tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29605983499010041782024-03-18T21:03:41.996-07:00The Girl Can't Help ItThese are random thoughts and ideas that pester me into submission. There is no theme. I have no agenda. I like to write and am in need of an audience.
I hope you read something here that elicits a smile or a laugh. There is a chance I offer a kernel of truth or shared experience that may bring about an "Ah" or "Ah ha." Really, I'm looking for connection.
I do so appreciate your COMMENTS! Thank you for taking the time.Lyn Nave Garretthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15683469624877390358noreply@blogger.comBlogger51125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2960598349901004178.post-47462285437399714012013-10-17T14:14:00.000-07:002013-10-30T15:32:03.460-07:00Blogging my breasts: Who you Calling Dense?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I’ve been threatening to write a breast blog for a few years, now. I mean, let’s face it, when it comes right down to it, who is <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">not </b>interested in breasts? All right. Hold on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I see you there shaking your heads, Ms. Straight-and-Narrow and Mr. I-Don’t-Let-My-Gonads-Drive. Deny away, but I am quite sure that not so deep down, you <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">know</b> you’re intrigued. As a matter of fact, you’re going to keep reading this blog to find out exactly what I’m talking about. Anyway, as entertaining and pruriently enticing as a treatise on tits might be, I could never quite bring myself to write one—until now.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">If I were to write a too-true confessional about my mamms, I might talk about the fact that they made an early and unappreciated appearance. I steadfastly refused to acknowledge them until my mom dragged me (not <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">quite</i> kicking and screaming) to Emporium for my first “bra”. As an active, trampoline-loving 4<sup>th</sup> grader, I didn’t relish the confinement, but the buds that were tenting my t-shirts were apparently a beacon of looming adolescence crying out to be squelched. My neophyte nipples were ensconced in elastic “cups”, which basically smashed them into submission. The message was clear: Nipples shall <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">not</i> be seen <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">nor</i> imagined through clothing. And there my insistent, not-yet-womanly stash stayed—bound in foam and fabric—for many years to come.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I could mention that my girls never quite met my size expectations. With two well-endowed grandmothers, and a mom who seemed of average dimension bust-wise, I never had reason to doubt that I’d be somewhere on the middle to large end of the curve—if I ever gave it thought at all. This may sound strange, but I never considered them too small until I found out that <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">other</i> people did. It bothered <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">them</i>. I’m sorry to report, this included my mother. Any moms out there, I can advise you with 100% assurance that telling your daughter something to the effect of, “You’d have a really great figure except for those miniscule boobs of yours…” is something less than confidence-building. Don’t do it. Just don’t. There will be plenty of other folks out there all too willing to tell your scant-chested daughter that she doesn’t measure up. She doesn’t need to hear it from her own mother. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">(The good news for the mammarily-challenged is that, like our well-endowed sisters, we also have fans. There are large bosom aficionados and small bust groupies <gropies?>. And then there are the equal-opportunity enjoyers who don’t care about size, they’re just happy to be there as long as we let them.)<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Possibly, I would run through the various slang terms for breasts that are both hysterical and dreadful: Glandular orbs. Skin pillows.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Flesh cushions. Milk makers. Mastoid mounds. Lady lumps. Rack. Stacked. Jugs. Sex sacks. (Blog readers: please fill in here as you like. I love alternative phrasing. What are your favorite slang/jargon/ terms for mammilla? I would love to read them.)<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">What finally swayed me to hold forth on the keyboard to discuss my not-so-fleshy-twins in addition to the fact that it’s breast cancer awareness month, was being informed by my doctor after my yearly breast exam: You’re dense. In California it became the law as of April 2013, that if you have so-called “dense” breasts, your health care professionals are legally obligated to report to you your “condition”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">As an average, heterosexual female I was surprised to find out that my breasts feel different from anyone else’s. I mean, mine are the only women’s breasts I’ve ever felt. I had no reason to believe that different breasts have a different feel. Apparently doctors (and breast connoisseurs like my husband) are able to feel the difference between dense and not-so-dense breasts. Until just about a month ago, I thought everyone had a somewhat firm, discoid feel to their chesticles. Apparently this is not the case. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">(My husband concurs with the doctor’s opinion on my breast density which he calls “firmness”. Having amassed a sample size into the 20’s—pairs not singles—I conclude his assessment is at least somewhat well-informed. We mustn’t judge. He spent a good portion of his adult life single <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">and</i> he’s an excellent cook. It logically follows that he earned ample opportunities.)<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">So why is my doctor suddenly so eager to make this pronouncement about my breasts? Because after 30 years of doing mammography, the health care industry is finally coming clean about the limitations of mammograms for the dense among us.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Depending on the source you cite (and the sources do vary greatly), roughly 40% of women have dense breasts. This number decreases as women age. Approximately one in four post-menopausal women continue to have dense breasts. The density is consists of a preponderance of glandular tissue as opposed to adipose tissue. It’s the glandular tissue that—when the time comes, if it comes—makes milk. What it boils down to is that some of us have breasts that mean business and some of us have breasts that just look pretty and there’s a whole wide range in between. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: 'Calibri','sans-serif'; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Examples of low and high density breast tissues:</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKHC7KwiqtuYhkKD0Cs6RZlYyZYB0YhT0DqnzENbZ1OC9y_gjqjeNrSAlFMz0zGasK_wcBEHiZq7A5x0pv4yDKGAee0HdlRe8jzry60v97CicFE3sNA1KSdh2lPvPubT7adPtieSCq3mI/s1600/density.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" esa="true" height="277" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKHC7KwiqtuYhkKD0Cs6RZlYyZYB0YhT0DqnzENbZ1OC9y_gjqjeNrSAlFMz0zGasK_wcBEHiZq7A5x0pv4yDKGAee0HdlRe8jzry60v97CicFE3sNA1KSdh2lPvPubT7adPtieSCq3mI/s400/density.png" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">The problem with high density breasts is that tumors <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">also</i> have a significant density. So basically the radiologist is looking for a dense area (shows as white on the mammogram) within a dense area (again, shows as white on a mammogram). You can liken it to looking for a white, stationary airplane in a thick white cloud—it’s more or less impossible and the denser your breast tissue, the more difficult it gets. Additionally, if you have a higher ratio of glandular tissue, you have a higher chance of developing a tumor. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">This all makes perfect sense—right? So my question is this: Why has it taken them 30 years to finally come out and say: Thanks for showing up. We appreciate the opportunity to squeeze and irradiate your boobs. Unfortunately, in your case, we have no way of telling if you have a nascent tumor which is, of course, the reason you’re here allowing us to do these unpleasant things to you.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">I do appreciate that they’re informing us of our condition. Ahem! Better late than never, medicos. There is a risk to benefit ratio in submitting to a diagnostic that involves radiation. If you happen to be dense, the ratio is not to your advantage. In addition to the x-ray exposure, you’re wasting time and money and experiencing a concerning amount of pain and inconvenience. And on top of all that, you’re not likely to be diagnosed if you have a tumor.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">I had my mammogram this month. Turns out that on the density scale of 1-4, I’m a<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>4. The person on the phone reporting this to me also informed me I could discuss it more when I come in for next year’s mammogram. My response: “Uhm. Next year? I’m not doing this again next year. Why would I expose myself to more unnecessary pain and radiation when you can’t see what you’re looking for? If they have a different diagnostic by then, I’ll be happy to do that. But I’m done with mammograms.” To her credit, the woman on the end of the phone was respectful and smart enough not to argue.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">The good news:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">They are working on new diagnostics for the dense among us. Currently, some of us are being pinged with ultrasound; others are getting scrutinized with MRI—both non-irradiating techniques. There are various molecular imaging diagnostics as well. (<a href="http://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC2748346/">http://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC2748346/</a>) However, none of these methods are widely accepted, nor are they insurance-paid.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">The bad news:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">If you have dense breasts, you are more likely to develop a breast tumor. (How much more likely is debatable. I’ve read from anywhere from 2-10 times—a pretty gaping range.) At this time, there is no fully-certified, medically approved, insurance-covered method of breast tumor detection for dense breasts. However, the medical community is still happy to smoosh and x-ray you regardless of the fact that mammography is basically ineffective for you. So if that sounds good to you, jump on it! If you’re like me—you wait. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Being dense isn’t <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">all</i> bad. For example, when the time came for me to be a nursing mom, I made a prodigious amount of milk. If I let down without a bra on, a stream of milk would shoot across the room. (A nice party trick if you’re at the right party! And no, I never was.) My poor infant son would actually choke while he nursed because of the volume and force of the milk flow. It took a few weeks for him to catch up with my production.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There is also an esthetic advantage to sporting dense breasts: You get very little sag. Admittedly, this may be a function of small size. I mean—gravity is gravity. But I’ve seen small ones that sag and I have to assume, those are not dense. I also maintain the distinction of having the firmest bosom my husband has ever encountered. Although he assures me that this is a good thing, I can’t say whether it’s good or bad. I just accept that it is.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">As in all things, we take the good with the bad and try to do what we can to manage the bad as best we can. For my sisters in the high density club, I recommend you find out where you fall on the 1-4 scale and along with me, make some noise about getting some new, useful diagnostics. If you want to know more about this I can recommend this site: <a href="http://areyoudenseadvocacy.org/">http://areyoudenseadvocacy.org/</a>. They also have a page on Face Book page you can like and stay abreast (<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">had</b> to) of any new developments (again, <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">had</b> to).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Five easy factoids stolen directly from the Are You Dense? Advocacy <a href="http://areyoudenseadvocacy.org/facts/">http://areyoudenseadvocacy.org/facts/</a> :<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="color: #003471; font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">1.<span style="font: 7pt 'Times New Roman';"> </span></span></span></b><b><span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">40% of women have dense breast tissue.</span></b><b><span style="color: #003471; font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="color: #003471; font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">2.<span style="font: 7pt 'Times New Roman';"> </span></span></span></b><b><span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Breast density is one of the strongest predictors of the failure of mammography to detect cancer.</span></b><b><span style="color: #003471; font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="color: #003471; font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">3.<span style="font: 7pt 'Times New Roman';"> </span></span></span></b><b><span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Mammography misses every other cancer in dense breasts.</span></b><b><span style="color: #003471; font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="color: #003471; font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">4.<span style="font: 7pt 'Times New Roman';"> </span></span></span></b><b><span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Breast density is a well-established predictor of breast cancer risk.</span></b><b><span style="color: #003471; font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="color: #003471; font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">5.<span style="font: 7pt 'Times New Roman';"> </span></span></span></b><b><span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Breast density is a greater risk factor than having two first degree relatives with breast cancer</span></b><b><span style="color: #003471; font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">My recommendation is to be aware. Know what they’re doing to you and why. And if it doesn’t make sense, object, speak up and ask for better diagnostic options. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Ladies, if it’s your lot in life to be dense, at least be smart about it!</span></div>
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Lyn Nave Garretthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15683469624877390358noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2960598349901004178.post-16876048874724596592013-05-10T16:18:00.001-07:002013-05-10T16:22:03.581-07:00A CASE OF YOU<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">A CASE OF YOU<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Henry Wadsworth Longfellow wrote: <br />
<span lang="EN" style="color: black; mso-ansi-language: EN;">Ships that pass in the night, and speak each other in passing, only a signal shown, and a distant voice in the darkness; So on the ocean of life, we pass and speak one another, <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>only a look and a voice, then darkness again and a silence.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">It wasn’t like that at all. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">If Cara were to write in nautical terms about that time in her life, it might be something more like: Two kayaks traveling down the same river heading for the same rapids, would hit the white water at different times. She would hazard the torrents of divorce well before Brad. Out of her marital kayak she’d fly into the cold, clean water of singleness. She would swim alone for a while but not forever. Eventually, she’d be pulled back and into a different canoe built for two. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">That </span></i><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">would be more like it. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">But none of that had happened yet. At this point in time, Cara and Brad were each in their own paddle boats on a stretch of river where the current drew them in close to one another. There was a distinct but unmentioned pull. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">Who can explain the magnetic forces of personal attraction? They were both nice-looking, both personable and both married. Perhaps it was the nature of their studies at the reproductive endocrinology research center at the university. The essential goal was to solve the problems of the infertility. In layman’s terms, they researched how to get women knocked up. Sex and the science behind it was their daily job. Maybe it was Cara—she was in deliberate and steadfast denial about her bad marriage, making her susceptible to, and keen for the attention of other men. Maybe it was Brad, but Cara would never be sure since they didn’t talk about it. Many years would pass before she would learn of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">his</i> divorce. The news would definitely give her pause for thought—one of those “ah-ha” moments.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">It seemed, then, that they were each afloat in their own unsustainable matrimonial boats. Whatever the case, there was enough emotional turbulence; chemical eddying and hormonal undercurrent, that it made work life <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">interesting</i>. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">Cara’s research associate job, among other things, was to report findings from the assays she performed on the tissues submitted to her scientific oversight. Ovaries, endometrium, testicles and the like, ended up thinly sliced, histochemically stained and preserved between slides and cover glass. She was a mistress of microscopy. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">Brad’s principal investigator job, among other things, was to sit across from Cara at the two-headed microscope and listen and watch while she narrated and guided him through experimental results. Together, they viewed magnified samples as she steered the stage, expertly navigating tissue coordinates. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Brad was also Cara’s boss.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">The table supporting the microscope was narrow, necessarily so, since the scope itself was not wide. Cara and Brad sat opposite each other, eyes to binoculars. On this occasion—as often happened—their knees knocked, momentarily intercalated and bumped against each others’ in a bid for space. Eventually they settled their limbs, parking their patellas necessarily close, but not touching. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Soon after reaching this articular dentente, Brad reached for the stage controls, asking, “OK if I drive?” Their fingers tangled momentarily as she relinquished control. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">“Oh. Sorry.” Cara couldn’t help apologizing. The unavoidable closeness of working at the double-view scope made her edgy, especially when Brad’s knees were close enough to hers that she could feel his warmth. He seemed to be burning some serious calories as he sat across from her. Or maybe it was Cara. Either way, in academia, it was unusual to find yourself in such close proximity to someone else and it felt to her like someone had turned up the heat on a warm, summer day.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">Brad seemed unfazed. “No worries. It’s just the nature of the beast. I mean, here we are in the reproductive endocrinology center. Knocking knees, clashing fingers—that’s just part of the preliminaries.” He glanced up, and flashed a rakish smile. Cara wasn’t exactly sure what that meant but Brad was a well-know flirt. Regardless, the comment seemed rather brazen. She laughed—trying to deflect the tension. She wished he didn’t make her so made her damned nervous, but he there was no question that he did—in a good way.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">They continued their microscopic exploration. The images were promising. They discussed various theories for the differences they saw and the next assays to run. All the while, their eyes focused down into the binoculars.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">Eventually the talk turned to the subject of their families and the recent winter holidays. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Suddenly remembering the gift she’d given him, Cara looked up from the scope and asked, “Hey! How’s that beer I gave you for Christmas? Was it any good? I wasn’t sure...” A case of international beers could go either way.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">Brad looked at her and tilted his head. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“It’s really good. Thank you. I meant to say something earlier.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">“Oh, good. I’m relieved to hear. You never know when it’s stuff you haven’t tried.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">He paused, pushed back from the table and crossed his leg over his knee still holding her gaze. “Actually, I think of you whenever I have one. There’s a Joni Mitchell song, ‘A Case of You’. I think of that song, and you, when I’m having a bottle. You know that song? It’s on the Blue album.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">Cara’s eyes shifted from his. She felt her stomach drop and the air around them seemed to condense. She knew the “Blue” album but it had been too long since she’d listened to it. “Uh…I’m sure I’ve heard it. But I’m…uh…not remembering it now. I’ll have to listen to it again.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">“It’s a great song. You really should check it out.” With that, Brad got up from the scope and walked out of the lab.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">Cara, temporarily stunned, stayed seated and tried to figure out 1) what that smirk on Brad’s face meant, and 2) if she should feel flattered. Mostly, she felt confused—that, and flustered. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">Before she went home to her disinterested husband, she stopped by a record shop and bought a copy of the “Blue” album. She listened to the song twice on the way home. She listened to it more the next day on her way to work. Again and again she played it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">The song was conflicted. The lyrics mentioned lost love, but also referenced an emotionally fraught relationship—not a particularly healthy one, Cara thought. The line “I could drink a case of you, and still be on my feet.” was the part of the chorus. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To Cara, it could be interpreted two ways. If a person was truly intoxicating, you’d take one sip and pass out. On the flip side, if you could drink a case of someone and still be on your feet, it meant... She wasn’t sure what it meant. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">The next day at work, Cara felt more than a little tightly wound, especially in the presence of her boss. In a true Freudian moment, as he walked into the lab and she walked out, they glanced off each other. This resulted in her modestly-sized breast accidentally grazing his upper arm. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">“Oh my God! I’m so sorry.” Cara, who rarely blushed, felt her face flush hotly as their eyes met. She did the only thing she could do in her embarrassment, and laughed. Meanwhile she wished she could sublimate into the industrial, grey linoleum.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">Without hesitation, Brad assured her, “No, no. It was my pleasure.” He gave her a wide, devilish grin and continued into the lab. She heard the door close and made a hasty path down the hallway.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">The coolness of the corridor helped Cara relax. Her face shifted back to a normal state of blood flow and the tell-tale red faded.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She slowed her pace. She’d just brushed her bosom against her boss and he…well, he certainly didn’t seem to mind—<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">that</i> was for sure. Meanwhile, the chorus played over and over in her head. “I could drink a case of you, and still be on my feet.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With a few more feet of safe distance between her and Brad, Cara decided, whatever it meant, it just <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">had</i> to be something positive.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">* <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>*<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">Years passed, and whenever she heard the song, Cara couldn’t help but think of Brad. She was happily remarried and she’d heard through a mutual friend that Brad was happily divorced. They were no longer in touch.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;">Still, whenever she looked back on it, she had to admit, at the time, she’d had a pretty heavy duty case of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">him</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p> <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0YuaZcylk_o">https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0YuaZcylk_o</a></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p> <img class="rg_i" data-sz="f" name="s6WTQtAcGffoDM:" src="https://encrypted-tbn3.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcSAXuBfJpnp4cBnfnFRXQ8TBQgQGdGn2G7-EuBM7QFcU3DQruqbYQ" style="height: 138px; margin-left: -2px; margin-top: 0px; width: 138px;" /></o:p></span></div>
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Lyn Nave Garretthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15683469624877390358noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2960598349901004178.post-4394001008208774212012-05-02T19:10:00.000-07:002012-05-02T19:10:47.045-07:00THE GHOSTS OF CHILDHOOD’S PAST (Part I)<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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The Huzby and I recently went by the house where I spent the
first years of my life—from birth through the summer between my second and third
grades. Needing more than a mere drive-by, I asked that we park, and have a walk around.
