Laziness is my most marked characteristic so I don't do New Year's resolutions.
At least not for myself. This year, I decided to turn a new leaf (which is totally different than making a resolution) and make some...for other people. And I'm so lazy that even this is late. What could be more helpful than pointing out everyone else's faults? I consider this a public service. 1. Women of a certain age. Meaning, I'm certain you're still living so stop dressing like you're dead. Age appropriate and giving up are not the same things. Yes, I realize you can go too far (see my earlier post NYDJ). But, you won't die if you wear a high heel now and again. No, it's not easy. It can be painful. Who cares? Have some vanity for Christ's sake. I don't want to hear it. I wear them on crutches. I realize there's an argument to be made that perhaps I wouldn't be on crutches if I wasn't a life long stiletto wearer. I can live with that. At least I didn't go down without a fight. Birkenstocks, elastic waist pants, pantyhose (they don't look good on Kate Middleton, they don't on you either), sweat pants if you're not sleeping...yoga pants if you're not...you get it. Back away from the sale table at Sears and get yourself a Vogue subscription. Come on ladies! We've still got it and we've gotta show it. 2. The entire Medical profession. THINK before you speak. I'm an authority on this. Here's snippets of my recent conversations as proof. Nursey: Do you prefer Kathleen or Kathy? Me: Kathleen Nursey: Okay, great...Kathy...can you spell that? Dr. Doogie Howser: The last time you had a bowel movement was it in shapes? Me: You mean, like animals? Nursey: Do you have a DNR? Me: Ummm...I'm only 51. No. Nursey: So, Kathy, if you go into cardiac arrest and your heart stops you want to be revived? Me: I'm thinkin' YES. Nursey: On a scale from 0-10, 0 being the least, where would you like your pain level to be? Me: Is that a joke? Does anyone say, If you're all out of NO pain...I'll take excruciating? That would be ZERO. Nursey: Sssssss....well...okay...hmmm...how about 5-10? Doctor Doogie: Wow. Alot of these drugs don't work for you... Me: Well, it is the 21st century, there's got to be a lot of choices, right? Doogie: Any suggestions? 3. Annoying dog people. Keep your four legged friend to yourself. I'm allergic to dogs. But, I don't hate them. What I hate is those dog owners who assume you love their dogs as much as they do, so you won't mind at all if their furry beasts jump up on your cocktail dress, or wipe their snotty snouts on your pants. I adore my grandkids. But I wouldn't let them sniff your crotch, wipe their chocolate covered hands on your jacket, or lick your suede shoes. Please, show me the same courtesy. 4. Traffic controller drivers. Just drive. These are those folks who slam to a stop to "let you in" their lane or sit through their turn, two or three times, at four way stops to wave everyone else through. I'm sure they mean well. But, I often find myself in weird, Marcel Marceau type pantomime conversations with someone who can barely see me through their windshield. Using jerky hand motions and contorted facial expressions I struggle to let them know I don't want to turn into their lane. I want to go the other direction. By the time they get the message they've stopped a line of cars two blocks long. Honking, name calling and middle finger salutes commence and I'm still there, trying to turn left. Grrrr...if everyone just follows the rules of the road we'll all be fine. Really. 5. Hoity Toity Restaurants. Call a spade a spade. When did eating out get so complicated? Pan seared? Really. Isn't that just...fried? Charred bread? I can burn my own bread in my toaster at home. Waiter: Our popcorn has an aura of grapefruit essence, rosemary mist, star anise dust and black sea salt. Get out. Do we seriously need popcorn that takes a Walter White style laboratory to make? Or this jewel...Slow baked organic Scottish salmon with Yuzo-koshu crust, baby green vegetables, glazed gnocchi, and smoked bonito flaked orange broth. Huh? Of course it all arrives in a Leaning Tower of Pisa shaped cylinder on your plate which explodes as soon as you try to fork your way through it. It's about 3 ounces of food for $45. And, why are my scallops covered in two kinds of sauce, one a heinous shade of green, on top of a now inedible soaked and soggy bed of lettuce? Couldn't I have had them...pan seared...or at the very least...charred? Don't worry though, you can bring your own bottle of wine...they'll only charge you $25 to uncork it. And don't even try to bring your own opener. I've heard they're not amused. Happy New Year. Get it together.
