were arrested, charged and then benched and then not benched. Just like in summer's past. What was different this summer? Social media. It hit back with a vengeance.
This is truly a watershed moment. The moment in time when minds changed. It's not ok to beat women and children. For any reason.
We still have a ways to go to figure this thing out, especially regarding the source of this violence.
Here's the best thing I read all week:
http://www.nytimes.com/2014/09/18/opinion/punishment-or-child-abuse.html?ref=opinion&_r=0
Thursday, August 28, 2014
They hated my writing and I couldn't be more grateful
Last month I spent a week at a writer's workshop at the University of Iowa. I have the bones of a detective type book and want to do whatever it takes to finish the damn thing. Going into the workshop I felt pretty confident about the 15 pages offered up for criticism.
Apparently my perspective of good was not shared by the group. Unanimously not shared.
It was a humbling experience. My most common writing mistakes:
- Stop telling, show action.
- More dialogue
- Shorter is sharper
- Speed up the story
No punches were pulled. One male classmate suggested I not refer to the Texas GOP so negatively. It will put off readers. To which a woman in the class wrote on her copy of my manuscript (which opens with a rape): "Weird that a potential slam to GOP is offensive but not brutal rape." So true.
All in all, their generous criticism has changed my writing. Hopefully for the better. I won't, however, be deleting the gentle jabs at the GOP.
Apparently my perspective of good was not shared by the group. Unanimously not shared.
It was a humbling experience. My most common writing mistakes:
- Stop telling, show action.
- More dialogue
- Shorter is sharper
- Speed up the story
No punches were pulled. One male classmate suggested I not refer to the Texas GOP so negatively. It will put off readers. To which a woman in the class wrote on her copy of my manuscript (which opens with a rape): "Weird that a potential slam to GOP is offensive but not brutal rape." So true.
All in all, their generous criticism has changed my writing. Hopefully for the better. I won't, however, be deleting the gentle jabs at the GOP.
Monday, July 14, 2014
Play soccer not soldier!
I recently blogged about how soccer transcends politics. I can now report that it also transcends war! It's been reported by more than one news source that there was a pause in the bombing of Gaza that coincided with the final match of the World Cup. And, it was NOT a coincidence. BOTH sides were watching the match!
I mean, GET OUT!!!
I can see the slogans:
Play soccer not soldier!
Tackle world issues on the pitch!
Boots not bombs!
Balls not bombs!
Put Germany in charge (awkward... trying to come up with something funny to do with Germany)
One ball could save thousands!
World peace is the goooooooooooaaaaaaaaaaallllllllllll!!
One can hope.
I mean, GET OUT!!!
I can see the slogans:
Play soccer not soldier!
Tackle world issues on the pitch!
Boots not bombs!
Balls not bombs!
Put Germany in charge (awkward... trying to come up with something funny to do with Germany)
One ball could save thousands!
World peace is the goooooooooooaaaaaaaaaaallllllllllll!!
One can hope.
Thursday, July 10, 2014
Happy Birthday, Dad
Today my dad turns 90.
Frank Lochridge was born in Illinois and raised in South Dakota. His father was a Methodist minister. He had one older brother, now deceased. He was a soldier in World War II, a husband for 65 years, father to five boys and one girl, and grandfather and great-grandfather to many, many more.
My father lived a good life by most standards. He would argue with me, but I suspect he was kind of spoiled. His father wasn't present, as we like to say now. Then, it wasn't unusual. So he was left to his mother's care. To say she loved him dearly is an understatement. In her eyes, he could do no wrong. My daughter Jenny would say she wore "mom goggles."
Esther Lochridge called my father June, as in Junior. We kids once tried to call him that, mocking his feminine moniker. It didn't really go over.
My father loved all sports. If it involved a ball, he played. He was a natural and luckily was able to turn his athleticism into an occupation after college. He would spend the next 25 years with the YMCA, mostly in Aberdeen, S.D.
Then a vacation trip in 1974 to California and back to South Dakota took my father, mother and two younger brothers through Montana. I recall his excitement upon returning. He and my mother had decided to sell everything and move to this wondrous place with grand mountains and forests and raging rivers. But don't tell Esther. Yet.
It turned out to be the right decision. He loved Montana and the challenge of making a living there. He and my mother and two younger brothers became Montanans. They are Montanans. And they were able to bring Esther to live with them for her final years.
Now my father is in his final years. For several years he has been gradually leaving us as dementia has pretty much replaced his ability to think and remember. But he made it to 90 years! That is an accomplishment.
Happy Birthday, Dad!
Frank Lochridge was born in Illinois and raised in South Dakota. His father was a Methodist minister. He had one older brother, now deceased. He was a soldier in World War II, a husband for 65 years, father to five boys and one girl, and grandfather and great-grandfather to many, many more.
My father lived a good life by most standards. He would argue with me, but I suspect he was kind of spoiled. His father wasn't present, as we like to say now. Then, it wasn't unusual. So he was left to his mother's care. To say she loved him dearly is an understatement. In her eyes, he could do no wrong. My daughter Jenny would say she wore "mom goggles."
Esther Lochridge called my father June, as in Junior. We kids once tried to call him that, mocking his feminine moniker. It didn't really go over.
My father loved all sports. If it involved a ball, he played. He was a natural and luckily was able to turn his athleticism into an occupation after college. He would spend the next 25 years with the YMCA, mostly in Aberdeen, S.D.
Then a vacation trip in 1974 to California and back to South Dakota took my father, mother and two younger brothers through Montana. I recall his excitement upon returning. He and my mother had decided to sell everything and move to this wondrous place with grand mountains and forests and raging rivers. But don't tell Esther. Yet.
It turned out to be the right decision. He loved Montana and the challenge of making a living there. He and my mother and two younger brothers became Montanans. They are Montanans. And they were able to bring Esther to live with them for her final years.
Now my father is in his final years. For several years he has been gradually leaving us as dementia has pretty much replaced his ability to think and remember. But he made it to 90 years! That is an accomplishment.
Happy Birthday, Dad!
Tuesday, July 8, 2014
Obama in Texas (I hope someone packed the olive branch)
The president is coming to Texas for a couple of fundraisers. Nothing wrong with that, right?
Wait. I forgot we are talking about President Obama so the GOP theory of any movement is the wrong movement must apply. Walk one of his dogs? Cat hater! Not engage with crazy dictators? Dictator hater! The activity is irrelevant. It's all about the hate.
So when Gov. Perry asks the president to carve out some time during his visit to talk about the lost children of South America crossing our borders, Obama has said thanks, but no thanks. I can't say I blame the president and his staff for brushing off our governor. Been snake bit one too many times by that one.
But this time I do hope our president reconsiders his decision not to meet with Gov. Perry. This situation needs any and all ideas. Imagine the good that could come from a meeting of these two men and their staffs.
Fingers crossed.
UPDATE: The president has reconsidered and is meeting with Gov. Perry tomorrow. Fingers still crossed.
Thursday, July 3, 2014
Me to customer service: Yahh, don't have a nice day, then!
I am pissed today. Had to control my breathing to slow the old heart rate. What set me off? Horrible customer service. We aren't getting our pool serviced this week (awwww, poor us, I know), because our dog barked yesterday at the pool guy and he wouldn't come into the backyard.
OK. First, Thursdays (which is today, not yesterday) is our scheduled service day. Second, when I pointed that out to the customer service person, she could care less. "It's our short week." Fourth of July and all. I think I still would have kept it together if only she had added those two magic words, "I'm sorry."
I know I shouldn't be sweating the small stuff, but it's MY small stuff and why should I always be the nice one. Niceness; my cultural albatross.
This past week I binge watched the FX show "Fargo." It reminded me how agonizingly polite my people (I was born in North Dakota, raised in South Dakota) are. The portrayals of course are an exaggerated homage to world class passivity. Billy Bob Thornton's character attempts to obliterate niceness. Characters played by Colin Hank and Alison Tolman stand in his way. Holy shit, it got intense. Or, as my people would say: Aw heck, it was scary!
Maybe my pissed reaction to the I-could-care-less customer service person was a lingering influence from the show. Make a stand, gosh darn it! But don't be impolite, yahh know.
So when I was told there would be no one coming, I said "that's all I needed to know" and hit the end call button on my cell phone. I could hear the customer service person still talking when I hung up. Uff dah! That should make her think twice next time, then.
It for sure made me feel better, dontcha know...
OK. First, Thursdays (which is today, not yesterday) is our scheduled service day. Second, when I pointed that out to the customer service person, she could care less. "It's our short week." Fourth of July and all. I think I still would have kept it together if only she had added those two magic words, "I'm sorry."
I know I shouldn't be sweating the small stuff, but it's MY small stuff and why should I always be the nice one. Niceness; my cultural albatross.
This past week I binge watched the FX show "Fargo." It reminded me how agonizingly polite my people (I was born in North Dakota, raised in South Dakota) are. The portrayals of course are an exaggerated homage to world class passivity. Billy Bob Thornton's character attempts to obliterate niceness. Characters played by Colin Hank and Alison Tolman stand in his way. Holy shit, it got intense. Or, as my people would say: Aw heck, it was scary!
Maybe my pissed reaction to the I-could-care-less customer service person was a lingering influence from the show. Make a stand, gosh darn it! But don't be impolite, yahh know.
So when I was told there would be no one coming, I said "that's all I needed to know" and hit the end call button on my cell phone. I could hear the customer service person still talking when I hung up. Uff dah! That should make her think twice next time, then.
It for sure made me feel better, dontcha know...
Monday, June 30, 2014
Ann Coulter takes a shot at soccer and scores!!!!!!!