Based on an outside examination alone, the house had been upgraded with a
brick sitting porch and bay windows all around. It had been downgraded by slipshod
gardening and a past due paint job. The overall look was quite a bit different
from what memory provided. Regardless, those memories rushed me. The Huzby indulged me as I internalized the exterior of my first home.</div>
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I pointed out where the big walnut tree used to be between
our house and the Lecce's. Their Pomeranian “Faw-Faw” seemed to
be allergic to walking and children. My strongest recollections of him were
that he was generally carried and I could look at, but not touch him. The mom,
Joyce, bleached-blonde and extremely fit, used to teach tap dance and gymnastics to the extended neighborhood which included my
sister and me. (Somewhere there’s a picture of me in a pink bunny suit tap-dancing
my little cotton-tail off with a line of other bunnies at the Los Gatos Elks
Club.) Apparently after Joyce’s divorce, she decided mowing her grass while
wearing a mini skirt was the right thing to do. I clearly recall my mom making a
declaration after her own divorce about how she was going to mow <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">our</i> lawn in a mini-dress since Joyce was
doing it. Desperate divorcees in the mid-sixties? Call it what you will. I think I see a flash-back reality show opportunity.</div>
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The bushes where Mom hid during “Where’s Mommy night”
were gone. (If you need clarification on” Where’s Mommy night” please see this
blog entry <a href="http://evelynnave.blogspot.com/2011/05/in-advance-of-mothers-day.html">http://evelynnave.blogspot.com/2011/05/in-advance-of-mothers-day.html</a>)
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was a relief not to have to picture
here there, cowering like a mischievous child in the bushes, waiting for my Dad,
my sister, and me to go searching for her. With her in her nightgown and my sister
and I in ours, in the smack-damn middle of the night, it has the feel of a surreal,
Victorian nightmare. It’s still hard for me to fathom her thought process
during <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">that</i> ridiculous drama. </div>
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Some of the same rose bushes remained. I recognized the Queen
Elizabeth rose my mom planted in honor of my sister—also an Elizabeth. Back in
those days I was pretty sure that plant was responsible for the uppity attitude
of self-importance my sister seemed to exude. In truth, it was probably just her
older-sisterliness I found offensive. Imparting so much power to a thorny but
beautiful shrubbery seems to my adult mind as being overly Naturalistic and
unreasonably superstitious. What was probably <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">really</i>
bothering me was that we grew no foliage named for <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">me</i>. No doubt I suffered from a vegetation-induced inferiority
complex. In case you doubt how profoundly this affected me, I am painfully aware
that there is an Evelyn rose which was never cultivated in our garden.
:::Sniff.::: You'd think I'd be over it by now... </div>
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The peach tree that used to be on the parking trip was
replaced by a liquid amber. When I was around four, my dad, armed with a pruning
saw, attacked the tree which was suffering from peach leaf curl, and ended up
slashing his forearm. There was a lot of anger and blood involved in my hazy
recollection. I believe that was the precipitating event for the replacement
tree. I am<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> quite</i> sure that was the
first and only time I’d ever had peach leaf curl explained to me but the resulting
misshapen leaves were extremely impressive. How else can you explain that I still remember what ailed that tree?</div>
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The biggest, most memorable thing that happened outside our house
(There was plenty more action going on <i>inside</i> the house which I won’t be
addressing in this missive.) was the night a drunk teenager came rounding our
corner, not quite making the turn. The result was the front half of his car
landing in our den and the back half of his car becoming a temporary lawn
ornament. My sister and I—young enough to enjoy the deep sleep of innocence we
were due—found out what had happened the next morning. By then, the totaled car and surviving driver had been taken away. Plywood sufficed where pulverized
stucco had given way. Our kitchen play-set which, the night before, had
occupied a large portion of the room, was twisted and mashed beyond
salvage. I remember finding a lone headlight in the rubble of toys, plaster, and architectural
shrapnel that covered the carpet. Luckily we were not a house of night-owls and no one had been
reading, sewing or playing house past bedtime.</div>
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My dad supplied this tidbit about that night: He had just
started (or finished) his honeymoon and was with his new bride at his mother’s house in San
Francisco. My mom called in the middle of the night
insisting he come down and board up the gaping hole in the house. Instead, he
called his old high school buddy who lived in San Jose (Mr. Frank—I’ll never
forget you!) and he came to deal with the wreckage. Mr. Frank had four kids and
a wife of his own, yet he drove over in the tip-top of darkness and boarded up his old
high school pal’s ex-wife’s home. That’s a <i>really</i> good friend.</div>
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Less outstanding but still present were memories of the grass hill we played slip-and-slide on, the sour grass and pomegranates we were allowed to eat <i>only</i> outside, the roof where I witnessed what I believed was our cat being killed by another cat (Mom told me they were mating—an explanation if found impossible to believe given the violence involved.) and the steeply sloped driveway our car (in which I was sitting) once inched backwards down,while Mom got out to open the garage door—a far too exciting event that I still encounter on the occasional stressful night's sleep.</div>
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Having taken in enough of the outside of my original abode, the Huzby and I got in our car and drove to meet my brother and sister-in-law for a walking tour of downtown Los Gatos. On the way from the house to the main artery, I began to recall another exterior theme. As we drove, a the list of places I'd scouted and cataloged as nests, nooks or crannies—possible places I would run away from home to—blinked into my murky repressed consciousness.</div>
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<br /></div>Lyn Nave Garretthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15683469624877390358noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2960598349901004178.post-82852972172093594402012-03-22T18:01:00.002-07:002012-03-23T11:36:32.702-07:00THERE’S NO ACCOUNTING FOR TASTE<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It’s a well known fact. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Indeed, it’s <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">so</b> well known, it’s been knocking around the world since the olden days in the form of the Latin phrase “De gustibus non est disputandum” : In matters of taste, there can be no dispute. I’m OK sitting with that. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Still, I think it’s fascinating how tastes develop.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Some foods most of us love (rice, potatoes, bread, pasta) while other foods require early indoctrination /inculcation in order for acceptance to occur. They are so–shall we say “distinctive”?–that unless you have early exposure, you’re not likely to develop a taste for it in future. At our house we have a taste rift that I believe is a direct result of exposure or lack thereof. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The Huzby spent his early formative years in New Zealand, while I have never moved beyond my comfort zone of Northern California—specifically, the Bay Area. In general we agree about food. However, on a few key comestibles we diverge. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The Huzby cannot abide:</span></span></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">1)<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span></b><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">Peanut butter</span></b></span></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">2)<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span></b><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">Popcorn</span></b><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">—neither the regular nor the kettle corn version</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I cannot abide:</span></span></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l1 level1 lfo2; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">1)<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span></b><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">Marmite/Vegemite/Cenovis/Vitam-R </span></b></span></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt 0.5in;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">(What’s in a name? That which we call yeast extract by any other name would still smell as retch-inducing.) Note: These are different names for the same thing from different countries. For the rest of this essay I will refer to this agent-of-emesis as Marmite—not overlooking the fact that fanciers of a specific brand all claim the others are inferior. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>::Ahem:: <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No comment.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">I know you know what peanut butter and popcorn are and you may also know on a gross level (and I do mean <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">gross</b>)—what <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>constitutes Marmite. (</span>If you’re interested in the history of Marmite please follow the link: </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Marmite"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Marmite</span></a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">. Everything you <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">never</i> wanted to know about it is there.) A quick tutorial on the making of Marmite: <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You take brewer’s yeast, put it into a salty solution that causes the cells to disgorge their innards, heat the mixture, spin it down to remove the cell walls, and subsequently mix it with more salt, (Too bad the Star Trek dudes didn’t have this stuff with them when they encountered the morphing salt creature!) various vegetable extracts, (God forbid you eat the entire vegetable.) spice extracts, (ibidum) and various other vitamins. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And voila! </span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/4/4b/Marmite.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img alt="File:Marmite.jpg" height="325" src="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/4/4b/Marmite.jpg" width="400" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I know what you're thinking: YUM! Right? Let me lick that black stuff right off the knife!</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">If you’ve never seen Marmite nor smelled it, my most compassionate recommendation is that you never do.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At best, the stuff looks like dark brown tar—the same stuff that killed so many dinosaurs. Coincidence? NOT AT ALL. At worst, well, it staggers the imagination. Its consistency is more like peanut butter but the dark color makes it look positively sinister. A bit of free association yields: <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Black Plague effusions. Squid ink pudding. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Voodoo glue. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Demon diarrhea. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Succubus sludge. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Incubus entrails. Enraged Ebola. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A pandemic in a Kraft jar. The stuff’s so scary looking you could imagine it killing the alien in “Alien”. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And the smell! ::Gasp! Choke! Wheeze!:: Salty, yeasty, rancid…I can only sum it up as noxious, lung-withering and gut-clutching. The stuff has the potential to cause your nasal lining to slough right out your nostrils and back into the jar where it would go unnoticed until some unsuspecting extract-eater took a swipe and spread it on his morning toast. Ugh.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Oh, and here’s some inspiration: They feed this nasty, toxic paste to babies! A non-exaggerated fact: <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Marmite <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>is chock full of glutamic acid—that’s right, monosodium glutamate, a known excitotoxin. If I get nothing else across to anyone reading this, it would be: <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Do not feed this to your babies. Just don’t.</b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Because you can take the boy out of New Zealand but you can’t take the Marmite out of his olfactory memory, we have a jar of the stuff (actually it’s Vegemite) in our refrigerator. It expired in 2003. I haven’t seen him use it on food in probably 5 years but when the topic of the Marmite shortage in NZ came up a week ago, he quickly ran to the fridge, opened the jar and took a hit. “You can never throw this out!” I was told as he looked into the black pit lovingly and gently twisted the lid.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Does he actually think I’m going to get that close to it? Au contraire, mon frère. As far as I’m concerned that jar orbits its own sun in an alternate universe. I want nothing to do with that flask of fulminating malfeasance. I do my best to pretend it doesn’t actually hold a space on the door shelf. Although I’m sure when the door is closed and the light is out, it’s issuing orders to the other refrigerator inhabitants—trying to inspire the mustards, jams, and relishes to a pestilent mutiny. “We gotta kill that bloody Yank. C’mon then. Let’s show that Sheila what expired <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">really</i> is. Botulinum, Staphylococcus, Pseudomonas. Let’s grow some toxins mates, and get that bitch!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Fortunately, the Vegemite says this with such a thick Kiwi accent, none of the other condiments have any idea what it’s talking about. So I’m safe. I believe the Huzby said it best when he declared that <span class="commentBody" data-jsid="text">after the apocalypse, two things will survive: Keith Richards and Vegemite. There are no expiration dates on fine wine so why shouldn't it be that Vegemite too gets better with age?</span></span></div> <br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img height="400" id="il_fi" src="http://www.wired.com/images_blogs/wiredscience/images/2008/12/18/vegemite.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; padding-bottom: 8px; padding-right: 8px; padding-top: 8px;" width="295" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Do not be fooled by this innocent looking bottle. Excitotoxins? Yes! Refrigerator mutiny? You betcha! Expired almost a decade ago? Indeed.</td></tr>
</tbody></table> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As far as peanut butter and popcorn go, I confess:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We do keep a jar of peanut butter in the house. It’s there mainly to give the dogs pills should the need arise. I was fed far too much peanut butter growing up and have no desire for it other than an occasional yen for a peanut butter cookie. And I will rarely enjoy some popcorn at a movie, but it’s less enjoyable these days because the Huzby is so disgusted by the smell, he leans as far as possible on the outside armrest of his seat, as far away from me as can get. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> A</span>s you may imagine, this does take some of the pleasure out of eating popcorn. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Anyway, as stated at the beginning, there’s no accounting for taste. If the Huzby had grown up in the States he'd probably be down with popcorn and peanut butter. If I'd grown up in New Zealand (or the UK or Australia, or Canada) I'd maybe be slurping down yeast extract like it was cheese spread. (That's a big maybe...) But I know one thing for sure: I'd have thrown out that disgusting jar of Vegemite by 2010 --without a doubt. </span></div>Lyn Nave Garretthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15683469624877390358noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2960598349901004178.post-80234680577124056382012-02-14T16:37:00.000-08:002012-02-14T19:30:28.254-08:00MY GRUMPY VALENTINE<div style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img height="460" id="il_fi" src="http://images4.cpcache.com/product_zoom/215951514v1_460x460_Front_Color-White_padToSquare-true.jpg" style="padding-bottom: 8px; padding-right: 8px; padding-top: 8px;" width="460" /></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><u><span style="color: red;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> MY GRUMPY VALENTINE</span></span></u></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><span style="color: red; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Behold the way my ill-tempered friend</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><span style="color: red; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">His anger doth parade.</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><span style="color: red; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Thou knowest not my furious friend</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><span style="color: red; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">The picture thou hast made.</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><span style="color: red; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Thy furrowed brow and thy bulging veins</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><span style="color: red; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Conceal thy good intent.</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><span style="color: red; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Thou outraged, huffy, chafing, inflamed</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><span style="color: red; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">And rather stormy gent.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><span style="color: red; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">You’re my grumpy Valentine.</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><span style="color: red; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Pissed off and saturnine.</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><span style="color: red; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">You make me sigh with my heart.</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><span style="color: red; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">You look irascible.</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><span style="color: red; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Unphotographable</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><span style="color: red; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Still you’re my favorite work of art.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><span style="color: red; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Are your eyes a little tweaked?</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><span style="color: red; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Is your temper somewhat piqued?</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><span style="color: red; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">And you grumble and you shriek</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><span style="color: red; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">and you harp.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><span style="color: red; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Don’t grizzly bear for me.</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><span style="color: red; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Not if you care for me.</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><span style="color: red; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Hey, grumpy Valentine, hey…</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><span style="color: red; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Chill out it’s Valentine’s Day.</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjha9Xj2nFitfbZQ1YBnEd3DTwvvczLPkEElKtkYnI8cKiMkB9YZD0RKj9Fub50pfV76axIjJhHehYi93CBcj7Jt-suA6b0hzxem-LO1xaj5h9FLw5hknHKYUCz8NAbxKu2n8jeOE9DWJo/s1600/grumpy+bear.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjha9Xj2nFitfbZQ1YBnEd3DTwvvczLPkEElKtkYnI8cKiMkB9YZD0RKj9Fub50pfV76axIjJhHehYi93CBcj7Jt-suA6b0hzxem-LO1xaj5h9FLw5hknHKYUCz8NAbxKu2n8jeOE9DWJo/s320/grumpy+bear.bmp" width="320" yda="true" /></a></div>Lyn Nave Garretthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15683469624877390358noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2960598349901004178.post-7894993610883581732012-02-07T21:13:00.000-08:002012-02-08T22:10:43.701-08:00KARMA COMES KNOCKING--<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpkcX-GYnfyZ7cciyTqBednqqEnZZzAWarUUchmp3TjGFea-4vYKD3oW1aew3NDrZYbt-8_mXX7n9K95xhJgFusjycnEyS2k3fGo_yylPm8-oR2ZxxoiQQk4S1-0-kVdXsq9ohyphenhyphenYLvhts/s1600/Karma-quotes.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpkcX-GYnfyZ7cciyTqBednqqEnZZzAWarUUchmp3TjGFea-4vYKD3oW1aew3NDrZYbt-8_mXX7n9K95xhJgFusjycnEyS2k3fGo_yylPm8-oR2ZxxoiQQk4S1-0-kVdXsq9ohyphenhyphenYLvhts/s1600/Karma-quotes.gif" /></a></div><br />