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In previous blogs I've regaled you with my hip problems. In case you're new or just want to torture yourself and reread, here they are: It Can't be That Part I Or It Can't be That Part II Both of these highlight my delightful experience with bi-lateral hip surgery, the medical profession and the health insurance industry. To conclude, after a year of mishaps and misdiagnosis and a year long battle with my insurance, I had labral repairs on both hips. Labral tears are usually a professional athlete injury. Before you google me to perhaps find out about my storied past as an Olympic Curler, no need. Unless it involves a curling iron, you won't find me. I survived a head on collision. Which should get me a gold medal, but didn't. Four years later, the familiar tinge snaked through my groin and thigh. I immediately knew what it was. Been there, done that. So I did what any intelligent, health conscious person would do. I ignored it. Finally, when it got REALLY bad... I still ignored it. Then the pain interfered with my stiletto wearing and all bets were off. Having been pushed around by my general physician before, this time I went directly to the source. I skpped my primary doc and made an appointment with an orthopedic doc - a hip specialist, no less. Hip Specialist: This is my 15 year old assistant. She'll examine you and I'll be right back. 15 Year old Assistant: Does it hurt when you do this? Me: Ouch. Yes. 15 Year Old- What about this? Me: YES. 15 Year Old : And this? Me (catching on): I don't know. I'm not doing that. 15 year old, stern look on unlined, freckled, face: Um hum. Well, let me ask you- Me: I know what it is already. I've had it before. Torn labrums. Both sides. 15 Year old, eyeing my flabby thighs, gelatinous biceps: Hmmm. Did you have an accident? Me: Well, four years ago, when it happened the first time, I had a head on collision, they weren't sure- 15 year old: So...no accident. You'll need an x-ray. Me: Nothing will show up on an xray. I need an MRI. Xray Technician saunters in- Come with me. Xray guy chats amiably about nothing. Lines me up in front of the xray machine. Xray guy: Were you in an accident? Me: No. Hip Specialist looking at X-rays: Well, the xrays are clear. Me: I know. Torn labrums don't show up on xrays. I have to have an MRI. Hip Specialist: Umm humm...yeah...so have you ever heard of super cali fragilistic bursitis? Me: I've heard of bursitis. Hip Specialist: So we can give you a cortisone shot today or start you on physical therapy and if the therapy doesn't help we can still give you the shot. Me: Does the xray show that I have bursitis? Hip Specialist: No. Me: Then why would you treat me for that? Hip Specialist: Well, we tend to do the easiest stuff first and- Me: I'm not leaving without an MRI appointment. And you're not giving me a shot and I'm not doing physical therapy. I have torn labrums. Hip Specialist: Well...if you do have torn labrums you'll have to see the labrum specialist and not me. Don't threaten me with a good time. A month later, after my MRI, Hip Specialist calls on a Sunday: You have torn labrums on both sides. Me: You don't say. Another month later 18 year old labrum specialist says: Were you in an accident? Me: No. 18 year old specialist: Yep, both sides, torn. We can't repair them again. They've gotta be replaced. I'll have my assistant schedule it. Assistant: Okay, all scheduled. Here's the paperwork, all the pre-op and post-op stuff you'll need. By the way, did anybody tell you that you have an ovarian cyst? Me on hold with my family physician trying to make an appointment to get the cyst checked out. Got cut off three times. Gave up. Phone rings. 18 year old labrum specialist's assistant: Just wanted to let you know we'll need a deposit of half before your surgery. Me: Huh? Assistant: This surgery isn't covered by your insurance. So, off I go to surgery (again) tomorrow. With my 18 year old surgeon and no insurance. I'm sure it'll be fine. It went so well the first time, right? "If you had the chance, what would you tell your younger self?"