Ann Coulter is at it again. This time she's taking aim at soccer. The game is a gigantic conspiracy to turn the country liberal, she says. And, the same people who pretend to like soccer also pretend to think women's basketball is interesting.
What??
Coulter's claims are so far out there makes you wonder. Wonder if they are too out there even for her. Wonder if she so desperately craves the spotlight. Wonder if she is crazy like a fox.
I believe it's all of the above. Coulter calculated the backlash, counted on it, and got a day or two worth of attention. Blasted mostly.
This is how I see her reaction: GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOAAAAAAAAALLLLLLL!!!!
What??
Coulter's claims are so far out there makes you wonder. Wonder if they are too out there even for her. Wonder if she so desperately craves the spotlight. Wonder if she is crazy like a fox.
I believe it's all of the above. Coulter calculated the backlash, counted on it, and got a day or two worth of attention. Blasted mostly.
This is how I see her reaction: GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOAAAAAAAAALLLLLLL!!!!
Thursday, June 19, 2014
Joe Scarborough, you got it wrong!
Earlier this week my good buddy Joe Scarborough was griping that world leaders - European in particular - were more focused on what is going on in Brazil than the unfolding disaster in Iraq.
I say good buddy because I watch his and Mika's show with the kind of regularity that breeds familiarity.
If nothing else, my little brother Joe is consistent. Every time I watch he will say at least one thing that is truly annoying. Which, really, is not a bad record given that he has an open mic for three hours a day, five days a week.
So his comment scolding world leaders for their distracted attention on the World Cup instead of fixing a civil war that is now a few hundred years old was just plain wrong.
Soccer is a spiritual experience. Watch the pomp and tradition of the opening of a match. Little children, representing hope for the future, walk hand-in-hand with players onto the sacred pitch. Grown men and women belt out their national anthem, many with tears embracing the moment. The friendly exchange between team captains and then with officials just before the whistle. Fans wear their match-day regalia with pride and with most creative expression. For 90-plus minutes any given nation viewership (90 percent of a nation if you are Dutch, 50 percent if you are English; 100 percent if you are Brazil, etc.) is mesmerized in the simple beauty and skill of back and forth movement. Hope hangs over the pitch for the entire match. Loads and loads of hope. And when hope is delivered; gratitude erupts. Soccer is a spiritual experience.
Soccer transcends politics. What other single event brings the world together for an entire month? Olympics, yeah, but you are talking multiple sports that most people have no interest in, really. Soccer is the world's most popular sport and all eyes currently are turned to the Southern Hemisphere. What better venue, then, for a world leader to be seen attending?? I celebrate Angela Merkel cheering on the German team. (Every time the camera zoomed in on her, my husband would say "looks like she needs a back rub." And every time he said that, I laughed. He's funny. Google "Merkel back rub" if you don't get why it's funny) My other favorite Joe, as in veep Joe Biden, was there for the U.S. match against Guyana, sitting next to our opponent's president. Soccer transcends politics.
So, my good friend who I never actually met, I forgive you for mistakenly dragging soccer into the political mud. How about that Clint Dempsy playing with a broken nose!!??
I say good buddy because I watch his and Mika's show with the kind of regularity that breeds familiarity.
If nothing else, my little brother Joe is consistent. Every time I watch he will say at least one thing that is truly annoying. Which, really, is not a bad record given that he has an open mic for three hours a day, five days a week.
So his comment scolding world leaders for their distracted attention on the World Cup instead of fixing a civil war that is now a few hundred years old was just plain wrong.
Soccer is a spiritual experience. Watch the pomp and tradition of the opening of a match. Little children, representing hope for the future, walk hand-in-hand with players onto the sacred pitch. Grown men and women belt out their national anthem, many with tears embracing the moment. The friendly exchange between team captains and then with officials just before the whistle. Fans wear their match-day regalia with pride and with most creative expression. For 90-plus minutes any given nation viewership (90 percent of a nation if you are Dutch, 50 percent if you are English; 100 percent if you are Brazil, etc.) is mesmerized in the simple beauty and skill of back and forth movement. Hope hangs over the pitch for the entire match. Loads and loads of hope. And when hope is delivered; gratitude erupts. Soccer is a spiritual experience.
Soccer transcends politics. What other single event brings the world together for an entire month? Olympics, yeah, but you are talking multiple sports that most people have no interest in, really. Soccer is the world's most popular sport and all eyes currently are turned to the Southern Hemisphere. What better venue, then, for a world leader to be seen attending?? I celebrate Angela Merkel cheering on the German team. (Every time the camera zoomed in on her, my husband would say "looks like she needs a back rub." And every time he said that, I laughed. He's funny. Google "Merkel back rub" if you don't get why it's funny) My other favorite Joe, as in veep Joe Biden, was there for the U.S. match against Guyana, sitting next to our opponent's president. Soccer transcends politics.
So, my good friend who I never actually met, I forgive you for mistakenly dragging soccer into the political mud. How about that Clint Dempsy playing with a broken nose!!??
Friday, June 13, 2014
Meat grinder
POW Bowe Bergdahl is back on US soil. He now faces the impossible task of reintegration. Impossible because his story already has gone through the meat grinder that is 24/7 news. And by news, I mean cruel speculation, righteous indignation, and delusional rage.
I hope that he is able to piece together a semblance of life. Enough so that he will be able to state his own truth, whatever that is.
Time, as with all exaggerated news coverage, will be the equalizer. How much time, though, will this young man need? How much time will the meat grinder give him? Is the exaggerated news coverage too invested to walk back some of the more outrageous accusations?
My own speculation: No one will be harder on the young man than the young man himself.
I hope that he is able to piece together a semblance of life. Enough so that he will be able to state his own truth, whatever that is.
Time, as with all exaggerated news coverage, will be the equalizer. How much time, though, will this young man need? How much time will the meat grinder give him? Is the exaggerated news coverage too invested to walk back some of the more outrageous accusations?
My own speculation: No one will be harder on the young man than the young man himself.
Wednesday, June 4, 2014
Marijuana's time has come
Feel the movement? Another paradigm shift is under foot with such momentum there's no turning back.
Marijuana's time has come. Whether for medicinal or recreational purposes, it's here to stay. And by here, I mean the United States, including Texas.
Why? Polls show a majority of us believe it's a good idea to let sick people use it if it helps them feel better. Twenty-one states and DC allow medicinal use. Two states allow recreational use. These numbers will continue to climb.
The final push is going to come out of our respect and honor for those courageous soldiers when they need OUR help. How? A growing mountain of evidence is showing that cannabis (limiting the THC content) is the best treatment for Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD). That evidence is coming from former soldiers. That evidence also was the subject of an article in the June issue of Texas Monthly written by a fellow from The Baker Institute at Rice University in Houston. Baker, as in James Baker, W.H.'s right-hand man, who has never been accused of being a leftie.
Here's what the Baker Institute fellow is saying:
http://news.rice.edu/2014/05/28/access-to-marijuana-could-help-veterans-manage-ptsd-symptoms-baker-institute-expert-says/
What is more compelling a reason to support medicinal use than to support our troops?
Marijuana's time has come. Whether for medicinal or recreational purposes, it's here to stay. And by here, I mean the United States, including Texas.
Why? Polls show a majority of us believe it's a good idea to let sick people use it if it helps them feel better. Twenty-one states and DC allow medicinal use. Two states allow recreational use. These numbers will continue to climb.
The final push is going to come out of our respect and honor for those courageous soldiers when they need OUR help. How? A growing mountain of evidence is showing that cannabis (limiting the THC content) is the best treatment for Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD). That evidence is coming from former soldiers. That evidence also was the subject of an article in the June issue of Texas Monthly written by a fellow from The Baker Institute at Rice University in Houston. Baker, as in James Baker, W.H.'s right-hand man, who has never been accused of being a leftie.
Here's what the Baker Institute fellow is saying:
http://news.rice.edu/2014/05/28/access-to-marijuana-could-help-veterans-manage-ptsd-symptoms-baker-institute-expert-says/
What is more compelling a reason to support medicinal use than to support our troops?
Wednesday, May 28, 2014
Strap on your boots and grab a shovel ...
Pull on your mud boots, we're about to get knee deep in it.
It was election day yesterday in Texas. Primary election officially. But for all intents and purposes, in this state it was the general election. We now know who will be our new attorney general and lieutenant governor.
And we are in some deep doo-doo.
The biggest news was the toppling of current Lt. Gov. David Dewhurst by Tea Party candidate Dan Patrick. It really came as no surprise. Just needed the period at the end of the sentence which was yesterday's low-voter-turnout primary election. Out with the old old, in with the new old.
So what are we getting with Patrick? Well, if we have any different views on multiple policy or political positions, such as heart-felt perspectives regarding immigration and abortion, than we get nothing. Mr. Patrick has promised to push through his Tea Party positions, democracy be damned. He proudly and unashamedly proclaims he will minimize the role of Democrats in the Texas Senate by reducing their committee chairmanship numbers. I guess taking a page from the Putin School of Leadership.
Ken Paxton, another Tea Party politician, will be the state's new Attorney General, a position vacated by Greg Abbott, who is poised to be the next governor.
Paxton's endorsements included Sen. Ted Cruz, Texas Patriots PAC (Tea Party), Texas Right to Life, Young Conservatives of Texas, Freedomworks, Grassroots America – We The People PAC, Kingwood TEA Party, Montgomery Tea Party, Texas Conservative View PAC, Concerned Women for America Legislative Action Committee, and Family Research Council Action PAC.
That's some company he keeps. This guy could be further right of our current AG. Didn't think that would be possible.
Where are my boots?