And it's your turn to open the door.<br />
<br />
"Knock, knock."<br />
"Who's there?"<br />
"Karma."<br />
(You gulp. This sounds ominous.) "Karma who?"<br />
"Karma. You <i>know</i> who. I have you on my list as 'unfinished business'.<b> We need to talk</b>."<br />
<br />
Although you have no idea what's heading your way, you're sure it's not good and that you deserve it. You don't question Karma. You take a deep breath, meekly open the door and peer out with ample caution.<br />
<br />
Karma is dressed smartly in the unmistakable <i>Cake</i> fashion--short skirt, long jacket and all the other accoutrements that go with it. If you need a refresher on <i>the Cake look</i> please have a listen (<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_1gShXIO6pk&feature=related">http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_1gShXIO6pk&feature=related</a> or scroll down to see the lyrics.*<br />
<br />
Not only that, Karma looks extremely <b>smug</b>. She's going to tell you a story and she's changing the names to protect the innocent.<br />
<br />
(Cue dreamy flashback music as Karma's narrative unfolds...)<br />
<br />
You are a biologist and you have for an idea for a new drug-- it may have crystallized 7 or so years ago--something like that. You hold on to the idea because it seems like a good one. You worry if it's such a good idea someone is probably working on it already but you haven't heard or seen anything that would indicate that. Although you work for a large pharmaceutical company, you are not in a position to discuss it there because you work in an oncology research environment. No one is paying you for ideas about anything other than cancer-related therapies. So you sit on it.<br />
<br />
Years go by. You finally get fed up with being invisible and inaudible at your pharma-global-opoly. Your husband is making daily declarations that you must quit, and because it <i>does</i> finally seem to be the right thing to do--you resign. A bit more than a year later you finally find yourself working at a small pharmaceutical company that cares less about large profits and more about small unmet needs (orphan diseases). This means that among other things, your new company specializes in enzyme replacement therapies.<br />
<br />
It just so happens that <i>your</i> drug idea is one involving enzyme replacement. So you go and talk to the guy in charge of "discovery" about it. He's intrigued. You send a few emails back and forth. You talk about your idea with others at your new company until someone mentions that your idea is in fact so good, it's already in clinical trials in Asia. "Check out the pipeline at Torpedo Pharmaceuticals," you're told.<br />
<br />
Sure enough, there it is. Your brainchild is on its way to fruition with no help from you. Mostly, you're glad. How great is it that someone else identified the same problem and had the same idea? Pretty great! Still, you've been scooped. So you continue to talk about it with others in your company.<br />
<br />
A few weeks later you're in a conversation with a colleague who mentions he not only knows about the nascent drug, he knows the guy who hatched the idea and brought it along. The guy's name is Todd Cooper. That's weird, you think. You went to junior high, high school and college with a Todd Cooper. So you start asking questions. How old is this guy? Where did he go to college? Where is he from? What does he look like? Everything you hear makes you think this might be the same Todd Cooper you went to school with, but let's face it, there has got to be more than a few Todd Coopers out there. Not only that, what are the chances that someone from your own high school would think of the same idea for a drug? Certainly not bloody likely.<br />
<br />
So you go to the next level and check out the Torpedo Pharmaceuticals website to see his picture--he is president of the company. It's been ages since you've seen Todd so you can't be sure that's him--although it certainly could be. So next you check Linked In. The picture there is not of great quality but you think it really does look like <i>your</i> Todd Cooper so you move on to see if FaceBook has anything on him. At this point you realize a few of your high school connections are also attached to Todd, so you message them to see what they know. The answers come back leaving no doubt. The Todd Cooper who had your same idea for a drug is also the same Todd Cooper you went to school with.<br />
<br />
Crazy! Unreal!--you think. That's just too weirdly coincidental.<br />
<br />
In trying to process this, you continue to talk about it with your colleagues until one of them mentions she knows him fairly well and would you like her to set up lunch for the three of you?<br />
<br />
Now you're in the soup.<br />
<br />
The truth is, you are generally not shy about reconnecting with folks. You would have already sent an email to Todd to hear about his discovery and give your congratulations if it weren't for one very embarrassing story that happened when you were in 8th grade and Todd was in 6th grade. But here's the problem: You did something not very nice to Todd Cooper back in junior high. Not only that, two years later when he showed up at high school you decided the best way to handle it was to just pretend you didn't know him. That worked for two years until you left for college. Two years later--to your mild horror--Todd showed up at your university. So what did you do? That's correct. You continued to treat him as a <i>persona non grata</i>. Nice. <i>Very</i> nice.<br />
<br />
You haven't lost sleep over it but you've owed this guy an apology for literal <i>decades</i>. <br />
<br />
Karma continues: You look puzzled. <i>Must</i> I rehash that mortifying tale from when you were fourteen and he was twelve? Oh, all right. You <i>are</i> a glutton for punishment.<br />
<br />
You were in 8th grade. You were tall, gangly, and yes, let's face it, your looks ran to the homely side. (Hey babe, the truth hurts sometimes. What were you thinking hanging out with 6th grade boys when you were in 8th? What self-respecting 8th grade girl <i>does</i> that?) Anyway, it was towards the end of the year and some dance was on the horizon so you arranged to meet not only Todd Cooper at the dance but also one of his classmates, Miles Jefferson. You thought you had it all wired until a savvy girlfriend said, "How's that going work? You can't meet up with <i>two</i> guys." You hadn't really worked out the logistics. All you knew was that if one meet-up was good, two had to be better. <br />
<br />
When the night of the dance came you suddenly felt awkward and uncomfortable. You feared someone's feelings might get hurt. So you did what any average eight-grader would do in a similar situation.You spent the rest of the night ditching both 6th-grade boys.<br />
<br />
Youth, as they say, and you so aptly demonstrated, is wasted on the young.<br />
<br />
And indeed, after that you pretended not to know either Todd or Miles when two years later they rejoined you in high school. And if that weren't bad enough, two years after you started college, Todd showed up <i>there</i> as well. At that point it didn't make sense to admit your error and apologize. There was just too much time gone by.<br />
<br />
So now you have the opportunity to not only meet and congratulate the inventor of what might have been <i>your</i> drug, you also have the chance to apologize for your bad behavior from too many decades back.<br />
<br />
You give your colleague the go-ahead to set up lunch. What have you got to lose? Maybe Todd will give a resounding, "NO!" when he sees your name pop up in his email and then you'll know where you stand. However, he accepts your co-worker's invitation and on a sunny Friday the three of you meet for lunch.<br />
<br />
You've been advised by those in the know (read: another guy who has keen memory of being a 12-year-old boy back in the day) that you shouldn't dredge up history--he's probably forgotten all about it. So when you see Todd you <i>again</i> pretend like nothing untoward ever happened. You say hello, shake hands, go inside, order lunch and proceed to talk about the drug idea as well as do a shallow 30-year briefing. Todd agrees that it's an amazing coincidence that two people from the same high school and college would have the same idea for a pharmaceutical.<br />
<br />
In the last five minutes of lunch you can't<i> stand </i>it any longer. You mention the momentous dance and your idiotic, disgraceful behavior. <br />
<br />
Todd is a <i>very</i> nice guy. Thankfully, he's also a <i>guy's</i> guy. This means that he doesn't remember any of it. Not only that, he doesn't remember <i>you</i> either. FaceBook has pimped your name to him from time to time but if not for that, you'd be just another nobody who wants to claim title to his great idea for a medication. Phew!<br />
<br />
You're reminded of Miles Jefferson's name during the conversation with Todd. And on the subsequent email to Todd where you actually submit your belated but very heartfelt apology, he suggests tracking him down. You think that's a good idea and (for a change!) you beat him to the punch. With very little trouble, you find Miles on FaceBook and send him an investigatory email telling him his name came up when you were having lunch with Todd Cooper. His interest is piqued and in the next email you retell the tale of your shabby behavior, you apologize and wait for his answer.<br />
<br />
Like Todd, Miles is a very nice guy and has no memory of the event. Also like Todd, Miles is a guy's guy and is <i>quite</i> sure he doesn't remember <i>you</i> either. <br />
<br />
Karma is finished telling her story. And there you are taking it all in. While you stand at the door looking like the idiot she's just illustrated you are, she's turns to leave. Somewhat stunned, you can't even muster a wave.<br />
<br />
She clicks her exit down your walkway in her red-suede, kitten heels. (How Cake left the details of her footwear out of their song goes beyond your understanding.) Just when you think she's done with you, she turns back around, waves her finger at you and says with a smirk, "Don't get too comfortable, honey. You <i>know</i> I'll be back."<br />
<br />
Sheepishly, you close the door and close your eyes. You really hope you've learned something.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1i7SwqKMxkqcBlxkz6-JndJuGbuNEuAFHkJGFmnmhl0zVavgX5o5ytOWxBL1leIxDis3wmCUEV1SiavBc742aCC2vhns61iFdrtEqWdBMXErENbsoXZN_8CpqNy6XqlTK2bM4SY8HHMI/s1600/Karma.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" sda="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1i7SwqKMxkqcBlxkz6-JndJuGbuNEuAFHkJGFmnmhl0zVavgX5o5ytOWxBL1leIxDis3wmCUEV1SiavBc742aCC2vhns61iFdrtEqWdBMXErENbsoXZN_8CpqNy6XqlTK2bM4SY8HHMI/s400/Karma.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
<br />
<b>*"Short Skirt / Long Jacket"</b> by Cake (known by myself as Karma's song)<br />
<br />
I want a girl with a mind like a diamond<br />
I want a girl who knows what's best<br />
I want a girl with shoes that cut<br />
And eyes that burn like cigarettes<br />
<br />
I want a girl with the right allocations<br />
Who's fast and thorough<br />
And sharp as a tack<br />
She's playing with her jewelry<br />
She's putting up her hair<br />
She's touring the facility<br />
And picking up slack<br />
<br />
I want a girl with a short skirt and a lonnnng jacket......<br />
<br />
I want a girl who gets up early<br />
I want a girl who stays up late<br />
I want a girl with uninterrupted prosperity<br />
Who uses a machete to cut through red tape<br />
With fingernails that shine like justice<br />
And a voice that is dark like tinted glass<br />
<br />
She is fast and thorough<br />
And sharp as a tack<br />
She's touring the facility<br />
And picking up slack<br />
<br />
I want a girl with a short skirt and a lonnnnng.... lonnng jacket<br />
<br />
I want a girl with a smooth liquidation<br />
I want a girl with good dividends<br />
At Citibank we will meet accidentally<br />
We'll start to talk when she borrows my pen<br />
<br />
She wants a car with a cupholder arm rest<br />
She wants a car that will get her there<br />
She's changing her name from Kitty to Karen<br />
She's trading her MG for a white Chrysler La Baron<br />
<br />
I want a girl with a short skirt and a lonnnnggggggggg jacket <br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>Lyn Nave Garretthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15683469624877390358noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2960598349901004178.post-90246173660144287872011-12-07T08:50:00.000-08:002011-12-07T08:50:48.909-08:00I'M SO OVER AWESOME!Seriously. Aren't you? Aren't we all?<br />
<br />
It seems impossible to me that after a decade of verbal abuse AWESOME is still clogging the word-o-sphere. It's AWESOME this, AWESOME that, AWESOME the other and the next thing. It's the thing your kid told you about, the thing the sports announcer described, the rapper decried, your neighbor relayed, the description of your girlfriend's latest shopping spree, the exclamation regarding your son's report card , your husband's recent threesome dream, the overambitious expectation of your daily doings--Have an AWESOME day. It must be AWESOME and if not, you're sure to have bummed somebody's trip.<br />
<br />
You may not know anything else about what's coming your way but you certainly know this: Some part of that thing that you have yet to know about will be AWESOME. Guaranteed. Bonafide. Dyed-in-the-wool, believe it or not, nothing that compares to--TOTALLY AWESOME!<br />
<br />
Do you know why it will be AWESOME? Don't give me that look of perplexity because you know. Oh, YOU KNOW. You just won't admit it to yourself. Face it.You don't have to dig down very deeply to get it. It'll be AWESOME because everything that's part of the way to pretty good or even most of the way to A-OK these days is AWESOME. And if it's not AWESOME it's TOTALLY AWESOME!<br />
<br />
Ugh. <br />
<br />
Here's what I propose: There is a strong likelihood it's not going to be AWESOME. It's going to be SOMETHING ELSE that requires a different adjective than AWESOME.<br />
<br />
Word, people:<br />
AWESOME has been thoroughly overused, abused, sacked, raped, pillaged, and has incurred a social disease of the worst kind: AWESOME is dying from a severe case of AD NAUSEUM. AWESOME has become trite, hackneyed, disingenuous, weak and flabby. It <em>doesn't</em> <strong>mean</strong> anything anymore except an over exuberance of false emotion, lack of imagination and sheep-like devotion to popular verbiage.<br />
<br />
In an effort to reduce the the edema of misuse/overuse/hyperbole of this once special and now all too common word, I'm going to offer you some alternatives to AWESOME suggested by the main authority I most often consult, Thesaurus.com:<br />
<br />
<table cellspacing="5" class="the_content"><tbody>
<tr><td valign="top"><span id="hotword"><span id="hotword" name="hotword"></span></span></td><td><a class="theColor" href="http://thesaurus.com/browse/alarming" rel="nofollow">alarming</a><span id="hotword"> ,amazing, </span><a class="theColor" href="http://thesaurus.com/browse/astonishing" rel="nofollow">astonishing</a><span id="hotword">, </span><a class="theColor" href="http://thesaurus.com/browse/awe-inspiring" rel="nofollow">awe-inspiring</a><span id="hotword">, </span><a class="theColor" href="http://thesaurus.com/browse/awful" rel="nofollow">awful</a><span id="hotword">, </span><a class="theColor" href="http://thesaurus.com/browse/beautiful" rel="nofollow">beautiful</a><span id="hotword">, </span><a class="theColor" href="http://thesaurus.com/browse/breathtaking" rel="nofollow">breathtaking</a><span id="hotword">, <span id="hotword" name="hotword">daunting,</span> </span><a class="theColor" href="http://thesaurus.com/browse/dreadful" rel="nofollow">dreadful</a><span id="hotword">, </span><a class="theColor" href="http://thesaurus.com/browse/exalted" rel="nofollow">exalted</a><span id="hotword">, </span><a class="theColor" href="http://thesaurus.com/browse/fearful" rel="nofollow">fearful</a><span id="hotword">, <span id="hotword" name="hotword">fearsome,</span> </span><a class="theColor" href="http://thesaurus.com/browse/formidable" rel="nofollow">formidable</a><span id="hotword">, </span><a class="theColor" href="http://thesaurus.com/browse/frantic" rel="nofollow">frantic</a><span id="hotword">, </span><a class="theColor" href="http://thesaurus.com/browse/frightening" rel="nofollow">frightening</a><span id="hotword">, </span><a class="theColor" href="http://thesaurus.com/browse/grand" rel="nofollow">grand</a><span id="hotword">, </span><a class="theColor" href="http://thesaurus.com/browse/hairy" rel="nofollow">hairy</a><span id="hotword">*, </span><a class="theColor" href="http://thesaurus.com/browse/horrible" rel="nofollow">horrible</a><span id="hotword">, <span id="hotword" name="hotword" style="color: #333333; cursor: default;">horrifying,</span> </span><a class="theColor" href="http://thesaurus.com/browse/imposing" rel="nofollow">imposing</a><span id="hotword">, </span><a class="theColor" href="http://thesaurus.com/browse/impressive" rel="nofollow">impressive</a><span id="hotword">, </span><a class="theColor" href="http://thesaurus.com/browse/intimidating" rel="nofollow">intimidating</a><span id="hotword">, </span><a class="theColor" href="http://thesaurus.com/browse/magnificent" rel="nofollow">magnificent</a><span id="hotword">, </span><a class="theColor" href="http://thesaurus.com/browse/majestic" rel="nofollow">majestic</a><span id="hotword">, </span><a class="theColor" href="http://thesaurus.com/browse/mean" rel="nofollow">mean</a><span id="hotword">, </span><a class="theColor" href="http://thesaurus.com/browse/mind-blowing" rel="nofollow">mind-blowing</a><span id="hotword">*, </span><a class="theColor" href="http://thesaurus.com/browse/moving" rel="nofollow">moving</a><span id="hotword">, </span><a class="theColor" href="http://thesaurus.com/browse/nervous" rel="nofollow">nervous</a><span id="hotword">, </span><a class="theColor" href="http://thesaurus.com/browse/overwhelming" rel="nofollow">overwhelming</a><span id="hotword">, <span id="hotword" name="hotword">real</span> <span id="hotword" name="hotword">gone,</span> </span><a class="theColor" href="http://thesaurus.com/browse/shocking" rel="nofollow">shocking</a><span id="hotword">, <span id="hotword" name="hotword" style="color: #333333; cursor: default;">something</span> <span id="hotword" name="hotword">else,</span> </span><a class="theColor" href="http://thesaurus.com/browse/striking" rel="nofollow">striking</a><span id="hotword">, </span><a class="theColor" href="http://thesaurus.com/browse/stunning" rel="nofollow">stunning</a><span id="hotword">, <span id="hotword" name="hotword">stupefying,</span> </span><a class="theColor" href="http://thesaurus.com/browse/terrible" rel="nofollow">terrible</a><span id="hotword">, </span><a class="theColor" href="http://thesaurus.com/browse/terrifying" rel="nofollow">terrifying</a><span id="hotword">, </span><a class="theColor" href="http://thesaurus.com/browse/wonderful" rel="nofollow">wonderful</a><span id="hotword">, </span><a class="theColor" href="http://thesaurus.com/browse/wondrous" rel="nofollow">wondrous</a><span id="hotword">, <span id="hotword" name="hotword" style="color: #333333; cursor: default;">zero</span> <span id="hotword" name="hotword" style="color: #333333; cursor: default;">cool Antonym: unamazing.</span></span></td><td><span id="hotword"><span id="hotword" name="hotword" style="color: #333333; cursor: default;"><br />
</span></span></td><td><span id="hotword"><span id="hotword" name="hotword" style="color: #333333; cursor: default;"> </span> </span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<br />
Here are a few of my own:<br />
earth-shattering, sphincter-clenching. goose-bump inducing, pit-drenching, panty-dampening, eyebrow-raising, heart-thumping, daze-inducing, fusion-inspiring, Maker-awakening, mountain-trembling, jaw-dropping, irrepressibly bouyant, teeth-grinding, knee-knocking, headlight shining, pants-wetting, chest-beating and so on...<br />
<br />
It's time folks. It's WELL BEYOND time to pick a few new adjectives and set our vocabularies free.<br />
<br />
I can't tell you how AWESOME it would be if AWESOME moved back to its rightful place, <em>ie.</em>, in relation to descriptions of extraterrestrials, miracles, telekinesis, alchemy, reanimation, spontaneous human combustion, plagues, acts of God, etc.. <br />
<br />
Variety is the spice of life. Care to partake?<br />
<br />
Please feel free to comment and/or add to my list of superlatives. I would be be happy (overjoyed, thrilled, satisfied, appreciative) to see the list grow to afford us all a bit more verbal latitude.Lyn Nave Garretthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15683469624877390358noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2960598349901004178.post-18145082924268294732011-10-19T14:21:00.000-07:002011-10-20T13:00:30.466-07:00The Ring--Not-So-Flash Fiction Inspired by a Story by Gary V. PowellIt was date night. They were new to empty-nesting and hadn't yet realized <em>every</em> night was date night.<br />
<br />