I've seen that question a lot lately. It's a blog topic, a celebrity interview question. The answers are often trite. "I really AM beautiful." "Don't be so hard on yourself." "You ARE thin enough." Not that those things aren't true. They're just probably not the only true things. At least not for me. Whenever I've dared examine myself, if I'm honest, I've never concluded that I'm fantastic. Does anyone with half a brain ever leave a therapist's office thinking, "It really is everybody else?" Not me. So, in the spirit of having half a brain...what would I tell my younger self? It's okay to not have an opinion. I felt strongly about...everything. Even when I didn't know my ass from a hole in the ground. Wait...I don't think I've changed that much...anyhoo... My friends' husband? Thought he was a jackass. Did I know him? No. Reaganomics? Who's Reagan? What's an omic? No matter. I could argue for a couple hours about that topic. Religion? I was there. I knew it wasn't true. There's something to be said for the ignorant optimism of the young. It's just not anything good. It's okay to have an opinion and keep it to yourself. Ack. Little did I know that even if I knew a lot about the subject at hand, it was sometimes preferable, even wise, to keep my pie hole SHUT. My friend's husband really was a jackass. Shoulda kept that gem to myself. Jeans don't make your ass look fat. All that fat makes your ass look fat. Who knew she wouldn't take that well? Religion? I wasn't there and I still don't think its true. But, do I really need to tell the devout (like my mother-in-law for instance) I'm an atheist? Well, agnostic. I'm too lazy to take a stand. Turns out, no. Silence really is golden. Chances and opportunities aren't limitless. This one hurts. Bad. Went to the concert instead of work? Fired. No problem, I'll just get another job. Not so fast. Especially when you've done it ten or twenty times and you're 35 and the economy comes to a screeching halt. Need to exercise more patience and understanding toward my mother? Sure. Later. Too late now. She's gone. Didn't finish college? Who needs that crap? I'll do it later. Marriage, kids, divorce, finances, life...later never came. Here's the finest pearl of wisdom: chances and opportunities involve a hell of a lot of work and sacrifice. Not willing to do it? Then it won't happen. Other than a fair trial, you have a right to very little. Your parents or your neighbors lifestyle isn't your birthright. See chances and opportunities. Privacy is a privilege, especially if you still live at home. Happiness is a choice, often elusive. Self esteem is earned. Doing a job well (starting with that first one at McDonalds), working hard at something even though you're not that good at it until you get better, doing things you need to do instead of just what you want to do, that's how you build self esteem. Stand up for something you believe in even if it costs you. Changing the world is often something only the young have the energy for, so do it. Go to the mat for an ideal. Nothing builds character more than that. Wait. Hate your job and want to quit? Wait. HAVE, HAVE, HAVE to get married? Wait. DYING to have kids? Wait. Can't imagine living without that way too expensive outfit? Wait. How many mistakes would I have avoided if I'd have just...waited. What doesn't kill you often doesn't make you stronger. Trash your health with booze and cigarettes? Cirrhosis and emphysema don't kill you...at least not quick. Hacking up your lungs and turning yellow from jaundice really isn't attractive. And it sure doesn't look fun either. If you feel depressed or anxious ignore it, buck up, it'll go away. It won't affect your judgment or your decision making? Right? This will kill you. But not until you swill in misery for years. The same bad relationships over and over? They wear you down, give you ulcers and wrinkles, make you cry, and beat you down. Kill you? Unfortunately not. Gratitude is more important than almost anything. There hasn't been one day of my life that I haven't had something to feel grateful for. I should've recognized it, celebrated it, shown thanks for it. Lucky for me, I'm still breathing. As long as I am, it's not too late. I'm motherless. The woman I thought would never die, did. When I was ten, there was a girl in my class who had no mother. I don't remember anything about her other than that. At the time, I couldn't imagine anything worse. I realize that a ten year old losing her mother is a tragedy. A 51 year old losing her mother is the ordinary course. Illogically, I feel orphaned. There should be something between tragedy and ordinary, and whatever it is, it's painful. For most of my adulthood I worked hard to maintain a healthy separation from my mother. I sometimes over reached in my efforts, in ways I'm sure she found hurtful. I needed a reprieve from her intrusion, her enabling, her self destructive lifestyle. At the thought of her permanent absence, I only imagined relief. Now I only miss her. One of the many things she did that drove me crazy, I now admire - she lived her life exactly the way she wanted to, with no explanations or apologies. And, here's the kicker - she never expected explanations or apologies from me either. And I can assure you I owed her some. Everyone raise their hand who shouldn't apologize to their mother. That's what I thought. My mother didn't come from a generation that sat around talking about their feelings, and she didn't. Ever. To my great annoyance. But now I realize she lived what she felt. No words necessary. I knew she loved me and she knew I loved her. That's what it comes down to in the end. But, I find myself in a mother-free limbo. Where is my place in the world without my mother? Besides, next? I'm still a wife, a mother, a grandmother, a friend, a writer. But now, I'm no one's daughter. Who do I call for a quick, invigorating tussle? Who can I count on to disagree, disapprove? Who has to love me even when I'm a jackass, a shit head? And who has to always open her door for me? When my mother died, all those certainties went with her and I'm adrift, feeling like a real grown up, responsible for myself without her as a safety net. And she could be the greatest safety net ever. I don't believe death makes us better than we were in life. So, as much as I loved my mother I'm not about to elevate her to sainthood now that she's gone. To say my mother was a saint would be an insult to her memory. She was no saint. She was a card carrying human being with all the flaws and frailties that membership requires. She was complex, hard to figure, often difficult. But she loved everyone she knew the best way she could, with no hesitation, and she gave everything. I didn't always agree with the way she went about it. I didn't think she made the best choices. We didn't often see eye to eye. I didn't understand her. But there's a hole in my life where my mother used to be. When my oldest was born, my mother came bearing gifts. Not for the baby, but for me. A pair of brown polyester trousers and a 3-pack of underwear. Those HUGE kind that double as a shirt. In fact, you don't really have to wear any other clothes, you're all covered.