It was election day yesterday in Texas. Primary election officially. But for all intents and purposes, in this state it was the general election. We now know who will be our new attorney general and lieutenant governor.
And we are in some deep doo-doo.
The biggest news was the toppling of current Lt. Gov. David Dewhurst by Tea Party candidate Dan Patrick. It really came as no surprise. Just needed the period at the end of the sentence which was yesterday's low-voter-turnout primary election. Out with the old old, in with the new old.
So what are we getting with Patrick? Well, if we have any different views on multiple policy or political positions, such as heart-felt perspectives regarding immigration and abortion, than we get nothing. Mr. Patrick has promised to push through his Tea Party positions, democracy be damned. He proudly and unashamedly proclaims he will minimize the role of Democrats in the Texas Senate by reducing their committee chairmanship numbers. I guess taking a page from the Putin School of Leadership.
Ken Paxton, another Tea Party politician, will be the state's new Attorney General, a position vacated by Greg Abbott, who is poised to be the next governor.
Paxton's endorsements included Sen. Ted Cruz, Texas Patriots PAC (Tea Party), Texas Right to Life, Young Conservatives of Texas, Freedomworks, Grassroots America – We The People PAC, Kingwood TEA Party, Montgomery Tea Party, Texas Conservative View PAC, Concerned Women for America Legislative Action Committee, and Family Research Council Action PAC.
That's some company he keeps. This guy could be further right of our current AG. Didn't think that would be possible.
Where are my boots?
Wednesday, May 21, 2014
Insightful moment
Apparently I enjoy talking about myself.
I "discovered" that yesterday at the doctor's office. Sinus stuff, blah, blah.
So the doc asks me what I do, specifically what's my job. It's been so long since anyone asked me that, so I go into so much unnecessary detail I suspect he regretted the question.
In hindsight.
Just before asking what I did, he asked if I smoked. No. Just before asking if I smoked, he said he heard a rattle in my lungs. And then came the question: what's your job?
Not a social moment. A House moment, as in Dr. House the medical detective with Asperger's on the former television show. Perhaps the rattle comes from exposure in the sweat shop that is my work environment. It doesn't.
What I do know is we will not be getting a coffee later and becoming BFF's.
Crap.
I "discovered" that yesterday at the doctor's office. Sinus stuff, blah, blah.
So the doc asks me what I do, specifically what's my job. It's been so long since anyone asked me that, so I go into so much unnecessary detail I suspect he regretted the question.
In hindsight.
Just before asking what I did, he asked if I smoked. No. Just before asking if I smoked, he said he heard a rattle in my lungs. And then came the question: what's your job?
Not a social moment. A House moment, as in Dr. House the medical detective with Asperger's on the former television show. Perhaps the rattle comes from exposure in the sweat shop that is my work environment. It doesn't.
What I do know is we will not be getting a coffee later and becoming BFF's.
Crap.
Sunday, May 18, 2014
Hostage video
I was watching a hostage video recently. My heart bled for the captives forced to speak to a camera with words that clearly were not their own.
Their eyes darting from videographer to camera. You could even hear a voice behind the camera giving them the words to be recorded.
Their facial expressions said it all. Their lack of real emotion was telltale.
"We love you, Mare." Their tiny monotone voices declared in unison. They looked to their captor (my daughter and their mother), hoping for freedom. After all they had done as asked. Nope. A muffled command could be heard and the girls look back at the camera. "We miss you."
After that, the screen goes to black. My darling granddaughters set free! For now.
Their eyes darting from videographer to camera. You could even hear a voice behind the camera giving them the words to be recorded.
Their facial expressions said it all. Their lack of real emotion was telltale.
"We love you, Mare." Their tiny monotone voices declared in unison. They looked to their captor (my daughter and their mother), hoping for freedom. After all they had done as asked. Nope. A muffled command could be heard and the girls look back at the camera. "We miss you."
After that, the screen goes to black. My darling granddaughters set free! For now.
Thursday, May 15, 2014
Trend setting
If cleanliness is next to godliness then for sure I am going to hell.
I was inspecting the top of an armoire in my bedroom; the top being at my eye level. Calling it dusty is an insult to dust. I am figuring no less than a leaf blower will remove the debris.
Then there's the disaster that is underneath the bed. Stuff dating back to ... when did we move in? About 20 years ago.
I could say it's because we live such busy and full lives, but that would be lying. However, since I'm going to hell anyway, let's say my house is messy because I can't find the time to clean.
I really hope my mom doesn't read this. She did her best. Our home was always spotless. Six kids, five of them boys. One a really messy girl.
Paul's mom the same. She had beautifully kept homes. As a single mom of two boys, she worked outside the home and also managed the cooking, house cleaning and laundry. Amazing!
Turns out house cleaning has taken a dive on just about every one's priority list. Multiple studies of social behavior all come to the same conclusion: The amount of time spent on housework has been cut in half since the 1960s. And women still do most of it. Just less of most of it to do.
I see that in my own family. Two out of three children fit this description. NOT naming names. In their defense, they had horrible role models as far as mopping and sweeping are concerned. And dusting and wiping. We did OK in the laundry department if you don't count putting the clothes away.
Knowing that the trend is going toward less time spent cleaning, I finally can hold my head high. Dare I say it? I think I may be a trendsetter!
I was inspecting the top of an armoire in my bedroom; the top being at my eye level. Calling it dusty is an insult to dust. I am figuring no less than a leaf blower will remove the debris.
Then there's the disaster that is underneath the bed. Stuff dating back to ... when did we move in? About 20 years ago.
I could say it's because we live such busy and full lives, but that would be lying. However, since I'm going to hell anyway, let's say my house is messy because I can't find the time to clean.
I really hope my mom doesn't read this. She did her best. Our home was always spotless. Six kids, five of them boys. One a really messy girl.
Paul's mom the same. She had beautifully kept homes. As a single mom of two boys, she worked outside the home and also managed the cooking, house cleaning and laundry. Amazing!
Turns out house cleaning has taken a dive on just about every one's priority list. Multiple studies of social behavior all come to the same conclusion: The amount of time spent on housework has been cut in half since the 1960s. And women still do most of it. Just less of most of it to do.
I see that in my own family. Two out of three children fit this description. NOT naming names. In their defense, they had horrible role models as far as mopping and sweeping are concerned. And dusting and wiping. We did OK in the laundry department if you don't count putting the clothes away.
Knowing that the trend is going toward less time spent cleaning, I finally can hold my head high. Dare I say it? I think I may be a trendsetter!
Friday, May 9, 2014
Mother's Day is a fake holiday (someone had to say it)
Come on. We all know that Mother's Day is a fake holiday. I've written about this before. About not really being a fan, even as the mother of 3 adult kids who I love dearly and believe they love me. But could this year be different as I think about my daughter Jenny who will celebrate her first Mother's Day as a mother? Will that soften my view?
Hell no.
I still am not a fan. I am a jaded social worker for sure. Maybe if we called it Good Mothers Day. Or call it Mothers Who are Just So-So Day. Or even Mothers Who Did The Best They Could Day might work. All moms are not created equal and there are many who have not earned this special day. It's tough on their kids to be reminded every second Sunday in May that they were cheated out of good childhood.
For the record, I am not talking about my own mother. She gets a gigantic package from Collin Street Bakery in Corsicana, Tx.
Mother's Day started out as a real holiday in 1908. Young Anna Jarvis so loved and honored her own mother she began the process for setting aside an official day for "the person who has done more for you than anyone in the world." Her mother, Ann Jarvis, cared for soldiers in the Civil War - from both sides of the conflict. Ann Jarvis also advocated for public health issues. The idea in the beginning was to simply communicate to your mother the reasons she is important.
It didn't take long before Hallmark and others (candy makers, florists) hijacked poor Anna Jarvis' holiday. She began protesting the idea of profiting from Mother's Day, even getting herself jailed. Hmm. She really loved her mother, I think, who by that time had died. In the end, she lost her fight to keep it real. Sad fact.
Paul will be glad to know I'm not that invested in a Mother's Day protest. In fact, I am part of the problem as I will be receiving gifts (I am told) and have (as previously mentioned) purchased a gift. But NO Hallmark card! Gotta draw the line somewhere.
Hell no.
I still am not a fan. I am a jaded social worker for sure. Maybe if we called it Good Mothers Day. Or call it Mothers Who are Just So-So Day. Or even Mothers Who Did The Best They Could Day might work. All moms are not created equal and there are many who have not earned this special day. It's tough on their kids to be reminded every second Sunday in May that they were cheated out of good childhood.
For the record, I am not talking about my own mother. She gets a gigantic package from Collin Street Bakery in Corsicana, Tx.
Mother's Day started out as a real holiday in 1908. Young Anna Jarvis so loved and honored her own mother she began the process for setting aside an official day for "the person who has done more for you than anyone in the world." Her mother, Ann Jarvis, cared for soldiers in the Civil War - from both sides of the conflict. Ann Jarvis also advocated for public health issues. The idea in the beginning was to simply communicate to your mother the reasons she is important.
It didn't take long before Hallmark and others (candy makers, florists) hijacked poor Anna Jarvis' holiday. She began protesting the idea of profiting from Mother's Day, even getting herself jailed. Hmm. She really loved her mother, I think, who by that time had died. In the end, she lost her fight to keep it real. Sad fact.
Paul will be glad to know I'm not that invested in a Mother's Day protest. In fact, I am part of the problem as I will be receiving gifts (I am told) and have (as previously mentioned) purchased a gift. But NO Hallmark card! Gotta draw the line somewhere.
Tuesday, May 6, 2014
A tini Jodi bunni
Here's Jodi Lynn Cole, one week old! She doesn't know this, but she is soooo lucky. She won the parent lottery! And she's got some pretty cool grandparents too. And aunt and uncle. And cousins.