Meredith took her last bite of lamb vindaloo, drank her last sip of cabernet franc, dabbed at her brow with her napkin and made a controlled dash to the bathroom. In the cool privacy of tile and porcelain, she stripped off her black silk blouse. She let the water run cold and splashed her neck, shoulders, and middling cleavage, not caring if her Natori zebra bra got wet. Dry or wet, she was sure Eric was going to love her new lingerie.<br />
<br />
<em>Damn these hot flashes! What purpose do they serve except to humiliate you and remind you you're getting old?</em><br />
<br />
She checked again to be sure the door was locked then resumed her sink ablutions, this time including her pits and arms. She wished for the umpteenth time that bidets were the norm in the U.S. A little cold water spritz on the undercarriage would be put her right in no time.<br />
<br />
Meredith gauged her body temperature by checking to see if she could remove her wedding ring. Only when she could slide it off was she sure she wouldn't suffer another imminent attack. Within ten minutes she was able to slip off the band. She put herself back together hoping Eric wouldn't make a big deal of her long absence once she got back to the table. He could be so annoying sometimes. To distract him, she left the top four buttons of her blouse undone, slid off her slightly moist matching striped thong and walked back to the table.<br />
<br />
She playfully leaned over Eric's shoulder flashing her bra and tucked the scant panties into his shirt pocket. He pulled the small wad out and a grin subsumed his chin. <br />
<br />
"New?"<br />
"Uh-huh. We need to break 'em in. You game?"<br />
"Check's paid. Let's get outta here jungle woman."<br />
<br />
In the car she unzipped him to get him fully fluffed for home. That's when she realized she'd left her ring on the sink.<br />
<br />
<em>Shit. If Eric finds out... He thinks I'm a scatterbrained twit these days. With one kid starting college and one kid starting a new job fresh out of college, my commute, my job, the garden, the pets, the beef with my sister, Dad's heart condition, Mom's diabetes, a hyper-critical husband prone to yelling and these effing hot flashes, sometimes it's all I can do to remember my name. No worries, though. I know what to do.</em><br />
<br />
Without missing a stroke she kept him at the ready until they arrived at the house. She gently but firmly grasped Eric's joystick and led him to bed where she proceeded to play him like a flute. <br />
<br />
She wooed him with her expert embrasure, wow-ed him with her highly-trained tonguing. He thrilled as she trilled. Her vibrato was full throttle. She changed tempo--largo to allegro to presto and back. She varied her style--dolce, animato, appassionato. He crescendoed, then decrescendoed--until his breathing made her worry for his health. After an hour of their sweaty duet, she orchestrated their <em>paroxysme musical</em>.<br />
<br />
Eric slept like an overly-sated Satyr while she called the restaurant. Some kind person had turned in her ring. She got in the car, got the ring and was back in bed within 20 minutes.<br />
<br />
<em>Whew! Went off without a hitch. Next time--we'll eat outside on the patio. This date night was a bit more exciting than intended.</em><br />
<br />
While Meredith absentmindedly twisted the ring on her finger trying not to think about her growing list of worries and relax into sleep, Eric dreamed of his empty nest being filled with models in animal print lingerie.Lyn Nave Garretthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15683469624877390358noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2960598349901004178.post-45442340997240684152011-09-19T16:35:00.000-07:002011-09-19T16:35:54.065-07:00The Erudite Way to Say, "Nice Ass!"<span style="font-family: "Arial", "sans-serif";"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><span style="font-family: ""sans-serif"", "serif";">This past weekend the Huzby and I were out to dinner before a concert. It was early in the evening—5:30—and yet the restaurant—Boca in Novato—was starting to hustle and bustle. (An aside: Consider the phrase "hustle and bustle” a portent of the subject at hand. The title, of course, may be enough already. I'm merely priming the pump.) While we waited to be served, we did what human animals do—we quietly observed the other fauna in attendance. It’s natural. It’s unavoidable.</span></span> <div class="MsoNormal"><br />
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><span style="font-family: ""sans-serif"", "serif";">When observing, we make ascertainments about we see. While we may not say it aloud, somewhere in a quiet portion of our brains we judge the people within our range of view. So in my head I silently cataloged and classified what I saw. The stream of consciousness went something like this: “Nice smile—good-looking waiter. If I were his age I’d see what I could do about making arrangements for when he’s off his shift. She’s got a friendly face and wise eyes. I wonder what happened to her teeth. It’d probably be worth the bucks to get them fixed. What’s this? Lord! How is it possible a grown man sits at a table in a restaurant and picks his nose? Did his mother teach him nothing? It’s a shame all those good looks are wasted on bad manners…” And my brain rambled on.</span></span><br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img height="400" id="il_fi" src="http://cdn1.iofferphoto.com/img/item/164/548/161/2pcs-sexy-booty-boyshort-underwear-panties-red-black-7ad24.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; padding-bottom: 8px; padding-right: 8px; padding-top: 8px;" width="400" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">OK, I'm pimping a bit here. Something tells me you don't mind.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><span style="font-family: ""sans-serif"", "serif";">Then I saw her. Mid-twenties, long blond hair, short torso but nicely proportioned, slim-waisted, hugged by black pants that fit like skin on skin, the young hostess had <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">the most amazing ass</b> I’ve seen in a long time—possibly ever. It was just so. Perfectly formed and right for her body, her cunning caboose was not only bringing up her rear, it brought along (and did not disappoint) any and all gazes from appreciators of the female form. It was a derriere extraordinaire, phenomenal fanny, glorious gluteus, superior posterior, best bum bar none, eye-feaster kiester, the haunch that launched a thousand ships. It was all that and possibly more in two heart-shaped butt cheeks.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><span style="font-family: ""sans-serif"", "serif";">I was fairly certain the Huzby had already noticed—he rarely misses a physical spectacle <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">especially</i> of female origin—but I had to be sure. So I pointed her out to him. Indeed, he was already keen on the scene and agreed with me. It was a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">most</i> excellent view.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He had been enjoying it immensely. </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: ""sans-serif"", "serif";"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">I love it when we agree. It gives me more time to spend in my head pondering life’s inconsequentialities. I immediately thought about the tantalizing toosh that inspired a passage from “9 and 1/2 Weeks”. Mickey Rourke’s character extols the virtues of a heart-shaped ass and how it’s the one thing that gives his life meaning—or some such thing. For the first time, I got it. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">This </i>was what he was talking about.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: ""sans-serif"", "serif";"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">Wow, I thought. That is one sensational sit-upon that deserves some serious homage. This is a first class ass. It’s a feature that deserves its own song, a hymn perhaps, a song of praise, with refrains of reverence. Or maybe the well-regarded rear merits a mantra of veneration which includes a cheeky chant of deference to a desirable duff. All this and more ran rampant through my head when suddenly it occurred to me. There is word specifically invented that denotes a fine heinie.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: ""sans-serif"", "serif";"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">To wit:</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: ""sans-serif"", "serif";"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">CALLIPYGIAN also CALLIPYGOUS: Having shapely buttocks.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><span style="font-family: ""sans-serif"", "serif";">Etymology</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: ""sans-serif"", "serif";"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">From </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ancient_Greek_language" title="w:Ancient Greek language"><span style="color: blue; font-family: Times New Roman;">Ancient Greek</span></a><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"> </span><a href="http://en.wiktionary.org/wiki/%CE%BA%CE%B1%CE%BB%CE%BB%CE%AF%CF%80%CF%85%CE%B3%CE%BF%CF%82#Ancient_Greek" title="καλλίπυγος"><span style="color: blue; font-family: Times New Roman;">καλλίπυγος</span></a><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"> (kallipugos) < </span><a href="http://en.wiktionary.org/w/index.php?title=%CE%BA%CE%B1%CE%BB%CE%BB%CE%B9-&action=edit&redlink=1" title="καλλι- (page does not exist)"><span style="color: blue; font-family: Times New Roman;">καλλι-</span></a><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"> (kalli-“beautiful”) + </span><a href="http://en.wiktionary.org/w/index.php?title=%CF%80%CF%85%CE%B3%CE%AE&action=edit&redlink=1" title="πυγή (page does not exist)"><span style="color: blue; font-family: Times New Roman;">πυγή</span></a><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"> (pugē, “buttocks”).</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: ""sans-serif"", "serif";"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">Callipygous/callpygian is not to be confused with either “steatopygous”: an excess accumulation of fat on the buttocks, or “natiform”: shaped like a buttocks. (Another aside: If you were searching for an obfuscation of the word “butthead” I suggest the morpheme: “natiform-cranium.” It’s good code when the need arises.) </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: ""sans-serif"", "serif";"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">Anyway, just imagine! The need arose long ago for a one-word adjective meaning “nice ass.” The sumptuous rump (Another morpheme springs to mind: rumptuous—a useful term don’t you agree?) inspired it’s very own verbiage for which we can thank the beauty of the Greek language. </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: ""sans-serif"", "serif";"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">Of course the next step in this line of thinking is what do you call a nice rack? I’ve already done the homework on this and the answer is: callimastos—again, calli- “beautiful” and mastos-“breasts”. It’s not a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">real</i> a word that you can actually look up, but I’m putting it forward as a worthy option. Say it with me now, “That is one eye-popping callimastos!” Yes, indeed. Isn’t that satisfying?</span></span><br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://multimedia.collectorsquest.com/image/1024x768/collectible-29243.jpg?1266951790" id="collectible_multimedia_primary" jquery15209820762217055399="11" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="Vintage Bullet Bra Ad" class="magnify" height="496" src="http://multimedia.collectorsquest.com/image/420x1000/vintage-bullet-bra-ad-29243.jpg?1266951790" style="margin-top: 5px;" title="Vintage Bullet Bra Ad" width="360" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Indeed! You probably could literally pop your eye on those things.<br />
</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><span style="font-family: ""sans-serif"", "serif";">And in the interest of being all-inclusive, we must consider the remaining protuberance of likely interest: the man package. Again, we begin with calli- “beautiful”. Unfortunately, the Greek for “package” doesn’t quite roll off the tongue: </span><strong><span style="font-weight: normal; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">syskefasiasto. And I have yet to find one word that means “male genitalia”. But I did find the word for “junk”: </span></strong>skoupidia and while I admit, calling it junk doesn’t really do justice to the male promontory; calliskoupidia sounds a lot better than callisyskefasiasto. </span><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img height="400" id="il_fi" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfDMKSwEr_OeMwDkburFicEkejVxTDwsz4RwJ9sjPic_iUPMUieBmzrpfuIe8NxXq3VqrAXQeDggD4LABtHzLk_LZ-F-LSJsKp1fGKZqrildnERq2LE9E9YdOHPRo3GjJy4A_n0dzBFMNx/s400/cr.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; padding-bottom: 8px; padding-right: 8px; padding-top: 8px;" width="279" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Package, junk? Who cares?</td></tr>
</tbody></table> <br />
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">To review:</span><br />
<div style="margin-left: 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font: 7pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">callipygous/callipygian: beautiful buttocks</span></div><div style="margin-left: 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font: 7pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">callimastos: beautiful breasts</span></div><div style="margin-left: 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font: 7pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">steatopygous: fat ass</span></div><div style="margin-left: 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font: 7pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">natiform: shaped like a buttocks</span></div><div style="margin-left: 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font: 7pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">rumptuos: a sumptuous rump</span></div><div style="margin-left: 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font: 7pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">natiformcranium: butthead</span></div><div style="margin-left: 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font: 7pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">calliskoupidia: beautiful package (junk)</span></div><br />
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">So there you have it. Now, when you’re out with your gal pals or barring with your bro’s, you can talk about the talent you’re scouting and no one will have a clue—unless they’re Greek. And hey, you never know, someone might even mistake you for someone who’s really smart…or just very weird.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"></span></div></span>Lyn Nave Garretthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15683469624877390358noreply@blogger.com3Novato, CA 94945, USA38.1337447 -122.5712101000000338.063194700000004 -122.64315960000003 38.2042947 -122.49926060000003tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2960598349901004178.post-91906782221994072862011-09-06T14:13:00.000-07:002011-09-06T18:46:21.137-07:00Did I Mention I'm Planning to Run for Congress?<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I met my future campaign manager at the Salt Lake City airport in June—a lobbyist for the Human Rights campaign representing the GLBT alliance. I'll call him Bob. Bob and I were introduced when I went scouting for the Huzby who’d been MIA much longer than the normal time it takes to have a beer at the bar. Fearing a random bathroom mugging, or possible rufie ambush (I know--overly dramatic but never say never...) and unable to reach him by cell, I decided to posse up. After 60 seconds of not-so-arduous carpet-cantering, I found him knocking back a few with Bob.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Bob was big. Bob was friendly. Bob was loquacious and highly animated. This had everything to do with the fact that Bob was just shy of being blithering-drunk on a combination of beer and cocktails. He introduced himself immediately and gave me a very hearty handshake which I returned with what I hoped was a strong enough grip to convey the fact that I don’t wither under pressure from overzealous greeters. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">The first thing Bob asked was my profession. When I told him I am a biologist, he decided I'd be the perfect person to help get a national health care bill passed. It's true that I'm in favor of health care for all, however it's also true that I'm not the least bit politically savvy. And although I can, from time to time, be somewhat charming, I do not possess the charisma needed to win the mass appeal required to hold a seat in office. So before he got carried away, I mentioned to him my lack of statesmanship and dearth widespread appeal—I consider myself an acquired taste— but he shrugged me off.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I averred, "You know, Bob, I really haven't gotten out of the lab much. I'd be horrible at holding a public office. Besides that, I don't really know enough about the broader issues at stake. Plus, I don't have a platform and if I did, in addition to health care, it would be something to do with energy alternatives. I know nothing about how to create jobs or fix the economy." At this point I demonstrated my utter ignorance of all things economic when I tried to explain why having a high national debt is a bad thing. “It’s…well…it’s not good. You shouldn’t owe more than you can possibly pay back. And there’s something about the GDP in there too… I mean…I’d need some <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">very</i> smart advisors…”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">He countered, "Listen. You’re a biologist, a scientist, someone who knows why it’s important that everyone is afforded health care. And here’s the thing— you have <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">the look</i>."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">“<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The look</i>?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">"Yeah. That generic, somebody’s-nice-looking-wife-and-mother, believes-in-the-traditional-values, wants-what’s-good-for-America look. You’ve got <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">the look </i>that’ll get votes.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Bob meant this as a compliment—I assumed. I smiled but shuddered. This is only one of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">many</i> things that are wrong with the American political system and only goes to show what we’ve always known: We are shallow, often mindless voters and the proof is that we vote based on <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">the look</i>.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">“Well, just because I look a certain way doesn’t mean I actually <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">know</i> anything about anything. What would you do, just dress me up, tell me what to say and prop me up on stage?” </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Visions of Sarah Palin’s interview with Katie Couric as she waffled and dissembled about which publications she read, jammed my brain. I started to sweat. I’d be journalist meat faster than you could say “Slice me off a hunk of that dewy-eyed, dim-witted political hopeful. I like mine rare and bloody and splattered all over the news.”</span><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpaBMWo8bCEiysxxEyoC_WEF8hjS2gdzTRyemD459xmHsiijjxfHuXrvyzWF2XSthsr2s70d7zlndrJuiR6RhOVhz3hwHy_k2yt7XMPReNGXeaElrTXl9173dqET0hIISTif4bEJR8YKA/s1600/SarahLifeLines.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="288" nba="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpaBMWo8bCEiysxxEyoC_WEF8hjS2gdzTRyemD459xmHsiijjxfHuXrvyzWF2XSthsr2s70d7zlndrJuiR6RhOVhz3hwHy_k2yt7XMPReNGXeaElrTXl9173dqET0hIISTif4bEJR8YKA/s320/SarahLifeLines.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I felt reassured that this was all a joke when the Huzby stated that Bob had originally suggested that <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">he</i> run for congress. Bob's hopes were dashed however, when the Huzby informed him he is not a US citizen. I’ve got news for Bob, not only is the Huzby not a US citizen, he suffers from an extremely virulent and resistant strain of influenza which causes him to say exactly what he means with little or no filtering. The end result is <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">not</i> what the masses would appreciate nor tolerate. I’m still getting used to it myself and I’ve known him for nearly a decade.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Bob’s plane was getting ready for take-off and one of the bar workers came to hustle him off in time to catch it. We said our good-byes and he left us his card. “Let me know if you decide you want to run. I’ve got connections. I can get you hooked up. Really, you’d be great.” </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I waved goodbye wondering how many drinks he’d be able to suck down between SLC and Sea-Tac and if he’d still be able to ambulate by the time he landed. I also wondered who paid his salary and if they thought they were getting their money’s worth. Which begs the question: Is <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">anyone</i> getting their money’s worth from <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">anyone</i> “working” in D.C. these days?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Anyway, I hadn’t given any more thought to running for congress until this Labor Day weekend when it occurred to me—not for the first time—that we should change the week length to eight days. What I propose is that with eight days a week, we could still work our five days but then we take three days to recover and get stuff done and actually have a day to relax. Think of how much more humane and civilized this would be for everyone. We’d be more efficient at work and less stressed in general. It’s a win-win. I mentioned my idea to the Huzby who immediately dismissed it as more of my ridiculous blathering. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Undeterred, I did a bit of online research and found that the eight day week has been done. The Etruscans had an eight day week and for a significant period of time, the Romans adopted it too. However, eventually the seven day week won out over the long haul. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">But these are modern times. Certainly the Romans and Etruscans weren’t dealing with weekend scenarios of home maintenance, gardening, doing laundry, getting the pets vetted and shampooed, attending kid’s sporting events, getting the oil changed, cleaning house, having dinner parties, going to concerts or wine tasting and trying to actually enjoy themselves for a freaking, fleeting moment in their jam-packed week, all in addition to their full-time, long-commute “regular” jobs. Right. I think the Romans and Etruscans were probably polishing their swords and armour on the weekend. Or maybe taking the family donkey out for a joy ride around the Circus Maximus?</span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">The more I think about it, the more I like it. And because I’m a scientist, I've decided it would be a good idea to run the experiment of the eight day week (5 days on/3 days off) in North Korea. I mean, you <i>know</i> those poor North Koreans are stressed to the max. We get a baseline sample the population by checking for behavioral signs of stress (depression, anxiety, eating disorders, disruptive behavior etc..) and measure stress-related hormones present in the blood. Then we institute the 8 day week for three months and compare the measurements. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">No doubt, they'll still be stressed but significantly less stressed than with seven day week. They'll have time for more Korean BBQ, kimchi and soju. Yahoo! <span style="font-size: medium;"><b>야호</b> </span>Let's get this party started! </span><br />