Mom said, "Now that you're married with a baby you'll need to stop wearing jeans and dressing like a kid." Never mind I was a kid and she was wearing jeans paired with a puff painted cat sweatshirt. I got the message. You're judged by your outfit. This is a concept I still struggle with, particularly as I get older. Not long ago, hubby and I attended a work shindig - his work. I'm a writer, we don't have shindigs. Unless you count group therapy. We had to travel there so I packed a way cute dress that I'd bought last December and still hadn't worn. That's what a great wife I am. I make sure I always keep a stock of way cute stuff to wear whenever duty calls. I know, I know, I'm a trouper. Anyway, last December was...a while ago. Perhaps...a few pounds ago. I remember when I tried it on it was a hair snug. "I'm gonna lose a few pounds right after Christmas so it'll be perfect by the time I wear it." Turns out that standing up while eating doesn't burn as many calories as I thought. Wine apparently doesn't count as a fruit either. I realize I'm not gonna get much sympathy here as I am not a big person. But, I will say that as a small person, five pounds is a whole size. Menopause is no respecter of persons. After a certain age...thick frequently turns up in your body description. And too tight is too tight no matter what. I was dismayed to discover that the way cute dress I'd packed for the shindig resembled a sausage casing. I might've doubled up on the Spanx but then I'd never have gotten the dress on. You know you've got problems when the girdle actually makes the dress tighter. Anyway, after I tugged, yanked, sucked in, and spanxed my way into the dress I looked myself over in an, unfortunately, full length mirror. It got me thinking... Maybe the dress wouldn't have been right even had it been, well, bigger. I'll admit, the oxygen getting cut off to my brain might've influenced my thought process. Still. Those brown polyester pants and chin hugger underwear popped into my mind. Am I dressing too young for my age? Ouch. We all know those women. Saggy knees, baggy arms, spandex mini dress. Ack. Then there's the snowflake sweater, navy knit trousers (yes, there's a difference between pants and trousers and it's not good), serviceable Easy Spirit flat shoes kinda woman. Double ack. Isn't there something in between? Does age appropriate dressing equal frump? I set out to re-vamp my wardrobe. I started with jeans. Sorry, Mom. "I want some jeans that don't show my butt crack," I said to the 16 year old salesgirl at Nordstrom. "Those are for kids. I'm getting older, you know." She looked me over with that, "You don't have to tell me, sister" kind of face. She announces, "I know just the thing. You WILL LOVE them." I head to the dressing room with a few pairs of decent looking jeans. I noted the brand name stamped in leather on the back - NYDJ. Never heard of it. I pull them on. And keep pulling. They stopped somewhere around my armpits. The zipper was about 3 feet long. Another version of those underwear. I creep out of the dressing room, hopeful no one I know sees me. "Those look darling on you!" 16 year old crack smoking salesgirl says. "Are these pants or a jumpsuit?" She hasn't noticed I'm not wearing my shirt. No need. She stays mum, a dental ad smile glued on her face. "What does NYDJ stand for anyway?" "Not Your Daughter's Jeans." She chirps. I look in the mirror. Nope, they're not; they're my grandma's. I put the jeans back and bought some longer shirts. Most of my peeps are at that age. Which means their parents are at that age.