Friday, May 2, 2014
Tears of pride!!
Jodi Lynn Cole is 6 days old today. Where has the time gone?
Her parents would tell you the time has been spent staring at a tiny human person. Inspecting fingers and toes and lips and ears and hair and a stretched head.
The rest of the time, they would tell you, has been spent figuring out feeding. Breastfeeding. Dad has taken charge with shifting little Jodi sideways on her right, then her left, then standing little Jodi on her head and .... you get the picture.
Speaking of pictures, this blog won't let me post. I've had the problem for a couple of months now. No idea what happened. I am working on it. Stay tuned. Believe me, there are pictures!!
Mom is doing great by the way. Her parents are so proud. No words. Tears of pride.
Her parents would tell you the time has been spent staring at a tiny human person. Inspecting fingers and toes and lips and ears and hair and a stretched head.
The rest of the time, they would tell you, has been spent figuring out feeding. Breastfeeding. Dad has taken charge with shifting little Jodi sideways on her right, then her left, then standing little Jodi on her head and .... you get the picture.
Speaking of pictures, this blog won't let me post. I've had the problem for a couple of months now. No idea what happened. I am working on it. Stay tuned. Believe me, there are pictures!!
Mom is doing great by the way. Her parents are so proud. No words. Tears of pride.
Thursday, April 24, 2014
White supremacy: Goodbye and good riddance
White supremacy has shaped the country's history, especially the South. It continues to plague good people and institutions. But, dare I say it? I believe we are witnessing its demise, played out on the world stage in Nevada of all places.
Who do we have to thank for this? Cliven Bundy and Sean Hannity.
For whatever reason, Fox News person Sean Hannity has championed this Nevada ranger in his 20-year dispute with the federal government over non-payment of cattle grazing fees. Sexy. Problem is, rancher Cliven is a white supremacist. Not so sexy.
Even before the world became aware of his bias, he did little to gain support from ANYONE, other than like-minded extremists who live to recite the 2nd Amendment and Fox News with their audience of millions. Mr. Hannity apparently took special interest and practically adopted the rancher - I am told as I do not watch. Full disclosure. I have seen clips on Jon Stewart's show and have read about Cliven in the New York Times. Again, full disclosure of my own bias.
Why do I feel we are closer to the summit and sight of the promise land? Youth and technology. Twitter is all over this story and speeding truth about the man to all corners of the world. And I say youth because it's their world now to craft as they see fit. And they see with much better moral clarity than their ancestors.
Way more clarity than Sean Hannity.
Who do we have to thank for this? Cliven Bundy and Sean Hannity.
For whatever reason, Fox News person Sean Hannity has championed this Nevada ranger in his 20-year dispute with the federal government over non-payment of cattle grazing fees. Sexy. Problem is, rancher Cliven is a white supremacist. Not so sexy.
Even before the world became aware of his bias, he did little to gain support from ANYONE, other than like-minded extremists who live to recite the 2nd Amendment and Fox News with their audience of millions. Mr. Hannity apparently took special interest and practically adopted the rancher - I am told as I do not watch. Full disclosure. I have seen clips on Jon Stewart's show and have read about Cliven in the New York Times. Again, full disclosure of my own bias.
Why do I feel we are closer to the summit and sight of the promise land? Youth and technology. Twitter is all over this story and speeding truth about the man to all corners of the world. And I say youth because it's their world now to craft as they see fit. And they see with much better moral clarity than their ancestors.
Way more clarity than Sean Hannity.
Tuesday, April 15, 2014
Stinkin' Diet Coke
I have given up Diet Coke. Again.
This time is going to be different. I've said that before too.
It's addictive. I know this because I had withdrawal symptoms. Symptom really. A killer headache. Pounding and stabbing and unrelenting. The kind that laughs at over the counter pain killers. I use acetaminophen (Tylenol). It was no match for that DRINK ME pull of the Diet Coke. Still, I resisted.
Having survived the headache phase, I have been feeling proud of myself and more confident that I can - really have - beat this addiction. Until this morning. I was in-between clients who I visit in their homes. Too far from my own home, I landed at a McDonalds. I ordered a sandwich - NO fries, thank you - and a medium soft drink. I don't realize that I don't need this drink cup until I stand before the soda machine. It hits me! Wow. I don't drink this stuff anymore.
It was one of those classic Good Mare, Bad Mare moments.
Good Mare: Look, a water thingie. You can fill that cup with healthy water.
Bad Mare: But I PAID for a medium drink.
I learned a valuable lesson today. McDonald's lemonade is damn good. And I also learned that if I take this thing one day at a time, I just might win! Stinkin' Diet Coke. I still love you so...
This time is going to be different. I've said that before too.
It's addictive. I know this because I had withdrawal symptoms. Symptom really. A killer headache. Pounding and stabbing and unrelenting. The kind that laughs at over the counter pain killers. I use acetaminophen (Tylenol). It was no match for that DRINK ME pull of the Diet Coke. Still, I resisted.
Having survived the headache phase, I have been feeling proud of myself and more confident that I can - really have - beat this addiction. Until this morning. I was in-between clients who I visit in their homes. Too far from my own home, I landed at a McDonalds. I ordered a sandwich - NO fries, thank you - and a medium soft drink. I don't realize that I don't need this drink cup until I stand before the soda machine. It hits me! Wow. I don't drink this stuff anymore.
It was one of those classic Good Mare, Bad Mare moments.
Good Mare: Look, a water thingie. You can fill that cup with healthy water.
Bad Mare: But I PAID for a medium drink.
I learned a valuable lesson today. McDonald's lemonade is damn good. And I also learned that if I take this thing one day at a time, I just might win! Stinkin' Diet Coke. I still love you so...
Sunday, April 13, 2014
Exposed
As you age your capacity for embarrassment thankfully declines. I learned that lesson yesterday when the door to my port-a-potty was flung wide open for the world to see.... ME!
Embarrassment shows up between ages three and five, according to Erik Erikson's theory of stages of psychosocial development. Then it follows you through life, fading as you age. Erikson didn't say that. I am saying that. Personal experience. Mary's theory of embarrassment. The more you experience embarrassment, the less you can be embarrassed. More is less.
Think about universally shared embarrassing moments. Tripping in front of others. Bodily noises. Your parents during your teen years. Being picked last for a team. Spilling a drink on yourself in a restaurant. Zipper down. Food in teeth. Food on face.
In Mary's theory we get over ourselves as we age. Zipper down? That's funny now. Tripping? Check first for injury. It's so much harder to be embarrassed because of the gigantic number of embarrassing situations we already have survived. Even situations that are not so universally shared, such as what happened to me yesterday.
I was minding to my own business in a port-a-potty when the door opened, exposing me to the woman who opened the door and a few poor souls waiting in line at a park in Fort Worth. The woman and I screamed at the same time. A couple of seconds of public exposure at most. First there's the frozen I can't believe what I am seeing moment, then immediate action. Shut the door!
My daughter investigated the situation and reported that the port-a-potty door latch malfunctioned. She explained that it needed to be jammed hard into lock position. Otherwise, it gave the appearance inside of being locked while it showed unlocked on the outside. Setting up the perfect storm. Really, what could be more embarrassing than pants down sitting on the pot for all to see?
So why am I not embarrassed? Why do I think it's funny? Because it is. Simple as that. I just hope that poor woman who opened the door thinks so too. In time, she will.
Embarrassment shows up between ages three and five, according to Erik Erikson's theory of stages of psychosocial development. Then it follows you through life, fading as you age. Erikson didn't say that. I am saying that. Personal experience. Mary's theory of embarrassment. The more you experience embarrassment, the less you can be embarrassed. More is less.
Think about universally shared embarrassing moments. Tripping in front of others. Bodily noises. Your parents during your teen years. Being picked last for a team. Spilling a drink on yourself in a restaurant. Zipper down. Food in teeth. Food on face.
In Mary's theory we get over ourselves as we age. Zipper down? That's funny now. Tripping? Check first for injury. It's so much harder to be embarrassed because of the gigantic number of embarrassing situations we already have survived. Even situations that are not so universally shared, such as what happened to me yesterday.
I was minding to my own business in a port-a-potty when the door opened, exposing me to the woman who opened the door and a few poor souls waiting in line at a park in Fort Worth. The woman and I screamed at the same time. A couple of seconds of public exposure at most. First there's the frozen I can't believe what I am seeing moment, then immediate action. Shut the door!
My daughter investigated the situation and reported that the port-a-potty door latch malfunctioned. She explained that it needed to be jammed hard into lock position. Otherwise, it gave the appearance inside of being locked while it showed unlocked on the outside. Setting up the perfect storm. Really, what could be more embarrassing than pants down sitting on the pot for all to see?
So why am I not embarrassed? Why do I think it's funny? Because it is. Simple as that. I just hope that poor woman who opened the door thinks so too. In time, she will.
Wednesday, April 9, 2014
Countdown to liftoff
It's that time now. My daughter Jenny and her husband, Michael, are soon to be parents. More precise: they are about to present ME with my third grandchild.
So soon that when she calls now and I see her beautiful face on my phone, my heart jumps. I have packed a bag, ready to race the three hours (or less) to her hospital in Cedar Park just outside of Austin. Her sister Andrea and I both are going. We think of ourselves as first responders. Our goal is to be heading south on I35W within 30 minutes of getting the call.
Who would have known it just gets more exciting with each birth? Other grandparents.