<div id="tts_button"><object classid="clsid:D27CDB6E-AE6D-11cf-96B8-444553540000" codebase="http://download.macromedia.com/pub/shockwave/cabs/flash/swflash.cab#version=5,0,0,0" height="18" id="tts" width="18"><param NAME="_cx" VALUE="476"><param NAME="_cy" VALUE="476"><param NAME="FlashVars" VALUE=""><param NAME="Movie" VALUE="http://www.gstatic.com/translate/sound_player2.swf"><param NAME="Src" VALUE="http://www.gstatic.com/translate/sound_player2.swf"><param NAME="WMode" VALUE="Transparent"><param NAME="Play" VALUE="0"><param NAME="Loop" VALUE="-1"><param NAME="Quality" VALUE="High"><param NAME="SAlign" VALUE=""><param NAME="Menu" VALUE="-1"><param NAME="Base" VALUE=""><param NAME="AllowScriptAccess" VALUE="always"><param NAME="Scale" VALUE="ShowAll"><param NAME="DeviceFont" VALUE="0"><param NAME="EmbedMovie" VALUE="0"><param NAME="BGColor" VALUE=""><param NAME="SWRemote" VALUE=""><param NAME="MovieData" VALUE=""><param NAME="SeamlessTabbing" VALUE="1"><param NAME="Profile" VALUE="0"><param NAME="ProfileAddress" VALUE=""><param NAME="ProfilePort" VALUE="0"><param NAME="AllowNetworking" VALUE="all"><param NAME="AllowFullScreen" VALUE="false"></OBJECT><span a="undefined" c="4" class="short_text" closure_uid_ha2e4m="164" id="result_box" lang="ko"><b><span class="hps" closure_uid_ha2e4m="154">파티를</span> <span class="hps" closure_uid_ha2e4m="155">시작합시다</span></b></span></div><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">So there you have it, I'm proposing the eight day week. It can only help. Along with a national health care system and alternative energy ramp-up, I'm thinking I can win. Oh, and don't forget that <i>very smart</i> team of advisers I'm going to need. VERY, VERY smart.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Oh and one more thing--I'm looking for an expert speech writer/ventriloquist. I need to find someone to tell me exactly what to say because now that I've come up with my three-pronged running platform, all I really need to do is keep working on <i>the look</i>. The rest is up to everyone else on the team and of course, the visually-overinvested voters.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">Can't wait to talk to Bob about all this. After all, he was the one who had the idea in the first place. And you know, something tells me he's definitely a 8 day week kind of guy.</span>Lyn Nave Garretthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15683469624877390358noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2960598349901004178.post-44263095493758357812011-08-01T12:44:00.000-07:002011-08-02T09:57:03.757-07:00South Pole Explorations continued...<div class="review_comment"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This is a review I wrote for Yelp about the Endoscopy Center of Marin re. the colonoscopy I had last Friday. Oh yes, I did. To anyone who's wondering, "Do you have to share EVERYTHING?" apparently the answer so far seems to be yes. But not to worry, it's non-graphic (See? No pictures.) and only meant to inform the reader. It also ends with a PSA about getting the job done. It's part of turning fifty. Putting it off is a big mistake because there's really nothing to fear. </span></div><div class="review_comment"></div><div class="review_comment"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Without further ado I give you:</span></div><div class="review_comment"></div><div class="review_comment"></div><div class="review_comment"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Fifty knocked on my door in January and with no other choice--I opened it and let her in. One of the many unpleasant things she dictated along with increasing eye wrinkles, diminishing close vision and a finicky memory, was a colonoscopy. <br />
<br />
"Listen," I told her, "I gotta be honest, I'm not super into the whole spelunking thing." <br />
<br />
"Bitch. I don't give a rat's pa-toot what you're into. Go get your plumbing excavated and don't bother me with proclamations about your sex life ." <br />
<br />
As I've said before, Ms. Fifty is one bitch of a laugh riot. NOT.<br />
(</span><a href="http://www.yelp.com/redir?url=http%3A%2F%2Fevelynnave.blogspot.com%2F2011%2F01%2Fhello-fifties-here.html" rel="nofollow" target="_blank"><span style="color: #6666cc; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">http://evelynnave.blog...</span></a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">)<br />
I don't really like her very much--but I do what she tells me.<br />
<br />
Thus, I hooked up with Dr. Mazzotta and his team at the Endoscopy Center of Marin. I worked of with Elena (intake and IV installation specialist), Laura (gurney wheeler and scope room savant), Michelle (who offered me a warm blanket post facto)--and of course, the congenial, deft and intrepid leader of the exploration, Dr. M.<br />
<br />
Let's face it, hardly anyone really WANTS to have their South Pole scoped but with Dr.M. standing in the stead of the infamous, E. Shackleton, you have every reason to believe the destination will be reached (You hear that Ernest?) and everyone makes it back alive. (If you want to know more about the story of Ernest Shackleton and his South Pole expedition please read my blog: </span><a href="http://www.yelp.com/redir?url=http%3A%2F%2Fevelynnave.blogspot.com%2F2011%2F07%2Fenduring-endurance-or-stop-me-if-youre.html" rel="nofollow" target="_blank"><span style="color: #6666cc; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">http://evelynnave.blog...</span></a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">)<br />
<br />
The one tip I give you is that the toilet--which I hastily accessed twice beforehand--is located in the alcove just OUTSIDE the office. This tidbit may save you some tense, clenching moments shifting from foot to foot while waiting to ask the front desk person who is busily helping the next victim...I mean, patient.<br />
<br />
The demographic of the clientele was readily identified by the easy listening playlist attempting to sooth a room full of roiling guts. Cat Stevens and James Taylor are the only artists I remember, but I can imagine CSN and the Beatles get some heavy play as well. In case you needed any reminders that you're getting older, these very pleasant, middle-age melodies should do it. <br />
<br />
Elena did a great job getting the IV catheter placed with minimal discomfort. In fact, the lidocaine injection was really the only remotely painful part of the day. Laura wheeled me into the room without clipping a single corner--not an easy feat as some of the angles are quite tight. <br />
<br />
The journey officially began upon my entry into the scope room. Dr. M. seems to like his job and his patients. He and Laura are two medicos with whom it's easy to shoot the shit. (Couldn't pass up that piece of low-hanging fruit.) So I brought up the purging protocol (a very humane regimen of fasting, Dulcolax, Miralax and Gatorade) and remarked upon the rampant folklore you find on the internet about what comes out. People are so silly and believe what they want to believe--the more horrific, the more likely the masses are to buy it. NEWSFLASH: The general population is NOT walking around with 7 foot parasites ravaging their innards. and there is NO SUCH THING as colon plaques. (Laura apprised me of this phoney phenomenon.) Why do we prefer to think otherwise? Dr. M. agreed, and remarked that he battles this kind of mumbo jumbo often and even with his credentials, people do not believe him. Sheesh. Ain't no cure for gullible, I guess.<br />
<br />
As the conversation meandered (and I was fitted with a nasal nitrous line and rolled onto my side) I brought up the concert I blogged last week (</span><a href="http://www.yelp.com/redir?url=http%3A%2F%2Fevelynnave.blogspot.com%2F2011%2F07%2Fthat-smell_26.html" rel="nofollow" target="_blank"><span style="color: #6666cc; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">http://evelynnave.blog...</span></a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">) where the guy in front of me unfurled fetid wind for a solid two hours, clearing the population three rows behind him. Dr. M. suggested that he might be suffering from one of three specific GI ailments. I know he listed the possibilities but right at that time I was drifting into La-la Land.<br />
<br />
Dazed but fine, I woke in the same gurney slot from which I'd been wheeled earlier. I received the good news and pictures that confirmed there was nothing insidious lurking in my innards --parasitic, or oncologic--waiting to launch an attack. YAY! An hour and a half well spent.<br />
<br />
The Huzby drove me home and still foggy, I teetered up to bed. Three hours later I awoke, the fog still in, but hungry. Leftover Thai food never tasted SO good!<br />
<br />
If all goes well my next scopic adventure shouldn't be for another ten years. Oh, yeah. I can wait. Take your time, Sixty--no rush at all.<br />
<br />
One last point and PSA: If you've been putting this off, DON'T. If there's bad news it's better to get it early. And if not,--and it's most likely not--you can spend the next ten years without worrying about it. You know the old adage: All's well that end's well. <br />
<br />
Well...?</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">And thank you to John Igel who found Dave Barry's gem about his colonscopy. Great, funny stuff: <span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><a href="http://www.miamiherald.com/2009/02/11/v-fullstory/427603/dave-barry-a-journey-into-my-colon.html">http://www.miamiherald.com/2009/02/11/v-fullstory/427603/dave-barry-a-journey-into-my-colon.html</a></span></span> </div>Lyn Nave Garretthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15683469624877390358noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2960598349901004178.post-78632145918748498422011-07-26T06:37:00.000-07:002011-07-26T21:37:14.154-07:00That Smell<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Ooh, ooh that smell<br />
Can't you smell that smell?<br />
Ooh, ooh that smell<br />
The smell of death surrounds you.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">—Lynyrd Skynyrd</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; line-height: normal;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">I lived and breathed that smell at the concert I attended at the Mountain Winery in Saratoga on Saturday. No, we didn't see Lynyrd Skynyrd and I’m happy to report, no one died—at least not to my knowledge. But the smell was bad enough to make you think that someone or some<i>thing</i> HAD died. Not so, however. We knew from whence the smell emanated. The Source appeared to be very much alive although, perhaps not well.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; line-height: normal;"><br />
</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG0HYTNlNvz8ICO8ltYjegKtcpeU3Irdh9kLQ0S4-RdnrNSX3BghuMJOjieUtThomKmdnJ4M4BEwNtXbSUUjjBlVJBNanWZ6XCTqjPrE57GK7QJH6DRrISa3L2xEFyz1ysWbSYIgZlNFw/s1600/grACE.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG0HYTNlNvz8ICO8ltYjegKtcpeU3Irdh9kLQ0S4-RdnrNSX3BghuMJOjieUtThomKmdnJ4M4BEwNtXbSUUjjBlVJBNanWZ6XCTqjPrE57GK7QJH6DRrISa3L2xEFyz1ysWbSYIgZlNFw/s400/grACE.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Meet Grace Potter and the Nocturnals and Grace's legs.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; line-height: normal;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;">The music—Grace Potter and the Nocturnals (GPN)—was terrific. Grace is a generous performer who puts on an energetic show. She jumps and abounds—amazes and astounds, leaving the middle-agers in the crowd wondering how the hell she does it. While I resentfully (and likely erroneously) propose that she was diagnosed as ADHD as a child, there is no doubt in my mind that Grace is a woman who LOVES her job. With a killer, rock and roll voice that puts her in the brawny vocal category of Ann Wilson (Heart), and Joan Jett (and the Blackhearts), Grace gives legs to the raucous sound of the Nocturnals. She’s a tower of long limbs in high heels and short skirts. Add to that a long, sandy, blonde waterfall of hair which she flings with wild-woman abandon and you’ve got a sexy, siren with lungs that stun. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;">At one point during the show the woman sitting next to me leaned over and whispered, “My husband wishes I were her. I wish I were her too.” Yeah. I feel ya, sister.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;">OK. So back to the smell. I sensed trouble when I first sat down. A dude about a chair and a half wide was squeezed into the seat front of me and I could distinctly detect his odor. The aroma of barely contained sweat and hair overdue for a shampoo reached my olfactory bulb as soon as my fanny hit the fold-down. Before I had any idea what was in store, I leaned over to the Huzby to report, “I can <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">smell</i> him.” </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><br />
</div><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Talk about your foreshadowing moments.</span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Within the first few songs, GPN had the crowd on their feet and moving to the beat. That was all it took. I don’t know what that guy had for dinner, but whatever it was definitely ignited his internal, intestinal, combustion engine. The assault began. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;">As John Donne might have said had he been there: Ask not from whom the smell rolls, it rolls from thee, big guy with the small date seated directly in front of me.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;">With two more songs gone, in absolute disgust, my nose in a revolted twist, I looked over to the Huzby who had one hand up to his nose while using the other to wave wildly and uselessly. A dense, infected air had descended upon us. The odor wafted heavy and thick</span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;">—far and wide—</span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;">and continued for the next two hours.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;">During this time, the Huzby waged a campaign of reputation damage control. Aware that the row in back of us was also experiencing the noisome noxiousness, he made it clear <i>we</i> were suffering too and were <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">not</b> the perpetrators. As I looked at the two rows directly behind us I saw more hands fly up to protect unsuspecting airways from the odiferous onslaught. With grand, unmistakable hand gestures, The Huzby indicated to the affronted parties: It’s not us, it’s that big guy, the next row down.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;">I did my best to ignore the foul stench and my maniacally gesticulating spouse. I tried to concentrate on the music. The songs were great. The smell, however, was not only great but constant and breath-stopping. The Huzby, not feeling particularly stoic, vacated to the stairs and leaned against the wall to enjoy a reek-free rest of the show. At some point I looked behind me to see that most of the folks in the two rows up had taken the Huzby’s lead and fled the scene. I’m telling you. This was bad, <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">bad</b> air.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;">I truly believed as the evening wore on our beleaguered, butt-burping buddy would run out of—gas. I was wrong. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Lord have mercy</i>, was I wrong. Sir Fartsalot managed to keep the pipeline open and flowing for the entire length of the show. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;">I had a moment, when I considered lighting a lighter but there were three problems with this plan.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; text-indent: -.25in;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;">1<span style="font: 7pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;">1) </span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;">If I lit a lighter, there might have actually been an explosion.</span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;"> </span></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; text-indent: -.25in;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;">2<span style="font: 7pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;">2) </span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;">If I lit a lighter and there was no explosion, there might be a blue flame that ignited me like a fire cracker since I was in the direct line of fire.</span></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0in; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;"> 3) I didn't have a lighter.</span></div><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;"> And while I was thinking about all the possible incendiary outcomes of lighting a lighter I didn't have, the show ended.</span> <br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;">We drove back to our hotel discussing mostly the gaseous bitch-slapping we'd just endured and a bit about the music. 30 minutes later I reported to the Huzby the stink was still embedded in my nasopharynx. Christ, Almighty. Staying power, too. One wonders: Does the military know about this stuff?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;">As I was falling asleep with stench molecules still unwilling to vacate the receptors in my nostrils, I had a moment when I actually felt sorry for Mr. Methane. But then I thought about it some more and decided that along with feeling sorry for myself, the person I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">really </i>felt sorry for was his date.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><br />