So, like some of you, I've had the opportunity to hang out at various old folks homes visiting parents or grandparents. Considering how old I am (although I hate to) I guess I should think of something else to call them since I'll be moving in before you know it. And me living in an old folks home just isn't right. I'm already rambling... Anyhoo, I've observed that getting old mostly sucks. But, there are some things that are kinda cool about it, and the closer I get to the golden years the more I want to look on the bright side. Like... You can be in a wheelchair, have a tracheotomy, be hooked up to an oxygen tank and roll yourself right out to the patio (usually called something like Serenity Garden or some other creepy crap name), and smoke. No one judges you. Okay, there's probably some judging. But, you could give a shit. You could give a shit. About anything. Don't want to brush your hair? Fuggedaboutit. Cut your toenails? Nah. You like 'em that way. Take a shower? Not this month. Cheat at bingo? Be my guest. Turn the TV volume up to 500? Have at it. It's carte blanche, baby. Teeth and underwear are optional. The first works well for my mom. She only wears half of hers. The uppers. I think they help keep the cigarette in her mouth while she's rolling around Serenity Garden in her wheelchair looking for her oxygen. The second worked well for my dad. He was married 8 times. Any no underwear situation was good news for him. Perked him right up. The last time I saw him, a few weeks before he died, he was trying to pick up on his nurse. I think she had on underwear, but who knows what goes on after 4 pm. You can try to pick up on your nurse. Or, anyone that tickles your wrinkly, demented fancy. My husband was a hot commodity visiting the home. The ladies loved him. He's handsome, well under 90, and is still ambulatory. You can imagine the crowd I had to fight off, so to speak. In the Alzheimer's unit one little old lady told me, "If I was thirty years younger, I'd give you a run for your money for that guy." Another asked, "What's his name again? I think we used to...you know..." Everyone expects you to nod off mid-everything. How awesome is this? Wife yapping? Nod off. Kids bossing you around? Nod off. TV turned up to 500 with Jeopardy on? Nod off. You can see the convenience. You forget a lot of stuff. Or, so you say. This is a particular favorite of my mom's. "I only lost $35 at the casino," she'd brag. "You mean, $3500?" "No...I don't remember that..." she'd say, nodding off. Violent outbursts combined with threats of physical violence are considered cute and it's possible they hand out shivs. I passed a tiny, way old lady hobbling along the hallway with her walker. She told her slightly younger companion, "If he comes near me again, I'll cut him." I laughed for a week about this. Thought it was adorable. White Out is a budgeting tool. I'll go to my grave insisting on the genius of this nugget. My dad balanced his checkbook with White Out. He'd sit at the kitchen table, bent over his dog eared bank statements (who knows how old) with the White Out brush poised over his check register. He'd mumble, "That's not right," and white out the ending balance. Then he'd write in the one he wanted. Wish I had thought of that. This is our baby Adelia.
She's 6 years old. She's hilarious. She's smart. She loves to say "butt cheeks" and "sucks to be you." She wants candy for Christmas and means it. She won't open any present that doesn't sound like it's candy. She shakes the box then hands it back with "Nah...that's okay." She yells at her baby brother. For nothing in particular. It usually involves "butt cheeks" or "sucks to be you." She wears her shoes on the wrong feet. I'll say, "Your shoes are on the wrong feet." She says, "It's okay. Don't worry about it." She likes to one up her dad with fart noises or bad jokes and say, "Sho you right." She has Cerebral Palsy. We don't know what that means in the long term. We only know that the long term will be shorter because of her disease. Her mom and dad have always worked hard to make sure Adelia lives her life like other kids. She does most things for herself. She's just not fast. She rides the school bus. She plays softball. She dances. She sings...badly, but loud. She fights with her older sister. She gets in trouble. I got to thinking the other day about what kind of life Adelia can have with a disease that gets progressively worse. Other than the obvious cure, what would I wish for her? I think I've proven in the short time I've been a blogger that sentiment is not my strong suit. So, I'm not one of those people who think that the disabled are inherently endowed with mystical, magical or pure qualities. I'm certain there are disabled assholes. I realize that's not a popular view. Not in a world where we are all in the stranglehold of political correctness. But, I stand by it. I say, good for them. There're plenty of non-disabled assholes, so please, feel free. And, I think only idiots say things like, "I don't want her to be defined by her disability." Have you ever seen a person who struggles with major disabilities? It defines them. They don't like it anymore than you do. So stop patronizing them. But, it all got me thinking... I want Adelia to fall in love, get her heart broken, make big mistakes, celebrate small victories, say the wrong thing at the wrong time, say the right thing at exactly the right time, hurt someone's feelings, kiss someone to make them better, cry like the world will end and laugh like it never will. I want Adelia to live a life in full, in all its glorious, messy, and complicated wonder. Years from now, I want her to visit me in the old folk's home with her shoes on the wrong feet, chocolate all over her face, making fart noises, telling bad jokes and saying, "Sho you right, Mimi." I just want her to live. Sometimes I say things.