So soon that when she calls now and I see her beautiful face on my phone, my heart jumps. I have packed a bag, ready to race the three hours (or less) to her hospital in Cedar Park just outside of Austin. Her sister Andrea and I both are going. We think of ourselves as first responders. Our goal is to be heading south on I35W within 30 minutes of getting the call.
Who would have known it just gets more exciting with each birth? Other grandparents.
Friday, March 28, 2014
Brilliant snoop
This is part of a series of essays about the time I spent with my 89-year-old father in November 2013. My father is in late stage dementia. At the time, he still was living at the home he shared with Shirley, 86, his wife of 65 years.
Frank had a front row seat to all the action that horrible Saturday morning in November. From his vantage, he was almost a participant.
The front row was his short couch in the tiny living room of a one-bedroom apartment. The action was provided by multiple first responders preparing Shirley to be taken to the hospital.
On the periphery of this scene was a young woman who had watched all unfold. She had heard Shirley on the phone with a nurse saying, "I should call 9-1-1?" This young woman was one of Frank's in-home caregivers. She described the event of the morning as follows:
Shirley had chest pain so she called a nurses' phone service. Acting on their advice to get herself to the hospital ASAP, Shirley alerted the caregiver and then called 9-1-1. Within minutes, the apartment became filled with bodies, all eyes on Shirley.
Frank watched with delight. He loves people and he loves action. He had no understanding that his beloved Shirley was in peril. And worse, she would be taken from him for the next several weeks. He saw young people who occasionally would smile in his direction. This action beat playing a fourth game of dominoes with the caregiver.
It was agreed that family members would meet the ambulance at the hospital. The caregiver was at the end of her shift and had another assignment. Frank is not allowed to be left home alone. So, the first responders offered him a lift. Only in Missoula.
Frank was first to be put into the ambulance. Passenger seat up front. His escort belted him in and told him to sit tight, they would be back with Shirley. The medic barely set foot back inside the apartment when the emergency vehicle's siren goes off. Frank.
He returns to the vehicle, switches off the siren and asks Frank not to touch any buttons. Frank is told to sit tight, almost done inside, and the medic returns once again to the apartment.
And once again, the siren goes off.
I would give every cent I have to have been there and witness this display of inquisitiveness. Or was it meddlesomeness. Either way, it makes you cheer for Frank! Flashes of curiosity and spontaneity and snoopiness all exposed in this one brilliant act.
Make that two brilliant acts.
Frank had a front row seat to all the action that horrible Saturday morning in November. From his vantage, he was almost a participant.
The front row was his short couch in the tiny living room of a one-bedroom apartment. The action was provided by multiple first responders preparing Shirley to be taken to the hospital.
On the periphery of this scene was a young woman who had watched all unfold. She had heard Shirley on the phone with a nurse saying, "I should call 9-1-1?" This young woman was one of Frank's in-home caregivers. She described the event of the morning as follows:
Shirley had chest pain so she called a nurses' phone service. Acting on their advice to get herself to the hospital ASAP, Shirley alerted the caregiver and then called 9-1-1. Within minutes, the apartment became filled with bodies, all eyes on Shirley.
Frank watched with delight. He loves people and he loves action. He had no understanding that his beloved Shirley was in peril. And worse, she would be taken from him for the next several weeks. He saw young people who occasionally would smile in his direction. This action beat playing a fourth game of dominoes with the caregiver.
It was agreed that family members would meet the ambulance at the hospital. The caregiver was at the end of her shift and had another assignment. Frank is not allowed to be left home alone. So, the first responders offered him a lift. Only in Missoula.
Frank was first to be put into the ambulance. Passenger seat up front. His escort belted him in and told him to sit tight, they would be back with Shirley. The medic barely set foot back inside the apartment when the emergency vehicle's siren goes off. Frank.
He returns to the vehicle, switches off the siren and asks Frank not to touch any buttons. Frank is told to sit tight, almost done inside, and the medic returns once again to the apartment.
And once again, the siren goes off.
I would give every cent I have to have been there and witness this display of inquisitiveness. Or was it meddlesomeness. Either way, it makes you cheer for Frank! Flashes of curiosity and spontaneity and snoopiness all exposed in this one brilliant act.
Make that two brilliant acts.
Tuesday, March 25, 2014
Nothing to smell here
I was thinking about my late mother-in-law yesterday. I often think of Lew. She was a force. Beloved by my husband and children. And me. Our relationship was at times complicated, as such relationships can be.
We were so lucky to have her in Arlington the last years of her life. It was a privilege to take care of her. Unhappily, this strong-willed and independent woman suffered her last days. Alzheimer's did its number on her.
She had the habit of forgetting she was boiling eggs and the rest of us had to suffer the consequence. Fowl odor post explosion. As soon as we stepped off the elevator in her building, the smell hit you. We knew just what it was and where it came from. Lew always acted as if nothing had happened. Lew, were you cooking eggs? No. Then the look that told you to move on.
So I thought about all this yesterday because ... I forgot that I was cooking hard-boiled eggs and once the water had dissipated, an egg exploded.
So the dogs look at me and I give them a stare that said move on. I learn from the best!
We were so lucky to have her in Arlington the last years of her life. It was a privilege to take care of her. Unhappily, this strong-willed and independent woman suffered her last days. Alzheimer's did its number on her.
She had the habit of forgetting she was boiling eggs and the rest of us had to suffer the consequence. Fowl odor post explosion. As soon as we stepped off the elevator in her building, the smell hit you. We knew just what it was and where it came from. Lew always acted as if nothing had happened. Lew, were you cooking eggs? No. Then the look that told you to move on.
So I thought about all this yesterday because ... I forgot that I was cooking hard-boiled eggs and once the water had dissipated, an egg exploded.
So the dogs look at me and I give them a stare that said move on. I learn from the best!
Monday, March 24, 2014
Unthinkable
This is part of a series of essays about the time I spent with my father in November 2013. My father is in late stage dementia. At the time, he still was living at the home he shared with Shirley, his wife of 65 years.
Finding a place to park at St. Patrick Hospital was easy. The hospital sits just outside the downtown Missoula area. Easy underground parking. But, with my father, nothing anymore is really easy.
Finding a place to park at St. Patrick Hospital was easy. The hospital sits just outside the downtown Missoula area. Easy underground parking. But, with my father, nothing anymore is really easy.
My father told me to take a left when I took a right and
turn right when we needed to go left.
Not sure what that is about. Maybe
he was some kind of navigator in a previous life. As I slid the compact rental into the parking
space, I turned to Frank and said, “Let’s go find Shirley.”
The short walk from car to hospital entrance took way longer
than usual. My dad was slow moving. And every few steps, I could hear him
clearing his throat. The sound that is
pain driven. The morning’s activities at
the VA clinic had obviously taken their toll on the 89-year-old. And he hadn’t eaten anything in hours. Of course this didn’t prevent my father from
trying to misguide us to the elevators. I
took that as a positive sign.
My mom was looking forward to seeing Frank. She had been worried about him. Wondered what he must be thinking. Why had she left? Where had she gone? Without her, he unravels.
The two greet each other with a kiss. My dad is all smiles. Geez, you would think he was some teenager on
his first date.
My mom, at 86, has retained her natural beauty. Her older sister tells me that men were
always drawn to her good looks and that she hated the attention. Norwegians, my mom once said, were
uncomfortable with the spotlight. My mom
is a second generation Norwegian American and true to her heritage, she avoids
attention. Much of her life has been
spent in my father’s shadow, who unlike my mother loves the spotlight. Specifically, he likes people, and was and
still is the type who never met a stranger.
He was the younger of two boys
and was adored by his mother. Adored.
His father was a Methodist minister, so add an entire congregation to
that Frank Adoration Club.
When my parents met, he was the college jock and my mother
was the college brainiac. My mother was
studying English while my father was quarterback of the football team, or point
guard on the basketball team or pole vaulting in a track and field event. She had the brains and he had the brawn.
Beats me how they ever found each other, but they did. And now Frank was back in the pull of Shirley’s
universe and all seemed well in that small private hospital room. I left the two alone to find some lunch to
bring back to the room.
Frank and Shirley sat near each other, eating off the same
plate. Sharing a sandwich and
fruit. My father offered Shirley his
water bottle. Declining, she kindly
pointed to her own giant hospital grade water cup with gigantic flexible
straw. My father understood. Their communication is like a dance with
steps only they know, my mom leading.
The doctors came in to check on Shirley during our visit,
which was a bonus for my father. An
opportunity to smile at people and to talk about his own heart bypass. You never know how far to let Frank go in a
conversation. People who don’t know him
don’t immediately catch on that this man has cognitive challenges. These are the kinds of social situations
that bother and even embarrass Shirley.
Puts her in the spotlight. “They
know, Frank,” she says trying to redirect the medical consult to the actual patient.
After the doctors leave, I can see that my mother has
tired. It’s time to go. We have overstayed our welcome. Turning to Shirley, I say we need to let her
get some rest. She does not argue. Turning to Frank I say we have to go and let
Shirley rest. He does argue. Not
only does he not want to leave Shirley, he fully expects us to bring her
home. Today.
I did not think this through. At
all.
Poor Shirley. She is
the one who has to convince Frank to leave.
She is the only one who can, at this point. She has all the authority as far as Frank is
concerned.
Frank reluctantly puts on coat, then hat, then gloves. Shirley kisses him goodbye. We are making progress toward the car when Frank
stops. He tells me he is going to stay
with Shirley. I have no idea who or how
many people witness our exchange. All I
know is that I used a tone with my father I had never used before. No.
No. No. Shirley is sick and needs
rest. The doctors say she has to stay
here. You have to go home. He resists, I repeat. He resists, I repeat.
In the end, I wear him down.
He is already beyond exhausted.