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</div>Lyn Nave Garretthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15683469624877390358noreply@blogger.com12Saratoga, CA, USA37.2638324 -122.0230146000000137.2336689 -122.06217810000001 37.2939959 -121.98385110000001tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2960598349901004178.post-78910308813878356902011-07-17T12:11:00.000-07:002011-07-18T21:43:41.421-07:00Enduring the Endurance--Stop me if you've heard this one before...The Huzby loves tales of frozen wastelands—the more frost-bitten, teeth-chattering, and blue-lipped—the better. You would think Mongolian, Siberian and Arctic stories, appropriately frigid and bone-chilling, might hold top position on his glacial-o-meter. But, no. These locations are not nearly remote or isolated or desolate enough to satisfy. Only tales of the <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Antarctic</i></b> suffice to scale to the top of the iceberg and scratch my sweetie’s incessant icicle itch.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpXCR9Z335zhnrY983UE-ipx4nrpV97BmKaZUtrDauWG9sbWfWhEfYzit3Yn3aGQvBEC0uODhAHrQCdb7ZMX5lGyY0JWiiLvx5gdZeig1xjwc9lA0i2D3_p5n_qMM4vXitvViK3GKum7g/s1600/penguins.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="295" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpXCR9Z335zhnrY983UE-ipx4nrpV97BmKaZUtrDauWG9sbWfWhEfYzit3Yn3aGQvBEC0uODhAHrQCdb7ZMX5lGyY0JWiiLvx5gdZeig1xjwc9lA0i2D3_p5n_qMM4vXitvViK3GKum7g/s400/penguins.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Like the Huzby, penguins also finds tales of Antarctica irresistible.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Remember “The March of the Penguins”? Emperor penguins huddling en mass for months in slow rotation, one precious egg under each belly pouch, defying the brutality of the sunless winter. Oh, yeah. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">That</i> was a good one. A documentary I gave him called “Antarctica” must have been merely OK, because we’ve only watched it once. But the story the Huzby holds in the frostiest, most shivery esteem is the story of Ernest Shackleton and his 28 man crew of adventurers. The team’s quest was to attain the geographical South Pole.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6f65XKKxG5lagIRpgud_VRMBmUpL-flNzZii7nZjiBzMzsCWeSxfQpoJKFKwGSR72SXv4v7jQZz_1VWFUed_SYR4o6ZKtot0O7YJxWIYNXX_iKycrXjr4LgDmfsJQamDoIhlESo2Fuwg/s1600/shackleton-portrait.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6f65XKKxG5lagIRpgud_VRMBmUpL-flNzZii7nZjiBzMzsCWeSxfQpoJKFKwGSR72SXv4v7jQZz_1VWFUed_SYR4o6ZKtot0O7YJxWIYNXX_iKycrXjr4LgDmfsJQamDoIhlESo2Fuwg/s320/shackleton-portrait.jpg" width="231" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Meet the explorer, Ernest Shackleton.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
These men with their pack of 69 sled dogs and one feline participant, a grey tabby named Mrs. Chippy, sailed the Endurance, a wooden ship built with polar bear hunting in mind, into the pack ice of Antarctica’s Weddell Sea. After becoming stranded and watching the Endurance go down, Shackleton and his men survived the ravages of relentless cold, months of near starvation, and a long, icy trek and open boat journey back to Elephant Island at which point Shackleton and five of his party rowed to South Georgia Island to get help and rescue the remaining crew nearly two years after setting sail. Sadly, the dogs and Mrs. Chippy were <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">not</i> so lucky. I’ll let you use your imagination to fill in the blanks. Or if you’re like me, you already know the story <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">quite well</i>.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiONEMF4iKX1Ta1y8BjngdffvN3CjjBiaSKwV3xD0p1ULzNOWCqR9xKoyyWiCEVmAMFIqyC8liQEp7X_wh19l8N_Pet8vqS0cUdN_swG1LWIf72aS2jgNUaixwQWVqEV-4_toKBDI3pTr0/s1600/the+endurance+and+dogs.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiONEMF4iKX1Ta1y8BjngdffvN3CjjBiaSKwV3xD0p1ULzNOWCqR9xKoyyWiCEVmAMFIqyC8liQEp7X_wh19l8N_Pet8vqS0cUdN_swG1LWIf72aS2jgNUaixwQWVqEV-4_toKBDI3pTr0/s400/the+endurance+and+dogs.jpg" width="294" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lucky for these dogs they didn't know how the story ended for them.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
It’s a tale of supreme, unflinching commandership, of surviving against the vagaries and savagery of nature, of hanging in there when there seems to be no reason to. It’s a chronicle of teamwork. It’s a history of overcoming what seemed to be, but were ultimately <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">not,</i> insurmountable obstacles. It is—as if the ship’s name had sealed their fate—a saga of tremendous and awe-inspiring ENDURANCE.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxQ0IFp7Jcc-anGnc_ilw1ZVXJwfmCbyPUbIQW0LzboYrQx0PikevTKeSow1qeEpOZko8oIyoTtmLjL5B3HtpaM7j2HozKscoY3NjTW3xRczNZ2LsMNpufX1OGY0op7-tcYALCjAFuPOA/s1600/The+endurance+on+ice.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="272" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxQ0IFp7Jcc-anGnc_ilw1ZVXJwfmCbyPUbIQW0LzboYrQx0PikevTKeSow1qeEpOZko8oIyoTtmLjL5B3HtpaM7j2HozKscoY3NjTW3xRczNZ2LsMNpufX1OGY0op7-tcYALCjAFuPOA/s400/The+endurance+on+ice.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Alas, the Endurance; she was unable to endure. Not so for the crew, however.</td></tr>
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Did they achieve their goal of making it to the South Pole? <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">No.</b><br />
Did they make it back to civilization without losing a single human life? <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Yes.</b> <br />
YAY TEAM!<br />
<br />
Apparently the Huzby had long been aware of this truly amazing story. It was news to me when I sat down to watch the Nova special, “Shackleton’s Voyage of Endurance,” with him some years back. Wow. Pretty unbelievable and miraculous, I had to concur.<br />
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We discussed it and agreed that I would never have survived such on ordeal. Having zero ability to deal with frigid temperatures (below 72<sup>o</sup> F, I need at least a light jacket), I’d have been shark bait or penguin fodder before I could sputter, "I should have packed a puffier parka." We also agreed that it’s possible the Huzby might have survived if he’d responded to the 1912 ad that read—<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"><br />
</span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">"MEN WANTED: FOR HAZARDOUS JOURNEY. SMALL WAGES, BITTER COLD, LONG MONTHS OF COMPLETE DARKNESS, CONSTANT DANGER, SAFE RETURN DOUBTFUL. HONOUR AND RECOGNITION IN CASE OF SUCCESS. SIR ERNEST SHACKLETON.” O</span>f course, the Huzby would likely have never been that stupid—or perhaps I should say “adventurous”.<br />
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As mentioned, we’ve watched the Nova special. We’ve also watched a TV dramatization with Kenneth Branagh playing the role of Shackleton called “Shackleton”. The movie “South” also detailed the trials, tribulations and perturbations of the crew of the Endurance as documented by Frank Hurley, the crew’s photographer. The still and moving pictures are well preserved and depict the epic journey with eye-witness vividness. Yes indeed, we’ve watched that one too.<br />
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No doubt I should have been expecting that “The Endurance: Shackleton’s Legendary Antarctic Expedition” narrated by Liam Neeson, would appear in our mailbox in a tidy Netflix envelope. But then you ask yourself how many times you need to endure the telling and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">retelling</i> of the Endurance. If you’re me, the answer is three times is pretty much overkill. If you’re the Huzby, it’s not <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">nearly</i> enough.<br />
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About seven minutes into this fourth version I had to ask—“Haven’t we seen this before?”<br />
“No.” my South Pole-obsessed spouse espoused. “We haven’t seen <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">this</i> one.”<br />
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SPOILER ALERT!<br />
I hate to break it to y’all out there but the story never changes. Damned if Mrs. Chippy and all those 73 dogs (including the four pups that were born on the trip) don’t die all over again in <i>this</i> version of the story. And once again, Shackleton’s party of 28 men are first stuck, then stranded, then lost, then hungry and of course throughout—they are consistently COLD because they’re in the freakin’ badlands of Antarctica. And yes indeed, those same 28 men, lost, freezing, starving and desperate, with Shackleton leading the way, make their way back to civilization. Hurray!!! And once again, they don’t make it to the South Pole but, son of a gun, if those poor suckers don’t all keep their ess together and and survive without losing one human life. Yes, indeed. You <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">have</i> heard this one before.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6eQDDgwdDHo95FUlJy6zrE_6OBxo2A0OxuM3J7oulh6WXSguBYL-GA-zsDsSJtvJkLmgNLCPUibaHto1AVDcdQRJxa-7kvD11J_c_lCmsGrdbgq2nEG6k448h8jpXDMqHEN_yq9_Guqc/s1600/elephant_island_men.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="270" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6eQDDgwdDHo95FUlJy6zrE_6OBxo2A0OxuM3J7oulh6WXSguBYL-GA-zsDsSJtvJkLmgNLCPUibaHto1AVDcdQRJxa-7kvD11J_c_lCmsGrdbgq2nEG6k448h8jpXDMqHEN_yq9_Guqc/s400/elephant_island_men.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Most of the exploration party on Elephant Island. They were not exactly in a partying mood.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
Here is the one thing I heard on this telling of the story that was news to me:<br />
Apparently, when Winston Churchill was apprised of the fact that Shackleton was setting out to make it to the South Pole he was <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">unimpressed</i>. Why? Well, that would be because Norwegian, Roald Amundsen and his team, had successfully skied to the location <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">two years earlier</i>. Not only that, Shackleton’s prior colleague, Robert Falcon Scott, and his party also made it to the South Pole 35 days after Amundsen. Sadly, Scott and his cohorts all died on the return route. Churchill’s take on Shackleton’s late-to-the-party expedition was—Hey. Been there done that. Did you not get the memo?<br />
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Having nothing to do with the fact that the cigar-loving Winnie is a not too distant relative of mine, I have to say, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I wholeheartedly agree</i>.<br />
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I’m not planning to tell the Huzby but the way things are going I’m sure he’ll find out anyway: There’s still an IMAX version—“Shackleton’s Antarctic Adventure” —we have yet to see. I’m not exactly sure how it has escaped his notice.<br />
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Do you think the enlarged account of the drama will turn out any differently? Nope. Neither do I. But it’ll probably have the added enhancement of making me motion sick while watching. I’ll wear my parka, gloves, ear muffs and bring a waterproof bag—just in case.<br />
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Ah. The things we endure for love.Lyn Nave Garretthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15683469624877390358noreply@blogger.com4Antarctica-82.862751899999992 -135-90 -135 -67.862751899999992 -135tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2960598349901004178.post-57208211170838882682011-06-30T20:02:00.000-07:002011-06-30T20:02:48.633-07:00EGGSISTENTIALS OF GETTING TO KNOW YOUR FUTURE SPOUSE BEFORE KNOWING THEY ARE YOUR FUTURE SPOUSE<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">When I first met my husband the possibilities of us being “us” were wide open and— at least to me—not readily apparent. Any old thing could have happened from having our first date be our last date, to submitting to the old ball and chain routine (not bloody likely in my frame of mind at the time but like I always say: Never say never.). Our random meeting on Craig's List—a wrong ad, right guy mishap—meant we knew virtually, literally, and figuratively, very little about each other at the start. So I went on what I heard and saw and drew logical conclusions. It was years before I found out my version of reality was a myth originating from the leftovers of a past love. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Tim and I met sometime in the first week of October and things went pretty well. "Pretty well" meant that by the time December rolled around I started thinking of ways to ensure Mr. Grumpy (his future, self-imposed and very apt alias) had a happy Christmas. He was brimming with bah-humbug and I felt the need to slap his bad attitude upside the head and knock the man silly with yuletide cheer. I saw it as Nativity poker. "I see your snide views on religion and commercialism and raise you with 'If you can't beat 'em, join 'em.' And to sweeten the pot I'm throwing in 'If you're gonna do it, do it right.' So there. I call, Scrooge-dude. Read ‘em and weep." </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">I thoughtfully observed what interested, delighted and tickled my new beau’s fancy and followed the lead. Along with the obvious—wine, good food, photography, literature, cashmere sweaters, and sexy clothes (for me, not him) —I noted he had a fondness for eggs. In his kitchen he kept a bowl in which nested a stone egg along with a couple of blown hens’ eggs that had been dyed and intricately carved. So when I found another couple of eggs on a holiday shopping jaunt—one that subtlety chimed when shaken and one that merely looked pretty sitting in a bowl—I thought they'd be nice additions to his burgeoning clutch.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYXsA2jvSCvBvmoMVNuicUAC-7l2RCMjmieC2BN65MoIE-KAYTD_V5_BWumsM9RPNyzxgcrc_G44XuK4my4wWnmwwNOCDnHHBOTYbE64Rj_X7-jkWM4tYzW8A5a2Kpi3HEGgRAzE6JXxQ/s1600/IMG_0656.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYXsA2jvSCvBvmoMVNuicUAC-7l2RCMjmieC2BN65MoIE-KAYTD_V5_BWumsM9RPNyzxgcrc_G44XuK4my4wWnmwwNOCDnHHBOTYbE64Rj_X7-jkWM4tYzW8A5a2Kpi3HEGgRAzE6JXxQ/s640/IMG_0656.JPG" width="356" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is one of two bowls from our current collection. You can see one of the original carved eggs (pink and white) at about 7:00.</td></tr>
</tbody></table></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">On Christmas morning when he opened the ovoid offerings (in addition to the basketful of other presents I showered upon him, kicking his Scrooge 'tude to the curb, not for good but for the moment) he seemed appropriately appreciative. Almost immediately the new, Noel eggs took up residence with the previously established bowl dwellers. They all seemed to get along well and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">eggs</i>isted in peaceful harmony. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">It wasn’t long before more egg opportunities presented themselves and we both joined in on the acquisition <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">eggs</i>pedition. Once you have your eyes oriented toward ova you find they’re sold nearly everywhere and certainly in any place that sells souvenirs or gifty-type items. In terms of happy reminders of places you’ve visited, eggs seem to have a certain hard-boiled charm. You sift through your collection and reminisce about where you were when you got them. That marble one caught your eye in Volterra, Italy. The abalone pair you picked up in Russell, New Zealand. The little glass ones came from Moab, UT. Those faded soapstone eggs you found in Point Reyes Station but they came all the way from Tanzania. And so the scramble goes.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Years passed. The bowl in Tim’s kitchen filled and I started a bowl at my place with the eggs he bought for me. It wasn’t a huge mission in life but just a little sideline that aggr<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">egg</i>ated and multiplied. I witnessed history repeating itself. People saw I had an egg collection and wanted to help it along so they bought more eggs to contribute. Thus, they became an inanimate form of tribbles (see Star Trek episode 44: The Trouble with Tribbles for further explanation.). I started with one and suddenly the next time I looked, the bowl was overflowing and I had to get a bigger bowl. It’s a weird reproductive phenomenon</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">—</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">which actually fits when you remember the fact that they are, after all, eggs.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">As the eggs amassed our relationship incubated successfully. When we went to Italy for our wedding, we spent some time at Tim’s cousins’ place in Rome. Lo and behold, they too, had an egg collection. We discussed how much we liked them, and they told us where their eggs were collected and we all agreed the elliptical embodiments are kind of a cool way to bring back a piece of having been somewhere. We should have <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">eggs</i>pected it but were nevertheless happily surprised when we opened our wedding gift from these same Roman cousins. Egged on by our shared interest, they thoughtfully gave us one pink and one blue gorgeously crafted porcelain egg from the famed Italian makers, Capidomonte. We were now officially acknowledged as egg lovers—united and celebrated in proper Italian matrimonial style.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtZMGzPeuGg7U_m9WZE6UoDESPNNHjGlmfybuqozreQQ4brtMLO-PbaNubA29xCk8USIVU-ZC6RxzzCutv13nwCYsKOSqzU276DoHTlmM0ygt17EaIRb6v-B1WIZbnYKngJBgkeSwRQck/s1600/IMG_0654.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="356" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtZMGzPeuGg7U_m9WZE6UoDESPNNHjGlmfybuqozreQQ4brtMLO-PbaNubA29xCk8USIVU-ZC6RxzzCutv13nwCYsKOSqzU276DoHTlmM0ygt17EaIRb6v-B1WIZbnYKngJBgkeSwRQck/s640/IMG_0654.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The pink and blue Capidomante eggs frame our wedding picture. The two other stand-alone eggs were gifts.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</td></tr>
</tbody></table></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">At some point—and there is debate as to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">eggs</i>actly when—but after some number of <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">years</b>, Tim revealed a little tidbit he'd left out of the equation: Those original eggs, the ova I spied in his kitchen long ago, were not his. Nope. It was not his collection at all—it was his previous girlfriend's. I remember sitting there blinking at him, feeling slightly dumbfounded. The fact that they were the old girlfriend’s wasn’t overly surprising; her stuff had been strewn all over Tim’s place in those early days of getting to know him. What waylaid me was that this was the first time I was hearing about it. All those years—perhaps 4 or more—we'd been slowly gathering our congregation and I suddenly find out the primordial pile was contributed by the ex. It was an oddly <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">eggs</i>asperating moment when I realized—I accidentally poached her eggs!</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">I suppose I could have gotten mad; instead I cracked a huge grin. I mean you have to admit—it’s funny. What it boils down to is that we have an <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">eggs</i>quisite collection including the seed eggs from my husband’s old flame. It’s a perfect <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">eggs</i>ample of befuddlement by way of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">eggs</i>trapolation. So in addition to having stories to tell about from whence our eggs came, I’ve hatched the story of the inception of their collection. <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Eggs</i>cellent</b>!</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2tRMbsP87b3vm2Y0O80zxy6cBf8xG6OHXACDrflNSu8hX5lL9jwBcL14SzrB_ul_37ZV2rKr3G8nm9BTrzgMwmEKDVhTOVMI5vZWJTmXCt9u931Oj17NDx52k4CGkc77JbLpJeSCsw9w/s1600/IMG_0655.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="356" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2tRMbsP87b3vm2Y0O80zxy6cBf8xG6OHXACDrflNSu8hX5lL9jwBcL14SzrB_ul_37ZV2rKr3G8nm9BTrzgMwmEKDVhTOVMI5vZWJTmXCt9u931Oj17NDx52k4CGkc77JbLpJeSCsw9w/s640/IMG_0655.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our second bowl of eggs has a smattering from New Zealand, Moab, Volterra, Tanzania by way of Point Reyes Station, and the Christmas jingle egg.</td></tr>
</tbody></table></div></div>Lyn Nave Garretthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15683469624877390358noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2960598349901004178.post-69998313553376068892011-06-14T12:40:00.000-07:002011-06-14T13:56:06.153-07:00RAISED ON CHEESECAKE<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana", "sans-serif";">My paternal grandfather, Grandpa Don, was easy to love. He was fun and funny. He called my sister, Cookie and me, Cupcake. He would sit in his armchair in the living room or T.V. room and let my sister and I brush what was left of his hair. We’d take turns maneuvering the lonely, clinging strands that traversed the desert of skin surrounded by a retreating Friar Tuck semi-circle, with a baby brush, making sure the stalwart hairs were neatly arranged. He did a special trill or R-rolling with his tongue at the back of his throat that would make us laugh and beg for more. He indulged me when I was sick from mono in 4th grade with the” Pictorial Encyclopedia of the Animal Kingdom” by V.J. Stanek. I spent days and nights poring over the tome, learning about everything from protozoa to pit vipers to pangolins. It was the best part and only lasting vestige of the 3 months I spent home from school. It remains my most precious book. </span><br />