I guess they're embarrassing. My oldest son Daniel is frequently called upon to tell me, "Mother, you shouldn't say that out loud." He always calls me Mother. With that tone. You know the one. I've already confessed I was a young mother. A too young, 17 year old mother. I was the best mother a 17 year old could possibly be - which is pretty much like being the smartest moron in the room. Two weeks before Daniel was born my dog got run over. Distraught with 17 year old grief I said, "I'd rather have my dog than a baby." I've told this story a few times. My son says, "Mother, normal mothers don't say things like that." He's forgetting that I always close with, "Imagine my surprise when I saw my kid and liked him waaaay better than that dog." I'm not a complete loser. Another favorite reminiscence of mine (well, it used to be. God forbid I should tell it) is when said son's turtle fell off the balcony to his untimely death. I knew Daniel's heart would break. Desperate to soothe I told him, "You know, he had a lot of bills. He lost his job, his wife left him. That's why he jumped." He responded sobbing, his little face scrunched up in horror, "My turtle committed suicide?" "Well, if you put it like that..." What I didn't say was, "I told you not to leave that damn turtle out on the third story balcony, didn't I?" Do I get any points for NOT saying that? Guess not. When my daughter Kayla was born she was a homely little thing. I shit you not. She cried constantly and had no forehead. I loved her and all, but contrary to common belief, love isn't blind. "She's not that cute," I'd say. Daniel, age 4 would chime in, "Mother, you're not very nice." Today, Kayla is a stunner. Seriously. A beauty. I tell everyone. I love her and all, but love still isn't blind. Just calling it like I see it. I'm overcome with similar sentiment about my grandkids. Whom, I make no secret, I adore. However, I thought I was a little on the YOUNG side for grandma-hood. Not to mention, I thought my oldest daughter was too young for motherhood. She wasn't as young as I was...but still, not yet 20. Ack. But, ever stoic, I adjusted. When Kayla was pregnant, all kinds of women would say with glee, "Aren't you so excited? Grandkids are so awesome." I'd answer with, "I'm sure I'll like it just fine." Daniel would scold, "Mother. You don't say 'you'll like it just fine' about a baby. You say that about carpeting or a car. NOT a baby." Pardon me. To my astonishment, Kayla insisted on my presence during her labor and delivery. Let me tell you my friends, if you haven't had that pleasure...count your freaking blessings. I didn't want to be present for my own labors and deliveries, much less... I kept escaping. Then they'd find me. I told Daniel, "She was like the Mafia. Every time I tried to get out, she pulled me back in." "Mother, you just said that out loud." But, I have to admit, when Madison was born, she was every bit the miracle they said she'd be. I fell hard for her. I didn't have a prayer. My daughter still says that day, and her childbirth experience, was in the top five of her best memories. So, that's enough to melt even my black heart. Then came Adelia, Kayla's second baby. Not thrilled with the prospect. Said so. Then she arrived, and like a snuggly, cuddly worm, she crawled right into my heart. I don't think there's a kid more loved than Adelia. Then Amelie. Good God. Would they ever stop? At least this was a different daughter's baby. "You're going to be a grandma again? That's so fantastic," some idiot would crow. "Shut up." Daniel would lecture, "Mother, you know as soon as you see them you're like jello. Why don't you just try to enjoy it?" "Did I ever tell you about my dog?" Then, there she was. All red hair, big blue eyes, little gap between her teeth. She loves feather boas and crowns. How precious is Amelie? Then, yet one more. Kayla announced another imminent birth. I bit my tongue. I kept my mouth shut. So shut. Until... "Mom, I know you're not happy about this, but-" Then I said a bunch of stuff out loud that I shouldn't have. Daniel nagged, "Now you've done it. I told you not to say anything." Yeah. Got it. Well, as grandkids will, Che Jr. was born. Our first grandson. Oh my goodness. What a joy he is. A delicious bundle of all things fabulous. Just when you think your heart can't take it all in, it expands and grows and fills with all kinds of mushy love. Daniel said, "I told you, Mother...I knew as soon as you saw him you'd be crazy for him." Kaya said, "Isn't he so handsome?" "I hope he's not an asshole." Where were we?