Frank has become selfish in his dementia. He is
not capable of understanding circumstance.
His brain can no longer wrap around the idea that he has to leave
Shirley. It’s unthinkable for him.
Understandably unthinkable.
Next: Don’t touch the
buttons
Saturday, March 22, 2014
I'm being stalked
I'm being stalked. I feel their eyes upon me, watching my every move. Worst part is I know my stalkers and I am helpless to make them stop.
Since Paul left town on business 48 hours ago, his two border collies, Mika and Sam, won't leave me alone.
I sit, they sit. I stand, they stand. I move, they move. Right now, as I write this, they are staring at me. Sam is waiting for me to pick up a tennis ball, which I am about to do right now. Be right back.
I chunked it in the pool so I can finish this blog. Sam will not move from her position until the ball floats to within reach. Then she will be back. Mika has now split her time between watching me and Sam. A welcome reprieve.
All this gives me insight into Paul's psyche. He needs and loves attention. And unconditional love and loyalty. And throw in a little master worship. Mika and Sam certainly give all that and, honestly, I should be flattered that I am proxy master in Paul's absence. I guess I am.
Here comes Sam. Gotta go throw some tennis balls.
Since Paul left town on business 48 hours ago, his two border collies, Mika and Sam, won't leave me alone.
I sit, they sit. I stand, they stand. I move, they move. Right now, as I write this, they are staring at me. Sam is waiting for me to pick up a tennis ball, which I am about to do right now. Be right back.
I chunked it in the pool so I can finish this blog. Sam will not move from her position until the ball floats to within reach. Then she will be back. Mika has now split her time between watching me and Sam. A welcome reprieve.
All this gives me insight into Paul's psyche. He needs and loves attention. And unconditional love and loyalty. And throw in a little master worship. Mika and Sam certainly give all that and, honestly, I should be flattered that I am proxy master in Paul's absence. I guess I am.
Here comes Sam. Gotta go throw some tennis balls.
Monday, March 17, 2014
Do you know where Shirley is?
This is part of a series of essays about the time I spent with my father in November 2013. My father is in late stage dementia. At the time, he still was living at the home he shared with Shirley, his wife of 65 years.
Do you know where Shirley is? You have a car? Can you take me to see Shirley and maybe we
can bring her home?
Throughout our marathon visit to the VA Clinic, my 89-year-old father asked anyone and everyone about his wife's location, which was a hospital room recovering from a triple heart bypass. In hindsight, it makes sense. We did tell him we were going to see Shirley. He definitely heard that part. What he did not hear, we know now, is that it would be after his appointment at the local VA clinic.
My brother, Jim, had made an appointment for our father to have a mental capacity assessment at the VA clinic. Our father is one of those greatest generation folks. He fought in Northern Africa and in Italy during WWII. He was, in his words, "very lucky to have made it through." His battalion won a division citation for their heroic efforts in Italy. (That's another great story) We were at the VA attempting to get long overdue benefits owed our father. Benefits that would assist in getting him care he needed. The first step was to get his mental capacity assessed.
The clinic door barely closed behind us when Frank began his search for Shirley. "Do you know where Shirley is?" He directed the question to everyone: To staff, to the doctor, to nurses, to all seated in the waiting room. We kept reassuring him the Shirley visit was a sure thing, but only after he talked to the doctor. To whom he asked, "Do you know where Shirley is?"
Once the exam was over, we set about getting information about our next move to get our father help. About an hour later, we begin to painfully understand this benefit we were seeking was not going to come easy. No matter that my father clearly was eligible. We were hit that day with the rock hard reality that is the process of proving eligibility for VA benefits. Our first clue this wouldn't be a cake walk came when the kindly VA staff began raining paperwork on us. Do this first. I don't know about that, see this person. That person said talk to another person in a different VA division at a whole other location. Four months later, we (our brother Andy took on the task) still are applying for what's called Aid and Attendance, or A&A.
Back to the VA clinic visit. It's going on almost 3 hours and Frank still hadn't seen Shirley. He was done hearing excuses. My brother and I were talking with the fourth person that day about this A&A program. I had stopped telling my father not to worry we would be going soon. He clearly saw me as a liar. And I was. So I let him loose, keeping one eye on him and one ear in the conversation. I watched my father wonder into the waiting room and talk to people. I knew absolutely what he was saying. Man, he is persistence. That's a nice word for stubborn. I watched him leave the waiting room and head toward some stairs, stopping all along the way to ask people, "Do you know where Shirley is?" As much as I wanted to stay and get information, clearly it was time to take Frank to see his Shirley.
I said goodbye to my brother and Mr. VA person who, in the end, had nothing specific that would help our father. "Hey Dad, I know where Shirley is." And we were out the door!
Postscript: As I write this, I don't like that I kept my father waiting. It caused him anxiety. I think I held on so long at the VA because my common sense told me we would get the simple answer from the next person. And then the next person, and the next. Right now my head is hurting just remembering that awful day. I realize as difficult as it was for me and my brother, it was worse for our father. That hurts.
Next: No, Frank, Shirley cannot come home with us
Monday, March 10, 2014
Paul Ryan could use a new perspective
Wisconsin Sen. Paul Ryan got caught lying to his base and the world. It involved the evil free school lunch program for children. Last week at the annual CPAC convention, Ryan relates a story about a young boy ashamed that he has to get a free lunch. A little boy whose only wish is that his parents would make him a brown bag lunch. Ryan goes on about how the federal government has usurped parental responsibility for this very simple but profound task. Ryan also was self-righteously justifying cuts to free food programs, such as SNAP, more commonly known as the food stamp program.
This same most touching story about a little boy wanting his parents to make him a brown bag lunch was presented to a congressional hearing by an educator from Wisconsin, Ryan's home state. This woman told the story as though she personally had the conversation with this little boy who preferred that his parents make his lunch than suffer the humiliation of getting free food. She said the boy believed a brown bag lunch would show others that someone cared about him. Problem is, this educator never had such an encounter. Never. Ever. It was not her experience (see Washington Post link below). It was a good story, though, or so Ryan thought as he repeated it to his base last week.
The aggravation I feel about this whole charade from Ryan and the educator and countless others who have repeated this story and stories like it, is that it goes to how little they care for people who are struggling. Why else would they not take the time to get real evidence and choose instead to repeat someone else's false story? There are so many people who could and would share with them what free food for their children and grandchildren means for their families. Talk to my two daughters who are teachers. Talk to principals and other parents and leaders at churches, synagogues and mosques. Talk to the lunch ladies.
I like Paul Ryan and respect that he has shown to be remorseful about repeating this fairy tale. I just wish he would do more, get his hands dirty. Boots on the ground changes the landscape. Might change Ryan's perspective. I can see it now: Sen. Ryan in hair net serving children school lunches! That would be a different view for him.
Truth is, Ryan has a lot of work to do in his own state of Wisconsin where 21 percent of children there struggle with hunger, according to the group No Kid Hungry in Wisconsin. Talk to them, Mr. Ryan. They can give you some real stories.
http://www.washingtonpost.com/blogs/fact-checker/wp/2014/03/06/a-story-too-good-to-check-paul-ryan-and-the-story-of-the-brown-paper-bag/
Friday, March 7, 2014
Method to his madness
This is a part of a series of essays about time I spent with my father, Frank, in November, 2013. It was just before he was moved into a dementia facility. (see 3/5/2014 post)
My father has always had a sweet tooth. It appears his dementia has not erased this memory. Not by a long shot. Actually, left to his own discretion, my father can get quite creative about sweetening his food, be it a sweet or savory dish. He invented putting strawberry jam on baked potato. And, he proved - to himself - that vegetable soup is better with a little sliced banana added.
Mostly it is a harmless flavoring. Or so I thought until the morning my father got hold of the syrup bottle. I had just placed a short stack of pancakes before him and walked away. Novice mistake. By the time I returned to the table, my father’s plate could no longer contain the syrup. His plate runneth over. My response was to first rescue the syrup bottle. That part was easy, he wasn't expecting my move. My next move wasn't as certain. I hesitated for a moment, giving consideration to a do-over plate of clean pancakes or perhaps eliminating 90 percent of the syrup on the plate before him. Whatever I decided, it would begin with retrieving his plate.
Looking back, I wonder if my father was having a similar "what to do" moment, because it seemed as though we reached for the plate at the same time. I pulled one way, he pulled another. What got to me was my father's look of panic mixed with steely resolve. A line - in the syrup - had been drawn. Obviously he saw nothing wrong with what sat before him. His breakfast pancakes were just as he wanted. Smothered in sweetness - as was part of the table. Most relevant, his look told me he could not understand why I was stealing his masterpiece. So I gently released my grip on the plate. This appeared to deescalate the growing tension. My father was less panicked but clearly not fully trusting of the situation - rather, trusting me. So I back away. I couldn't do anything about the spill without disturbing my father's breakfast. So I waited and watched from afar. I watched my father consume every morsel with efficiency. Methodically, even. It struck me that I was seeing parts of the old Frank. The boss parts. The part that figures out how to do something and does it. Work until the work is done. Eat until the food is gone. My father spent much of his adulthood running things, calling the shots. For sure he called the shots that morning.
My father has always had a sweet tooth. It appears his dementia has not erased this memory. Not by a long shot. Actually, left to his own discretion, my father can get quite creative about sweetening his food, be it a sweet or savory dish. He invented putting strawberry jam on baked potato. And, he proved - to himself - that vegetable soup is better with a little sliced banana added.