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana", "sans-serif";">Grandpa Don was also endearingly unconventional in his grandfatherly manner. This was due to his love of scantily clad and/or naked women. Hold on. Take it easy. I can assure you his fondness never resulted in lurid or unsavory behavior towards anyone. His appreciation was honest and unapologetic and perhaps was a natural outcome of his profession as a corporate photographer for Chevron. A dyed-in-the wool devotee of the female form, to my knowledge, he was never scolded or denounced for his affinity. His interest was not only tolerated, in his home it was nourished and fostered. Cheesecake chiquitas and birthday suit kitsch were major parts of his persona. Perhaps this sounds odd coming from his granddaughter, but I must confess that I enjoyed his penchant as well.</span></div><span style="font-family: "Verdana", "sans-serif";"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana", "sans-serif";">Visits to the grandparents’ house in the outer Sunset District house of San Francisco, were not complete without a trip down to the basement to hang with Grandpa. In addition to an all-encompassing collection of shop tools, he had an extensive and eye-popping assortment of pin-ups. The top wall of his workshop was rimmed entirely with Vargas and Petty girl pictures. </span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfW1MS4hyphenhyphenLh9knw2jIp0hMWaY_B-FVJ8mqUEyM1z5EpaHVO6D2EwlM59w8eaMbTUjlTfac6v6_sklUf2vzKRcj3FK1qcK-IgoFZRLXeEP_L6wvLYXtoBDyGPpa6gcXB3E4CpZKyZP3GV8/s1600/Vargas.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfW1MS4hyphenhyphenLh9knw2jIp0hMWaY_B-FVJ8mqUEyM1z5EpaHVO6D2EwlM59w8eaMbTUjlTfac6v6_sklUf2vzKRcj3FK1qcK-IgoFZRLXeEP_L6wvLYXtoBDyGPpa6gcXB3E4CpZKyZP3GV8/s320/Vargas.jpg" t8="true" width="241" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaWpwmLNlX3jmPJAe4LgrjVWZDAmxx1YWgCMNZ1OhzN2FwQHG3wVZuTMDKcB6YQ-OujWF1CzM0lD-C3P44eXPPb8JMMjpHT8qljtDWa78-OgMku7-E1TYZWvHAbg9tzmje3iIHkYjeuJU/s1600/George-Petty-Pin-Up-pin-up-girls-5491836-1156-754.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="208" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaWpwmLNlX3jmPJAe4LgrjVWZDAmxx1YWgCMNZ1OhzN2FwQHG3wVZuTMDKcB6YQ-OujWF1CzM0lD-C3P44eXPPb8JMMjpHT8qljtDWa78-OgMku7-E1TYZWvHAbg9tzmje3iIHkYjeuJU/s320/George-Petty-Pin-Up-pin-up-girls-5491836-1156-754.jpg" t8="true" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana", "sans-serif";">The women exuded a blatant sex appeal which was not lost on me, although I was too young to put a name on it. I understood those fluffy, flouncy, flirty, femme-fatales were more than merely desirable. They were sirens in silk, vamps in velvet, seductresses in satin, elegant enchantresses, come-hither charmers, tantalizing temptresses, goddesses of give-it-to-me-baby. Beautiful and mesmerizing, I couldn't keep my eyes off them.</span></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana", "sans-serif";">Strangely, my mom, with her staid, East Coast sensibilities, seemed unfazed that my sister and I regularly hung out with Grandpa Don in his man-cave decorated with girly photos. I wonder if she ever knew how much we talked to Grandpa Don about which were his favorites, and which were ours. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I pondered this mightily on each journey to the cement ground floor while I watched him work on whatever wood or Lucite project he had cooking. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana", "sans-serif";">I can't remember which part of which finger it was that was missing, but I recall watching him work and hoping he wouldn't lose any more of himself. For as many times as I asked him to tell me the story of how he lost a portion of his finger to the table saw, you'd think I'd remember what, exactly, was missing. It occurs to me now that perhaps he was thinking too much about his cheesecake instead of his fingers when he accidentally lopped off an unwilling, slow moving volunteer. Oops. BIG OOPS.</span></div><br />
<span style="font-family: "Verdana", "sans-serif";">The other interesting sights my sister and I were treated to during those impressionable years, were the special drinking glasses Grandpa Don brought back from Mexico. On the outside of the glasses were women dancers in cultural clothing--Spanish Flamenco, Hawaiian Hula, Polish Polka, and Native American Pow Wow--and when you drank down, on the inside of the glass you'd see the same women but without clothes. The images were exceedingly non-explicit, but you'd see their forms undressed with tiny nipples and discreet creases. They were, in their nude way, very chaste and non-raunchy. The glass gals were merely culturally diverse, pleasing to the eye and in the buff. And when you think about it, shouldn’t everybody be <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">au natural </i>on the inside of a glass? Otherwise your clothes would get wet.</span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRjZJ9KygD_lMiJKOirYz7m-ZC8apKgvOyrzqR7VCe9uO6JQ_7QWLmtsZbCCB2bI__pWhyocbYLdcSsF4y1a6h7arZ8G6Z_uWYRxpKP477f5RyygTcHtxBiQtcTCDztcd_0BwWsgqbfWQ/s1600/IMG_0487.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRjZJ9KygD_lMiJKOirYz7m-ZC8apKgvOyrzqR7VCe9uO6JQ_7QWLmtsZbCCB2bI__pWhyocbYLdcSsF4y1a6h7arZ8G6Z_uWYRxpKP477f5RyygTcHtxBiQtcTCDztcd_0BwWsgqbfWQ/s320/IMG_0487.JPG" width="179" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAOoaQjfhmDgcRO25Nn5Ow9YogM3fYdksnUnq0hvVBrsBMH6jtlHZWjkPOJu1WiKmQ5GkKCUFXilqGIBZ35mv4MaP3SzWtib0-5N1AKCK4p0Y4g_Mq9RHOo-8rNHp6hHUvu1IpKbAYhV8/s1600/IMG_0488.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAOoaQjfhmDgcRO25Nn5Ow9YogM3fYdksnUnq0hvVBrsBMH6jtlHZWjkPOJu1WiKmQ5GkKCUFXilqGIBZ35mv4MaP3SzWtib0-5N1AKCK4p0Y4g_Mq9RHOo-8rNHp6hHUvu1IpKbAYhV8/s320/IMG_0488.JPG" width="179" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgatT09lOB_Y3uZHlGdu8LwZJDGFbwtJMXGC7Rk8uXnkUDytBxtEvVYmR9cvYSMkI6pptornAX_fudB7tOpgJWGDPnf2fCHL-tPXMGWYPv68b-uv4ejnkYd2qdORfHeDUkYtGMqRnLwUa8/s1600/IMG_0489.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgatT09lOB_Y3uZHlGdu8LwZJDGFbwtJMXGC7Rk8uXnkUDytBxtEvVYmR9cvYSMkI6pptornAX_fudB7tOpgJWGDPnf2fCHL-tPXMGWYPv68b-uv4ejnkYd2qdORfHeDUkYtGMqRnLwUa8/s320/IMG_0489.JPG" width="179" /></a></div><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiz1PsaNdXj2VWrB1Gq-dyhOcB6VutPm6AXILa3ER4c8Gw9DUDLYBysd3DUr600HSpFyw28j47olaU67w3y64Y6oBGf5EP1xgACT57M53FaNehQvGRqnz4hcLD0LwV2Gl-QGR4bRA6nHN8/s1600/IMG_0490.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiz1PsaNdXj2VWrB1Gq-dyhOcB6VutPm6AXILa3ER4c8Gw9DUDLYBysd3DUr600HSpFyw28j47olaU67w3y64Y6oBGf5EP1xgACT57M53FaNehQvGRqnz4hcLD0LwV2Gl-QGR4bRA6nHN8/s320/IMG_0490.JPG" width="179" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I think these glasses are pretty subtle. But I realize not everyone appreciates the genre.</td></tr>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana", "sans-serif";">I still have the glasses on display in our dining room. Upon showing them to a visiting friend, she exclaimed, "This explains a LOT about you!" If she meant that she understands why my tastes run a smidge on the racy side—I see what she means. If not, she may need to elaborate. I didn’t ask for specifics. Like my grandfather, I see nothing wrong with some tastefully done nudity and I see no need to defend myself. The images are not even close to what I’d label as obscene or graphic—but that’s just me.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana", "sans-serif";">Grandpa Don died when I was in fifth grade—forty some years ago—from emphysema. You guessed it. Smoker. Big time. Had to be on oxygen at the end. He wasn't very active during the wind down. Kinda just...faded away. That's how it seemed to me at the time. I guess losing most of your lung capacity will do that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You breathe in. You breathe out. And if you have emphysema that's not enough. It kills you in the not-so-long run. From what I could tell, oxygen starvation is not a good way to go. By the end, not even the sight of Vargas vixen could inspire him to take the lungful he needed. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana", "sans-serif";">I was very sad about his passing. I never doubted it back then, nor do I now. But I remember thinking at his funeral that I should be crying. I didn't cry. I don't know why. To this day, I don't know why.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I miss Grandpa Don. He was a big influence in my life. I was reminded this past weekend that he remains so.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana", "sans-serif";">Epilogue:</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana", "sans-serif";">At the art and wine festival in Novato this weekend, we found a booth that had old forties and fifties ads, giclees, put onto canvas and paper. (Please check out <a href="http://francofolie.com/">francofolie.com</a> if you’re interested. He has Vargas prints as well.) We bought three and a fourth was thrown in as a bonus. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana", "sans-serif";">These prints are mainly by Gil Elvgren, a contemporary of Vargas and Petty. Both Elvgren and Vargas did commercial work, however, Vargas’ art eventually became a staple of Playboy magazine. Elvgren, to my mind, had a better sense of humor. His girls are often more clothed but in whimsical, humorous situations. I love his work and something tells me Grandpa Don would have too! </span></div><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSEaGQtaTNOUOOggXhk2_rGczoguSpO3V1tbZ9HHB5leY2J7IPtey7PvkQcijVnvZ9R_sOUilon3gVi1wumm2GYOwP7xssHP-FGhdfnFx9kuLV90RE6BtRbETpH6GZlqieZ3M-JCMtx-8/s1600/Manara%252520%252520La%252520Notte.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSEaGQtaTNOUOOggXhk2_rGczoguSpO3V1tbZ9HHB5leY2J7IPtey7PvkQcijVnvZ9R_sOUilon3gVi1wumm2GYOwP7xssHP-FGhdfnFx9kuLV90RE6BtRbETpH6GZlqieZ3M-JCMtx-8/s400/Manara%252520%252520La%252520Notte.jpg" t8="true" width="319" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">An Italian ad for a mattress. "My goodness! That certainly was a GREAT night!"<br />
Artist: Milo Manara (Thank you, Roberto Mongardi, for your help.) If this doesn't get you to buy this mattress check your pulse. You might be dead.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1YoXjin-pxWiNSxHz5tUQVdncihi7OjM4-8fjT8LH9RP3O4Vzg5wsheXkCmMwMfXWZY8JtaWE-GegXjg68CMDas-prjNm4cQNrglxKlfLwL1oqL3xjPxR-75OOjh26QInfb8h1LjBDrs/s1600/Redhead%252520Parrot%252520web.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1YoXjin-pxWiNSxHz5tUQVdncihi7OjM4-8fjT8LH9RP3O4Vzg5wsheXkCmMwMfXWZY8JtaWE-GegXjg68CMDas-prjNm4cQNrglxKlfLwL1oqL3xjPxR-75OOjh26QInfb8h1LjBDrs/s400/Redhead%252520Parrot%252520web.jpg" t8="true" width="301" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"I wonder if Petey would mind giving up a few tail feathers in the interest of fashion." (Gil Elvgren)</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzIy5gdbUoOiMwYgAma7RyMXN6ODNBgvFwe3zcamZAsDu69x0XMb9rAhCTvj5x9AeKbvpKuBEsPMsvIQCEftSX9q42nQh6HA4EJA-d0nmUyFDqkmCuZ5YFs7V2yafCuoeHInkedt-1zFQ/s1600/shampoo%252520web.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzIy5gdbUoOiMwYgAma7RyMXN6ODNBgvFwe3zcamZAsDu69x0XMb9rAhCTvj5x9AeKbvpKuBEsPMsvIQCEftSX9q42nQh6HA4EJA-d0nmUyFDqkmCuZ5YFs7V2yafCuoeHInkedt-1zFQ/s400/shampoo%252520web.jpg" t8="true" width="301" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Oh gosh! Need to hurry and wipe before shampoo gets in my eyes!" (Gil Elvgren)<br />
<br />
</td></tr>
</tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4nbC3LW0XP2-F0adgRE9AXMdHHnKxn1ex86CjraKRA43W9dWuyXCZkpu-28fKUm_kEzXX5Mw8zltKtGSu1cNBgZfuNOFipnZ5iKEaSM3lxPMMh7T9h-YKmWeFCM1QOhKNyWfvJ7NvfE4/s1600/sprinkler.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4nbC3LW0XP2-F0adgRE9AXMdHHnKxn1ex86CjraKRA43W9dWuyXCZkpu-28fKUm_kEzXX5Mw8zltKtGSu1cNBgZfuNOFipnZ5iKEaSM3lxPMMh7T9h-YKmWeFCM1QOhKNyWfvJ7NvfE4/s400/sprinkler.jpg" t8="true" width="295" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Golly gee! Now I'm all wet!" (Gil Elvgren)</td></tr>
</tbody></table><> <br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgN1EZUFePobFDRE_AZQoklUOAE5p_xKK3PijvFGbQe12US3agZmGlWQHXyXuc88LzpxfpSCPPb_Va8l9X9MKolLG8CeHHSnne-ofgl8pUyPh6llbkauVRC-rNU_4lbL-HjdaE0RScFnso/s1600/Gil_Elvgren04.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgN1EZUFePobFDRE_AZQoklUOAE5p_xKK3PijvFGbQe12US3agZmGlWQHXyXuc88LzpxfpSCPPb_Va8l9X9MKolLG8CeHHSnne-ofgl8pUyPh6llbkauVRC-rNU_4lbL-HjdaE0RScFnso/s400/Gil_Elvgren04.jpg" t8="true" width="315" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This picture, titled, "Fresh Lobster" we didn't find but will have to look for it. I love this print! (Gil Elvgren)</td></tr>
</tbody></table><span style="font-family: "Verdana", "sans-serif";"> </span> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"> <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div></div>Lyn Nave Garretthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15683469624877390358noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2960598349901004178.post-40163841544158318462011-05-26T21:53:00.000-07:002011-05-27T10:36:54.120-07:00MY DO LISTOK. My last blog entry for Mother's Day was admittedly on the heavy side. ::Sigh:: I'm still feeling a bit leaden from it.<br />
<br />
Therefore, in order to <i>completely</i> counteract the residual gravitational pull of discussing my mom, my childhood, suicide, self-destructive behavior and other emotionally draining topics, I'm letting the pendulum swing in the opposite direction. With Spring teasing my id, periodic sunshine revving my circadian rhythms and mid-life jamming the signals of my hormonal cycle, I have no choice but to give in to natural groove and <b>go</b> with it.<br />
<br />
As a result, I've put together a Do List, more specifically, MY DO LIST.<br />
<br />
I don't mean to insult your intelligence or knowledge of pop culture, but on the off chance that you're squinting your eyes, shaking your head, pursing your lips and wondering what the hell a Do List is, allow me to explain. <br />
<br />
A Do List is a list of celebrities who you are, in agreement with your partner, allowed "to do" one time, should the opportunity ever arise. The pure beauty is that the event <i>does not count as infidelity</i>. In fact, your partner doesn't even have to know about it. It's like having ten, one use, anonymous E tickets for sex with the top ten celebrities of your choice. Are you with me? Good. Let's move on.<br />
<br />
FAQ's:<br />
<br />
1) Do they have to be celebrities?<br />
Yes. If they were just that old unscratched itch or smoldering ember from years passed, there would be too much emotional tug. The opportune coupling might then become a threat to the partnership. We don't want that. Stop your whining right now and say it with me, "We don't want that." Good.<br />
<br />
2) How many may I have on my list?<br />
That's between you and your sweetie but personally, I'd put the max at 10.<br />
<br />
3) I only get to do them once?<br />
Yeah. That's the rule. This is meant to be <i>pure carnal bliss</i> while avoiding emotional attachments <br />
<br />
4) What are the chances you'd actually ever be in a situation where you might be able to take advantage of your options?<br />
Gosh. I'd have to say skinnier than slim to none. I guess that's really the point. But it's good fun and excellent fantasy fodder, don't you think?<br />
<br />
<br />
OK, here goes. In no particular order I give you:<br />
<ul><li>Ken Watanabe: I adored him in "The Last Samurai". Muscle-ridden, reflective, philosophical, committed, pent-up, angry, loyal, imperfect. Oh, yeah. That could work.</li>
</ul><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img height="263" id="il_fi" src="http://www.tribute.ca/tribute_objects/images/stars/ken_watanabe.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; padding-bottom: 8px; padding-right: 8px; padding-top: 8px;" width="320" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ken, just give me a chance and I can wipe that serious look off your face for a night.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div></div><ul><li>Dwayne Johnson, a.k.a., The Rock: OK. Knock it off. I <i>saw </i>you rolling your eyes. No judging allowed. I <i>like</i> him. He's funny, self-deprecating, hunky, and I could just imagine the feeling of being wrapped up in those steely arms. Yes. That is me you see melting into abandon...</li>
</ul><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img height="400" id="il_fi" src="http://img2.timeinc.net/people/i/2009/specials/bachelors/bachelors/dwayne-johnson-300.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; padding-bottom: 8px; padding-right: 8px; padding-top: 8px;" width="300" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lord, hear my prayer.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div></div><div></div><ul><li>Ryan Kwanten: He cannot possibly be as stupid as his Jason character on True Blood. And besides that, he doesn't need to say a word. In fact, he can just lie there in bed and I'll do all the work for both of us. Happy to oblige.</li>
</ul><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img height="389" id="il_fi" src="http://pamibe.com/wp-content/uploads/ryan-kwanten.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; padding-bottom: 8px; padding-right: 8px; padding-top: 8px;" width="300" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Like I said, he can just lie there and I'll do all the work.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<ul><li>Ed Burns: I guess what I like about Ed is that he seems pretty smart, fairly cute if slightly goofy-looking, not overly concerned about his appearance, and is waving a brave, unapologetic good-bye to his hairline. I appreciate that in a guy. Do you suppose that means he'd try harder? I'm willing to find out. <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img height="400" id="il_fi" src="http://www.coverbrowser.com/image/gq/442-1.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; padding-bottom: 8px; padding-right: 8px; padding-top: 8px;" width="297" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">How about it, Ed. Are you like Avis?</td></tr>
</tbody></table></li>
<li>Isaiah Mustafa--The ex-footballer, Old Spice dude: I know, I know. You're right. He's a sort of a cliched and obvious choice. He seems to have a good sense of humor underneath those biceps. And admit it--he's beautiful without being pretty. Good Christ, look at the dude. What's not to love?</li>
</ul><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img height="223" id="il_fi" src="http://latimesblogs.latimes.com/.a/6a00d8341c630a53ef012877b43d87970c-pi" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; padding-bottom: 8px; padding-right: 8px; padding-top: 8px;" width="400" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I love a man who can handle a horse and smells like a man, man.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><ul><li>Noah Wylie of ER and Donnie Darko fame (to name a few): He's just got that sweet, brown-eyed, take-me-home-and-have-your-way-with-me, puppy dog look that makes me want to snuggle right up to him and spend the night satisfying our mutual beastly urges.</li>
</ul><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img height="410" id="il_fi" src="http://img.liveinternet.ru/images/attach/1/9872/9872839_noah56.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; padding-bottom: 8px; padding-right: 8px; padding-top: 8px;" width="300" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hey, there puppy. May I scratch you here or there? You can scratch me anywhere...</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<ul><li>John Corbett: Remember him? He played the philosophical, ex-felon DJ on Northern Exposure and Carrie's boyfriend in Sex and the City. He seems like another guy who doesn't seem overly concerned about his looks. I can imagine having a beer with him, slipping between the sheets, enjoying a romp and a few laughs at the same time. No one gets hurt and we both go home happy.</li>
</ul><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="294" src="http://www.famousr.com/bigimg/32081.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="250" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Adorable. Who could say no when all you have to do is nod your head yes?</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
No doubt you've noticed I still have 3 spots open. True. I figure I've got lots of time to put things together so I'm not rushing myself. The truth is, there aren't LOADS of men out there I find overwhelmingly panty-dropping appealing. Is it possible middle-agedness is catching up with me? Or perhaps--just maybe--I'm saving those places for a woman or two or three or... Oh, pshaw. Who could blame me?<br />
<br />
This is probably unnecessary, but I feel the need to explain a few blatant omissions:<br />
<br />
<ul><li>Johnny Depp: He was at one time in my line-up but he's gone overboard with that lame pirate look. Lately, he appears to be outrageously filthy and very likely germ-infested, neither quality falling into the category of sexy.</li>
</ul><ul><li>Brad Pitt, Rob Lowe, Jude Law, and the rest of their ilk: Their major issue is <i>they're too pretty</i>. The last thing I want to be thinking about is how much prettier my date is than I. Total buzz-kill.</li>
</ul><ul><li>George Clooney: I dunno. He just doesn't do it for me. I do think he'd be fun to hang out with. Maybe he could be the older brother I never had.</li>
</ul><ul><li>Ashton Kutcher: I should really like him--tall, dark, handsome, but... ::shoulder shrug:: he already has his cougar. He doesn't need me. All I can say is I'm just not that into him. But Demi, girl, you knock yourself out!</li>
</ul><ul><li>Tom Cruise: Just kidding! Really, I wasn't <i>at all</i> serious. Were you? </li>
</ul><br />
If you're wondering if I'm supposed to rank them, the answer is yes. I just can't bring myself to put one over the other. That being said, the older guys have an edge on the younger ones. No doubt about it. Generally speaking, the older they get, the smarter they get, and therefore, the better they get. At least that's the hope. <br />
<br />
You're upset. You're not comfortable with this. You're saying I've objectified these men.<br />
<br />
You're right. And your point is...?<br />
<br />
Be real. On some base level I do this because, as human as I am, I'm still an animal. I'm indulging my animal side right now. Deal with it. Run with it. Snarl at it. Grab it by its scuff. Mount it. Hump it.<br />
<br />
Ah. You feel better now, don't you?<br />
<br />