Right. 12 year Doc said: It's your hips...torn labrums. I don't do that surgery. No one here does. You have to go to UCLA. Me: Surgery? What about physical th- Doc: Nope. They're torn. If you want to fix them, its surgery. It took two months to get an appointment at UCLA. Weird UCLA Doc's assistant tells me: She'll want to see your MRI. Me: Ummm...well...I don't have that in my purse or anything. Can she get it from my last doctor? Weird Assistant: We don't do that. You have to get them and bring them with you. Now, I don't know about you, but the last I heard this was the 21st century. The digital age. I can take a photo with my freaking phone and email it to my kids. Has this news not hit the medical profession? Me: Don't they just email them or something? Weird Assistant: No. You have to bring them. If it wasn't film you could FAX them. FAX? Should I just strap them to a pigeons leg and have them flown over? WTF? Two months later in UCLA Doc's office. My appointment was at 1:00. She saw me at 3:00 UCLA Doc: I looked at the MRI and you do have torn labrums on both sides. Me: I know. UCLA Doc: But, this isn't the right kind of MRI. Me: There's a wrong kind? UCLA Doc: Yep. I need the kind with contrast. This one doesn't have contrast. So, you'll need to get that done at your local doctors office and come back. Me: This is UCLA. You don't do that here? UCLA Doc: No...yeah...well...it's best if you just do it there and bring the films with you again when you come back. Me: It took me two months to get this appointment. It's a two hour drive, one way. Plus I waited two hours in the waiting room. UCLA Doc: I'll have my assistant give you priority. That was reassuring. I head for the door. UCLA Doc, pointing at my feet: You'll need to stop wearing those. Those would be my stilettos. Me: That's not gonna happen. UCLA Doc, smiling: No, I'm not kidding. You can't wear those. You have a serious hip injury. Me: I'm not kidding either. It's not gonna happen. Who's in charge now? I thought she should know who she was dealing with. Everybody knows the way you look is WAY more important than your health. Duh. I wasn't born yesterday. Another month later in UCLA Doc's office with the right kind of MRI, stilettos ON. My appointment was at 2:00. I saw the doctor at 4:00. UCLA Doc: You need surgery. Me: I know. I knew that before I got here. With the wrong kind of MRI. UCLA Doc, not really listening: I do one hip at a time, three months apart. My assistant will book it. Me to Weird Assistant: I need to book my surgery. Weird Assistant: She books 2-3 months out. Two and a half months later, surgery day arrives. It's been almost a year since my first doctors appointment. Hubby and I are driving to UCLA, my cell phone rings. Me: Hello? Voice on phone: This is blah, blah, from Blue Shield. Me: Yes? Blah, Blah from Blue Shield: I'm afraid your hip surgery isn't covered by your current insurance plan. I'm sure you're sick of hearing about Italy. But, this is my blog and I get to write about whatever I want. Plus, I don't think you're really sick of it. What is it exactly that's so great about Italy? Funny you should ask. Take this, for instance. This skeleton guy is hanging on a church wall. It's about 25 feet tall. What a fantastic way to introduce your kids to church. Scare the shit out of them right off the bat. And not just once. Every single Sunday. I don't have stats but I'll bet Italy's crime rate among teens is lower than ours. Every time little Luca picks his nose, or punches little Isabella during the sermon, all Mama has to do is point. This'll straighten his ass up, pronto. If that's not enough, there's this. It's on the other side of the same church. Again, about 25 ft. tall. Skeleton Stereo. AWESOME. I mean, come on. You know you're kids are gonna talk about you in therapy. Might as well make it worth their while. This isn't in the same church. Duh, it's not a skeleton. This is in a different church. In the middle of the aisle. Nothing like a corpse laid out on the floor to get the party started. Yeah, yeah, I know. My hand basket is on its way to pick me up...blasphemy is my strong suit. But, really? Isn't this a little much? Nah. You're right. It's fantastic and you can rotate churches with your kiddies. Then there's this guy. He's a dead guy covered with some kind of metal. A human made into sculpture. There's actually a bunch of these all over the place. Lots of churches have their own dead guy. I thought this was a good idea for me. If I go first, hubby can have me encased in metal and enshrined in a prominent spot like the living room. Or, the bedroom. Maybe even sitting on the couch with a glass of wine in my stiff, metallic, little hand. It might decrease his chances of marrying again. But so what? Like that's my problem? You might recognize her. I posted this photo on my Facebook page already. It's