Mostly it is a harmless flavoring. Or so I thought until the morning my father got hold of the syrup bottle. I had just placed a short stack of pancakes before him and walked away. Novice mistake. By the time I returned to the table, my father’s plate could no longer contain the syrup. His plate runneth over. My response was to first rescue the syrup bottle. That part was easy, he wasn't expecting my move. My next move wasn't as certain. I hesitated for a moment, giving consideration to a do-over plate of clean pancakes or perhaps eliminating 90 percent of the syrup on the plate before him. Whatever I decided, it would begin with retrieving his plate.
Looking back, I wonder if my father was having a similar "what to do" moment, because it seemed as though we reached for the plate at the same time. I pulled one way, he pulled another. What got to me was my father's look of panic mixed with steely resolve. A line - in the syrup - had been drawn. Obviously he saw nothing wrong with what sat before him. His breakfast pancakes were just as he wanted. Smothered in sweetness - as was part of the table. Most relevant, his look told me he could not understand why I was stealing his masterpiece. So I gently released my grip on the plate. This appeared to deescalate the growing tension. My father was less panicked but clearly not fully trusting of the situation - rather, trusting me. So I back away. I couldn't do anything about the spill without disturbing my father's breakfast. So I waited and watched from afar. I watched my father consume every morsel with efficiency. Methodically, even. It struck me that I was seeing parts of the old Frank. The boss parts. The part that figures out how to do something and does it. Work until the work is done. Eat until the food is gone. My father spent much of his adulthood running things, calling the shots. For sure he called the shots that morning.
Wednesday, March 5, 2014
Me and Frank: It's OK
My mother and father have been married 65 years. They continue to count their years together,
but they no longer live under the same roof.
Frank Lochridge was moved into a dementia care facility in Missoula, Montana,
just before Thanksgiving 2013. I had the
privilege of taking care of my father before the move. My mom, Shirley, was in the hospital and then
rehab after triple bypass surgery.
During that time and after, I wrote about my and my father’s experiences
together. I feel just a little selfish writing about this. I acknowledge that living 1600 miles
away gives me the luxury of romanticizing the experience while those left
behind, two of my brothers and my mother, deal with the daily reality.
Before dementia, I think the word that best describes my
father is leader. Leader of a YMCA in
Aberdeen, SD, for 25 years. Leader of
multiple businesses, including a campground less than a mile from Glacier
National Park and sailboat rentals on Flathead Lake, both in Montana . My father also was the boss of our family. It didn’t matter how small the task, he knew
the best course and was not shy about sharing his expertise. I once observed him and one of my brothers “debate”
how best to retrieve a cake from atop a cupboard. It was tense, too. Years later, I realize it had nothing to do
with the cake.
I can’t say that we had a terribly close relationship, me
and my father. But we had respect for
one another. And love. He came from the school of raise your
children and set them loose. If they
come back, send them back out asap. My
father had many sides. On the other
hand, he was a hugger. He teased a lot. Then again, he was strict. I once thought he was kind of mean,
especially to one of my brothers. Never
to me. He worked long hours when I was coming
up. My poor dear mother was left to
wrangle us six kids, five boys and one girl. Pretty typical for the times.
Since 1975, I have lived thousands of miles from my parents.
It was OK when they were OK. Now they are not OK and I suffer the guilt
one does when one is not pitching in to help, not doing one’s fair share. So when the opportunity arose for me to help
my brothers care for our father, I jumped at it. Wipe away some of that guilt. I can’t express how lucky and grateful I feel
for the 3 weeks I cared for my father and also my mother, to a lesser degree. I
slept on a blowup mattress in the living room of their small one-room
apartment. Every night I heard my father
walk the short distance between bedroom and bathroom. Multiple times every night. One night I heard him detour into the
kitchen. Then I hear a crash. I flew up crying, “Are you OK?” My thoughts turn to worst case scenario. It was OK.
My father had bumped into a picture on the wall and the picture
fell. He was so apologetic, like a child
who did something horribly wrong. It’s OK, Dad.
I could hear my heart. It’s OK,
Mary.
NEXT: Method to his madness
Friday, February 28, 2014
My father has a girlfriend and my mother approves
My father has a girlfriend. For real. My mom has met her and approves of this extramarital affair.
My father is in final stages of dementia. He doesn't know people, place, time or circumstance. He was moved into an Alzheimer facility in November. He will be 90 in July and is still walking and talking. And, apparently, dating.
There is a real sweetness about my father. He engages people, smiles at them, jokes with them. Corny jokes. Example: "I'm hungry, are you?" "No, I'm Frank."
Frank began the long goodbye about 8 years ago. Shirley has shouldered the brunt of his care. Well, really all of it until she nearly died last fall. I saw the images of her blocked arteries. It was close, her doctor said. So after my mom had triple heart bypass - at age 86 - we made the decision to move our father into a care facility.
And now he has a girlfriend, very normal for folks in my father's condition. Her name? Shirley! I kid you not. I haven't met the Other Shirley, but if my mom says she's ok, then she's ok with me.
My father is in final stages of dementia. He doesn't know people, place, time or circumstance. He was moved into an Alzheimer facility in November. He will be 90 in July and is still walking and talking. And, apparently, dating.
There is a real sweetness about my father. He engages people, smiles at them, jokes with them. Corny jokes. Example: "I'm hungry, are you?" "No, I'm Frank."
Frank began the long goodbye about 8 years ago. Shirley has shouldered the brunt of his care. Well, really all of it until she nearly died last fall. I saw the images of her blocked arteries. It was close, her doctor said. So after my mom had triple heart bypass - at age 86 - we made the decision to move our father into a care facility.
And now he has a girlfriend, very normal for folks in my father's condition. Her name? Shirley! I kid you not. I haven't met the Other Shirley, but if my mom says she's ok, then she's ok with me.
Sunday, February 23, 2014
Hipocrisy times infinity
Ted Nugent. Wow. What a guy. He has bragged about preferring "sex" with underage girls. He is of course deluded enough to believe getting his freak on as such was A OK, criminal code and plain decency be damned. It's called sexual assault, Ted, not sex. Gross.
Time and again he shows up here in Texas blathering on about his America this and his Texas that. You know he's really from Michigan?
Nugent shares his hallucinations with anyone who will listen. He talks on and on about people coming to get his guns. Pure fantasy.
Gubernatorial candidate Greg Abbott chooses this unstable person to introduce him on the campaign trail? And he's our current state attorney general, the enforcer of laws? Hypocrisy times infinity.
Time and again he shows up here in Texas blathering on about his America this and his Texas that. You know he's really from Michigan?
Nugent shares his hallucinations with anyone who will listen. He talks on and on about people coming to get his guns. Pure fantasy.
Gubernatorial candidate Greg Abbott chooses this unstable person to introduce him on the campaign trail? And he's our current state attorney general, the enforcer of laws? Hypocrisy times infinity.
Tuesday, February 18, 2014
Olympic inspiration
Olympic speed skater Emily Scott's story is inspiring. Her mother is a meth head and hasn't been in her life since she was a young child. She's now 25 and was raised by a loving father who worked multiple jobs so his daughter could participate in sports. It was thrilling to watch her compete and see her father in the stands. She surprised the announcers by blasting into first position and holding it, thus advancing to the medal round, where she placed an impressive 5th.
She inspired me. I didn't realize how much until last Sunday morning, around 9:30 a.m. Rush hour at the IHOP. You know what I mean.
As we parked in back I could see a few cars pulling in about the same time. I told Paul to pick up his speed. Just like Emily. Rounding the corner, we were in front, just barely, but holding position for sure. Then, a young woman jumps from a car parked at the front entrance while her vehicle drove off. Been there done that. I'm not saying that's cheating exactly.
I was NOT going to give up. My competitive instincts, thanks to Ms. Scott, had been stoked. I dug deep. My short legs made strides not seen this decade (and likely never to be seen again). Yes, Paul was lagging, but it didn't matter. First place, gold, was within sight. Without so much a nudge or an elbow, (because my opponent was that close) I reached for that door and YES! I got there first!!
I allowed myself a moment of glory. Thanks Emily Scott and thanks to your father!! My senior omelet was my reward. With turkey sausage.
She inspired me. I didn't realize how much until last Sunday morning, around 9:30 a.m. Rush hour at the IHOP. You know what I mean.
As we parked in back I could see a few cars pulling in about the same time. I told Paul to pick up his speed. Just like Emily. Rounding the corner, we were in front, just barely, but holding position for sure. Then, a young woman jumps from a car parked at the front entrance while her vehicle drove off. Been there done that. I'm not saying that's cheating exactly.
I was NOT going to give up. My competitive instincts, thanks to Ms. Scott, had been stoked. I dug deep. My short legs made strides not seen this decade (and likely never to be seen again). Yes, Paul was lagging, but it didn't matter. First place, gold, was within sight. Without so much a nudge or an elbow, (because my opponent was that close) I reached for that door and YES! I got there first!!
I allowed myself a moment of glory. Thanks Emily Scott and thanks to your father!! My senior omelet was my reward. With turkey sausage.
Wednesday, February 12, 2014
Have you blown marshmallow out of your nose?
So last night I loaded my hot chocolate with tiny marshmallows. Loaded. Slurping through the marshmallow mountain, something weird happened. Instead of traveling south by way of my throat, the melted marsh detoured by way of my nasal cavity. I slurped marshmallow UP MY NOSE! And it hurt!
How do I know this really happened? (grossness spoiler alert) I blew snowy white and creamy goodness out of my nose. I kid you not.
What have I learned from this? Life is forever unpredictable. Now I can't wait for someone to ask: Have you blown marshmallow out of your nose? Why yes, I have.
How do I know this really happened? (grossness spoiler alert) I blew snowy white and creamy goodness out of my nose. I kid you not.
What have I learned from this? Life is forever unpredictable. Now I can't wait for someone to ask: Have you blown marshmallow out of your nose? Why yes, I have.
Thursday, February 6, 2014
Sammie lives with old dogs and old people
Our poor Sammie the border collie. She's 1 year old now and lives with a bunch of old people and old dogs. We didn't think about that when we got her. At least I didn't. It's not really fair to her.
Just this past month I took our 11-year-old beagle, Baxter, to the vet because she had weakness in her hind legs. The culprit: bad back. Both Paul and I have that too. She was given a hefty shot of steroid and 10 days of anti-inflammatory. Paul takes anti-inflammatories for his hip.
Then Mika, age 10, should be taking anti-inflammatories too. She is slow to get up after a nap. Stretching first her front legs, then stretching her back. Worse, she has lumps and bumps beneath her hide that we pretend are not growing. The vet told us to watch for that. We always agree that she is OK. I do that a lot. Ignore some signs of my own aging. Maybe it will go away. Mika, like me and Paul, is wiped after a visit from the grandkids.
Which brings us back to the pup. I don't know if we are good for her, but she is good for us. All four of us oldies. She patiently waits for us to play ball. By patient, I mean sits staring at you with her ball until you - dog or human - to play. Often she gets you to move by nudging ball with her nose - her way of throwing it - and barking at you to get it. She is "on" all day. Just open the back door and step one foot out and she already has flown to the farthest point of the backyard before your second foot hits the ground. She is watching for your next move, which she desperately hopes will include a ball.
We haven't found her off button, but it miraculously kicks in around 7 every night. Good thing our off buttons are set at the same time!
Wednesday, February 5, 2014
Woody Allen doesn't deserve acclaim
My son asked me this week where I stood on the Woody Allen controversy. Short answer: I think he molested his daughter.
Last week his adopted daughter, now 28, went public for the first time with details about her sexual abuse by Allen when she was a young child. Her comments were published in a New York Times blog written by a family friend.
A week before that her brother, Allen's bio son, tweeted his disgust at his father's special recognition during the Golden Globes.
I told my son that I believe the victim and that I have not been to a Woody Allen movie since the allegations became public in the early 90s.
I can't get past the part where he admits to having had a relationship with his partner's daughter. Not his daughter. However, he had been in this child's life since she was in grade school. Nude photos of her were found. He was busted and admitted to the "relationship." She was under 20 and he was over 50. His explanation: the heart wants what it wants.
When the relationship was discovered, all hell broke loose. Its aftermath was dirty and it was public. Allen fought for custody of his 3 children, including his adopted daughter who made the accusation. Criminal investigations were conducted. No charges or convictions were ever filed, but the court did deny Allen visitation rights to his adopted daughter.
He eventually married his children's sister and they adopted 2 children. He also has gone on to make movies and continue to be beloved, as evidenced by the special award this year.
Apparently all the accolades were too much for many and the past has come back to haunt.
His daughter has changed her name. There is nothing in it for her to go public at this time in her life. She is married and has children. Her actions now are wholly consistent with sexually abused children. Under the safety and protection of adulthood is when many find the courage to tell their truth.
And I believe her. I always have.
Last week his adopted daughter, now 28, went public for the first time with details about her sexual abuse by Allen when she was a young child. Her comments were published in a New York Times blog written by a family friend.
A week before that her brother, Allen's bio son, tweeted his disgust at his father's special recognition during the Golden Globes.
I told my son that I believe the victim and that I have not been to a Woody Allen movie since the allegations became public in the early 90s.
I can't get past the part where he admits to having had a relationship with his partner's daughter. Not his daughter. However, he had been in this child's life since she was in grade school. Nude photos of her were found. He was busted and admitted to the "relationship." She was under 20 and he was over 50. His explanation: the heart wants what it wants.
When the relationship was discovered, all hell broke loose. Its aftermath was dirty and it was public. Allen fought for custody of his 3 children, including his adopted daughter who made the accusation. Criminal investigations were conducted. No charges or convictions were ever filed, but the court did deny Allen visitation rights to his adopted daughter.
He eventually married his children's sister and they adopted 2 children. He also has gone on to make movies and continue to be beloved, as evidenced by the special award this year.
Apparently all the accolades were too much for many and the past has come back to haunt.
His daughter has changed her name. There is nothing in it for her to go public at this time in her life. She is married and has children. Her actions now are wholly consistent with sexually abused children. Under the safety and protection of adulthood is when many find the courage to tell their truth.
And I believe her. I always have.
Friday, January 31, 2014
Seasons in the south: Nailed it!
I couldn't live without seasons. That's what people up north say as a reason not to move south. That transition into different seasons reminds one of the wonder of our universe. Trees change color in fall, the first snowfall of winter, flowers blooming in spring. Ok, fine.
But honestly, we, too, have our ways of identifying seasons here in the south. Take pedicures. Our summer nails are beautiful. Out there for all to see. Transition into fall and you can see nail color begin to fade and fall away. In winter, we keep our nails indoors and always covered to protect them from the frigid 40 degree temps. Frigid. Then along comes spring and the bloom is on the nail. Colorful reds and pinks and purple and green and orange and brown. These pops of color hold all through summer season and on into fall transition. I am hearing that song...
To everything - turn, turn, turn
There is a season - turn, turn, turn
And in the South, we have all four - turn, turn, turn!
But honestly, we, too, have our ways of identifying seasons here in the south. Take pedicures. Our summer nails are beautiful. Out there for all to see. Transition into fall and you can see nail color begin to fade and fall away. In winter, we keep our nails indoors and always covered to protect them from the frigid 40 degree temps. Frigid. Then along comes spring and the bloom is on the nail. Colorful reds and pinks and purple and green and orange and brown. These pops of color hold all through summer season and on into fall transition. I am hearing that song...
To everything - turn, turn, turn
There is a season - turn, turn, turn
And in the South, we have all four - turn, turn, turn!
Friday, January 17, 2014
John Cornyn's radio ad makes me smile
Living in Texas it's fitting that campaign season and cedar pollen should arrive at about the same. Both are intolerable.
Something that has helped - besides Allegra without D - is a comedy TV show called Alpha House, an Amazon Original series. It's about a bunch of Republican senators sharing a house, hence Alpha House. The show's political humor can be appreciated by all sides: left and right, north and south.
The show stars John Goodman, reason alone to love the series, but also features an incredible supporting cast that includes Haley Joel Osment (I see dead people), Kelly Ripa's husband, Wanda Sikes AND Bill Murray, who appears in the first and last episodes.
I know this show is helping me through campaign season because I didn't want to kill myself after listening to a John Cornyn radio ad. It actually made me smile. Almost laugh. It sounded like it belonged to one of the characters on my new favorite show Alpha House. I swear it felt like I was listening to comedy.
Alas, the first season already has ended. Oh well. As an antidote to the uber conservative Texas campaigns, I feel it will be fine to watch a second time - or as often as indicated.
Something that has helped - besides Allegra without D - is a comedy TV show called Alpha House, an Amazon Original series. It's about a bunch of Republican senators sharing a house, hence Alpha House. The show's political humor can be appreciated by all sides: left and right, north and south.
The show stars John Goodman, reason alone to love the series, but also features an incredible supporting cast that includes Haley Joel Osment (I see dead people), Kelly Ripa's husband, Wanda Sikes AND Bill Murray, who appears in the first and last episodes.
I know this show is helping me through campaign season because I didn't want to kill myself after listening to a John Cornyn radio ad. It actually made me smile. Almost laugh. It sounded like it belonged to one of the characters on my new favorite show Alpha House. I swear it felt like I was listening to comedy.
Alas, the first season already has ended. Oh well. As an antidote to the uber conservative Texas campaigns, I feel it will be fine to watch a second time - or as often as indicated.
Monday, January 6, 2014
It's cold but I can't complain
Today the wind chill is 6 degrees! Single digit!! Problem is, a little farther north the wind chill is minus double digits! So I can't really complain.
What's causing the coldest temps recorded in about 20 years? Polar vortex. A phenomenon that 99 percent of us (be honest) had never heard of before. What a cool word (pun intended).
It turns out that a polar vortex is really a persistent cyclone. Cyclone!! This one initiates from the North Pole. How cool is that (again, intended pun)?
Climate change doubters will no doubt point to this as evidence of there being no evidence of shifting climate. That's ok. Let 'em have their day. They likely have been feeling a lonely lately as the majority of us have pushed forward without them.
This polar vortex event however IS real evidence of the unpredictability of weather and its humbling nature. It has stopped a hardy bunch of northerners in their tracks. I used to be one of them and can recall specific days of minus double digit weather BEFORE adding the wind chill. But as reports are telling us, this polar vortex is dropping temps to numbers not felt in 20 years. That's scary.
Sending warm thoughts and prayers to my family and friends up north.
What's causing the coldest temps recorded in about 20 years? Polar vortex. A phenomenon that 99 percent of us (be honest) had never heard of before. What a cool word (pun intended).
It turns out that a polar vortex is really a persistent cyclone. Cyclone!! This one initiates from the North Pole. How cool is that (again, intended pun)?
Climate change doubters will no doubt point to this as evidence of there being no evidence of shifting climate. That's ok. Let 'em have their day. They likely have been feeling a lonely lately as the majority of us have pushed forward without them.
This polar vortex event however IS real evidence of the unpredictability of weather and its humbling nature. It has stopped a hardy bunch of northerners in their tracks. I used to be one of them and can recall specific days of minus double digit weather BEFORE adding the wind chill. But as reports are telling us, this polar vortex is dropping temps to numbers not felt in 20 years. That's scary.
Sending warm thoughts and prayers to my family and friends up north.
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