Saint Lucy. The patron saint of eyesight. Hard to tell from this photo but those are her eyeballs in that bowl. A little confusing because she still has eyeballs in her head. "It's too gruesome to paint her without eyes," Tour guide said. Really? Unfortunately, I didn't get photos of the other martyred Saints we saw. Mostly because they were in places we weren't allowed to take photos in. Martyrdom is big. Apparently you've got to die a gruesome death and then you're in. There's the guy who is always painted with giant rocks sticking out of his forehead and blood running down his face. He was stoned to death. Me: "That's not too gruesome to paint?" Tour guide: Silent. There's the guy who's always painted holding his own skin since he was...skinned to death. Me: "That's not too gruesome to paint?" Tour guide: Silent Or, the guy who's always painted with grill marks all over him because he was...you guessed it...barbecued. I didn't bother to ask. Virginity is good. Sex is bad. If you have sex its important that you don't like it and you're punished for it. Even the Greek myths celebrate virginity among its Goddesses. About the only acceptable way to get pregnant is by a snake, a pig, or an invisible man. Hey, that's the way a lot of women get pregnant today. WTF? Coincidence? See girls? We really are like Goddesses. They've got these sassy little angels all over the place. My favorite was one I couldn't photograph. He was nude except for his chaps (butt-less of course) with a big, wide cowboy belt holding up the chaps. Picture Howard Stern's flight into the MTV awards that one year. But smaller. No shirt. Less hairy. Love it. Sassy. Speaking of Sassy. This is Kinky Boots David. I mean, Donatello's David. Kinda like Michelangelo's David if his kitten-with-a-sword sex game had been interrupted by having to pose. I mean, really. How much do you love this? In case you couldn't decide... Yeah, you love it. I love the Italians. Even our tour guide had to comment on it: "If you answer the door totally naked, it's entirely plausible that you just got out of the shower. If you answer the door naked, except for your hat, boots and sword...somethin's goin' on." Yeah, we even had cool tour guides. For comparison. No photograph can do justice to this sculpture's magnificence. You really gotta be there. At first, I felt ambivalent about seeing it. I've seen the replica in Caesar's Palace...that's pretty much the same, right? Not even close. (For more on our ugly americanism see this). In Florence, the message is: "We've got Michelangelo. You don't." And do they ever. What a guy. He was only 26 when he finished the David. He was in his early 30's when he painted the ceiling in the Sistine Chapel. He'd only painted one painting before that and never a fresco which involves wet plaster and is very difficult. He didn't really like to paint. He was hard to get along with. He was obsessed with the nude, male form. He'd sculpt nude women but they looked like men, burly, buff men, with bad boob jobs. On the Sistine chapel ceiling even God has firm, taut, buttocks. He'd drag his feet on projects he didn't want to do. Like a gigantic tomb for a Pope. It took him 40 years and he never finished it. Pieces of it are displayed around Italy. He knew his own worth and died a millionaire. Part of his feet dragging involved negotiations. He'd stop work to re-negotiate his fee. Not starting again till he got the price he wanted. He never married and when he died at 89 he had a young, male, Roman companion. You go, Michelangelo. I'd love Italy just for him Okay, this isn't really a toilet. It's a bidet. Both of our hotels had them. In restaurants toilets have no seats. Not even women's toilets. In hotels you get double toilet action. I don't know about homes. We never got an invite. Shocking, I know. I'm afraid of bidets. How do you use it? Do you straddle it facing the wall? Do you sit on it like a regular toilet? Do you turn both handles? There's soap? Too much pressure for me. I was afraid I'd have some embarrassing bidet accident that would go down as legend, talked about at every hotel staff party for years to come. No grazi. There is no one photo, or series of photos, than could ever do justice to Italy. But, as you can tell, it's in my mind forever. As a writer, I can't help but love a country that reveres its artists like Italy. Everywhere you go there's someone's artistic expression. No surface goes unloved, no building unadorned. The Italians value art, they preserve it, they restore it, they dig for it, they hang on to it. It's a country where angels guide you, Saints have your back, and breathtaking beauty soothes your soul. I've been humbled by gratitude ever since I laid eyes on it. |
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November 2017
IF YOU LIKE THE BLOGS YOU'LL LOVE THE NOVELS IN HER TWISTED CRIME SERIES |