Once you're done forgiving me for my base indiscretion, I invite you to give it some thought. I'd like to know who makes YOUR DO LIST. Please feel free to respond in the comment section below. Your humanistic/animalistic identity needn't be exposed. You are invited to be as anonymous as your sense of decency requires. But really... my animus is <i>aching</i> to know.Lyn Nave Garretthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15683469624877390358noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2960598349901004178.post-80017630870863271572011-05-04T17:15:00.000-07:002011-05-04T21:55:27.986-07:00In Advance of Mother's Day<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;"> </span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;">I spent the Sunday before Mother’s Day working in my garden—my first big spurt of gardening since the fall. I spent half the day hacking back the neighbor’s overgrown ivy from our fence and aggressively pruning our own outsized, overly exuberant bushes. The rest of the day I devoted to carefully planting iris rhizomes—not too shallow, not too deep, but at just the right level. It occurred to me—not for the first time—the dichotomy of cultivating a garden. It necessitates having both nurturing and destructive capabilities. Oftentimes they are called into play on the same day.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;">When I’m in full-blown (or even shallow-breathing) gardening mode, I can’t help but think of my mom. And with Mother’s Day looming, thoughts of her are more haunting than ever. Weekend after weekend, in her infamous and inglorious gardening moo-moos, she enslaved herself, and with less regularity, her daughters, (thankfully we were spared the humiliation of wearing moo-moos) to yard work. In addition to a painstakingly maintained rose garden, Mom had the best bearded iris collection around. </span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img alt="" aria-busy="true" aria-describedby="fbPhotoTheaterCaption" class="spotlight" height="320" src="https://fbcdn-sphotos-a.akamaihd.net/hphotos-ak-snc6/216153_1650448421534_1246697374_31344208_7143849_n.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="240" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bearded iris at the old house.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;">In what might be deemed hereditary solidarity (and with prompting from my husband who seems to feel roses are floral essentials) I made my last residence a spring/fall iris spectacle and rose grove to behold. I’ve recently taken the bulbous iris outcroppings from the old garden to propagate in our new garden. We’re starting anew with the roses since I couldn’t justify digging up the old bushes. They seem to like life in their current location. If Mom were still around to see her legacy of gardening activities, I think she’d be delighted. And when I survey my work, I acknowledge it as an homage to her.</span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img alt="" aria-busy="true" aria-describedby="fbPhotoTheaterCaption" class="spotlight" height="240" src="https://fbcdn-sphotos-a.akamaihd.net/hphotos-ak-snc6/229834_1650446461485_1246697374_31344203_7507121_n.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="320" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My "old" rose garden--not yet in full bloom.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;">She died a little over seven years ago from complications and consequences of being morbidly obese—the state in which she spent the greater part of her adult life. I wish I could report it was a “good” death—whatever that consists of—that she was fulfilled and satisfied with her 70 years on the planet. I’d like to tell you she went easily and calmly, that she was at peace while she took her leave. Nothing could be further from the truth. Dying isn’t often easy. When you’ve spent a lifetime abusing yourself with food, inactivity and other destructive behaviors, departing can be—and was for <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">both</i> of us—torturous. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;">The only positive thing I can say about her death is that she was ready. In fact, my mom had been ready to depart this world for as long as I can remember. This manifested in some—shall we euphemistically say—self-destructive habits. There were three crises which occurred around the time I was between the ages of three and four that highlighted her injurious propensities. I vaguely remember all of them but required prompting and rehash from my sister (a year and a half older) and my father for the details. The three emergencies happened over the time span of a year or two. No one seems sure about the exact timeline anymore.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;">One incident involved the doctor—Mommy’s beloved Dr. Foster, a psychiatrist who became her unwitting knight in shining armor—coming to the house. She was very sick. My father explained to my sister and me that she’d taken too many pills. I don’t know if he used the word “accidentally” or not but I instinctively understood that it wasn’t an accident. My father took her to the hospital where they pumped her stomach. Apparently, this was a relatively benign aspirin O.D.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;">In a repeat episode (and this involved a lot of fill-in from my dad) she again took too many pills. This time things were more serious. Apparently she’d been stockpiling the sleeping pills (tuinal) my father cautiously doled out to her, to save up for the big event. He found her in bed barely breathing. A call was made to the aforementioned Dr. Foster. This time her hospital trip involved not only a stomach pumping but an overnight stay in the psych ward. She demanded to be let out the next day and was released AMA—against medical advice. Luckily, too many pills had turned out to be not quite enough to achieve her goal.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;">The third misadventure is what I call the “Where’s Mommy?” night. I recall this somewhat more vividly than the other two events, which makes me think it happened later on in the timeline. She left the house in only her nightgown sometime after dark. As my dad tells it, he called the intrepid and by now nearly sainted Dr. Foster and a close friend to help him scour the sleepy streets of Los Gatos in search of his errant wife. My sister and I, also in our nightgowns, were wakened out of beds, put into the backseat of our black and white, 1957 Chevy Bel Air and told to look for Mommy. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;">We didn’t find her until we got back home. Decades later I found out why when Mom recounted the story to me. With weirdly perverse pleasure, she described how she’d slipped out of the front door in nothing but her nightie and hidden in the bushes next to the house. While we were out trolling the roads, looking for Mommy, she went back inside. Twenty plus years later she laughed at how she’d pulled one over on my dad. She made no mention of her two young daughters being hauled out of bed when they should have been sleeping. She offered no apology for making us worry. But man, she had a good laugh at my dad on that one. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Hilarious</i>.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;">Obviously, she never was successful at a full-on sayonara; otherwise she wouldn’t have lived to see her 70th birthday. But you get the idea. These goings-on set a certain tone of anxiety. Growing up, I couldn’t help but feel <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">very worried</i> about my mom. Apprehension and daughterly devotion were my overriding sentiments about her.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;">In those initial decades, the pitch didn’t change much. There was the divorce from my father. There were numerous bouts of her drinking too much. There were hysterical crying jags. There was a completely wrong-on-so-many-levels, marriage to a man who should never have been allowed to visit our home, much less move in with us. This person mentally and occasionally physically brutalized my sister and me. I don’t call him my stepfather and have not kept in contact. Luckily, she divorced him, too. However, that spiraled her into further depression, a recurrence of drinking and much time spent abed.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;">Mom’s bad financial decisions stacked on top of each other like a slow-motion, chain-reaction, freeway pile-up. There was a house foreclosure—the home we grew up in—at a time when foreclosures were not only rare, but shameful. Both my sister and I, by then in college, were afraid for her during this particular time, and rightfully so. We were acutely aware that her “way out” was a default for suicide. If she didn’t like how things were going she could always just take her ball and go home. I honestly, believe that’s how she saw it. Her daughters had learned by then we weren’t supposed to feel responsible. We were just supposed to sadly wave goodbye and not give voice to the fact that we wished she’d stuck around longer. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;">You’re thinking: That’s not how it works. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;">True. But you couldn’t get <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">her</i> to understand that.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;">Empathetic and excessively concerned for the first three and a half decades of my life, my feelings about Mom gradually shifted. Being around her became more and more a horrid chore. I still worried about her but the intensity of the worry was supplanted by resentment and exasperation. By this time I had my own child who needed and depended on me. The obvious questions I’d kept in the depths started bubbling up like a toxic potion. Why couldn’t she be trusted her to take care of herself? Why couldn’t she be good to herself? What was <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">wrong</i> with her? What I once saw in soft focus as her weak and wounded spirit fell into sharper, harsher definition. A person more beset with terminal self-loathing, I’d never met.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;">Not surprisingly, around the age of 50, Mom was diagnosed with diabetes. Her decline was dawdling, occurring in bits and pieces, encroaching in fits and starts. Escalating ailments related to obesity closed in on her. Her once desired goal—to be dead—was taking a drawn-out, tedious and agonizing route to fruition. I removed myself even more from her during this time. I know that sounds bad. It was. Your mom needs you as she becomes more and more ill and you pull away? I did. My sister did too. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;">Mom asked me about it—confronted me, really—and I told her the truth. “I can’t stand watching what you’re doing to yourself. You’re hurting yourself. You’re <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">killing</i> yourself right in front of me and there’s nothing I can do about it. You won’t do what you need to do to get better. You just do things that make it worse. You can’t expect me to enjoy spending time around you.” </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;">It’s extremely hard to care for a person who doesn’t care for themself.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;">Instead of keeping her weight down, being physically active, monitoring her blood sugar and insulin, she helped the disease and her girth along by downing bakery goods like a greedy, deprived child. She refused to believe in the circulatory problems associated with diabetes. Her mother, also a diabetic, had never lost her vision, or a limb, or her kidneys, and therefore it wouldn’t happen to her. In a vague sense, Mom was right. She didn’t live long enough to go blind, or lose body parts. She lived just to the point where she decided to take her ball and go home. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;">A week after she turned 70, she had enough. With a final heart attack, and protracted hospital stay, her abilities to walk and live on her own were extinguished. Rehab attempts did not amuse or arouse her. Threats of moldering away in a nursing home did not inspire or motivate her. She was ready to go. She asked me in front of my son who was ten at the time, to put her in the car and drive her to Oregon where they allow assisted suicide. “Mom. It doesn’t work that way. You have to have been a resident already. You have to be diagnosed with a terminal disease. I can’t. I’m sorry.” “Please,” she begged, “You have to help me.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;">She died not so many weeks later of septicemia which began from bed sores—a direct result of her immobility and her decreased circulation. The doctors advised us to let the infection progress. Mom had a DNR (do not resuscitate) order placed on her file and the doctor was taking it more seriously than we would have on our own. Shocked and resigned, my sister and I agreed. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;">It took days—maybe a week. Between regular pain relief shots, she suffered loudly and indignantly. Finally, I pleaded with Kaiser to put in an IV to allow a steady supply of drugs. They were concerned. Did I know this would hasten the process? Well, no, I didn’t. But if that were the case, I wondered, why didn’t we do this immediately? Wasn’t that the point—to help her on her way as comfortably as possible? </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;">A call came from Kaiser early one morning—around 4:30. Mom had finally passed. When would I be coming to the hospital? What should be done with her body? At her request, she was taken into the care of the Neptune Society. A month or so later, I took her ashes home with me.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;">There was relief. There was sadness. There was regret. There was emptiness. As I write this I understand that there was also irony. She’d been so intent at various times on taking her own life and in the end it had to be done <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">for</i> her with medical intervention. Yes. There was that.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;">I don’t miss my mom the way I presume most people miss their deceased parents. What I miss is the person I think she wanted to be. Or maybe it’s more accurate to say I miss the person<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> I</i> wanted her to be. I’m not so sure how similar those two people are to each other. Mom certainly had good intentions—having a marriage and a family—she just wasn’t always great on follow-through. And I have to wonder if I should be missing her at all or just be happy for her. She finally got what she wanted—that one-way ticket most of us dread. At the not-so-ripe age of 70, her heart’s desire was finally fulfilled with the help of her daughters’ consent and a team of healthcare professionals. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;">So when I’m tilling the soil, maniacally slashing back the overgrowth, tenderly planting seedlings, ripping up weeds, nurturing blooms, pruning off dead wood, or coaxing healthy, new growth, I’m thinking of Mom. She was, in her way, a garden. The first part of my life I spent cherishing, loving, and fretting over her. In later years, I wrongly believed she should be able to take care of herself. At the end, her diabetes and weight evolved into a kind of rampant ivy, taking over her body and pulling her down. It was not a thing over which I had control. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">She</i> was not a person over whom I had control. Finally, the best thing that could be done was to agree to speed her on her way. The decision—both lethal and compassionate—was the most benevolent conclusion we could offer our mother after a lifetime spent trying to hurl herself over the garden gate.</span></div><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;">I wish she were here to see my new garden go in, but I think she’s happier being on the other side of the gate. </span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;"> </span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img alt="" aria-busy="true" aria-describedby="fbPhotoTheaterCaption" class="spotlight" height="320" src="https://fbcdn-sphotos-a.akamaihd.net/hphotos-ak-ash4/226090_1651249041549_1246697374_31345006_1570335_n.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="240" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The first iris in my new garden</td></tr>
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</div></span>Lyn Nave Garretthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15683469624877390358noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2960598349901004178.post-87513864374982454422011-03-25T11:34:00.000-07:002011-03-25T11:47:41.399-07:00Tribute to an "old" friend.<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-outline-level: 3;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana", "sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">Preamble:</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-outline-level: 3;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana", "sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">I wrote this in response to Kirstin's request. She very sweetly is putting together a book of memories for her mother's (Bit's) fiftieth birthday. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-outline-level: 3;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-outline-level: 3;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana", "sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">Bits and I became friends sophomore year of high school. Given the fact that I'd meanly maligned her to another student during a spring concert freshman year <em>and </em>that her mother overheard me, it's sort of miraculous that we ever managed a friendship. But chance stepped in, slapped us in a class together<span style="font-size: small;">—</span>Geometry, Mr. Ephraimoff with the really bad cow-pie comb over<span style="font-size: small;">—</span>and my unfair, preconcieved notions about her fell away. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-outline-level: 3;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-outline-level: 3;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana", "sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">Bits was always bursting with juice: gossip, humor, schemes, drama--the essential elements of fun. While I had other gal pals to make michief with (toilet papering, crank calls, late night carousing<span style="font-size: small;">—</span>the usual shenanigans) when I was with Bits it seemed that things were more likely to go haywire or not according to plan<span style="font-size: small;">—</span>as if there ever was one. There was something daring about her, and at that time, I was a girl who needed a little dare to keep things interesting.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-outline-level: 3;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-outline-level: 3;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana", "sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">That being said, it's not like we ever did anything <em>really</em> bad or criminal, (although as I write this, I have to admit I'd forgotten about the shoplifting), but there were a couple of events that I shake my head and wonder about. Was that really Bits? Was that really <em>me</em>? Good to remember that the stuff you get up to in high school doesn't define you as a person. It just means you had your chance to be a hairbrained high schooler and you took it. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-outline-level: 3;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-outline-level: 3;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana", "sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt;">Here is the letter I wrote for my dear friend. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-outline-level: 3;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-outline-level: 3;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img height="320" id="il_fi" src="http://rlv.zcache.com/50th_birthday_fifty_aged_to_perfection_tshirt-p235154840705014414qmej_400.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; padding-bottom: 8px; padding-right: 8px; padding-top: 8px;" width="320" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Perfection" being a subjective word of course.</td></tr>
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</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-outline-level: 3;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana", "sans-serif";"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Dearest, Bits, aka, Elizabeth, aka, one of a few of my high school partners in crime, aka, current day media personality The Reluctant Therapist:</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-outline-level: 3;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-outline-level: 3;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana", "sans-serif";"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I was honored to be asked to dig deep down into the memory banks—back to the olden days of the mid-to-late seventies, back to the time of goofy, cut-throat high school politics, self-involved teenage angst and boy-centric diffidence. I’ve unearthed a few items I thought you’d enjoy and perhaps a few you’d prefer to forget. Because what’s the good without the bad? Be glad I don’t have a spring-trap brain that clings to every remnant because I’m quite sure I’ve forgotten lots of stuff—probably for very good reasons. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-outline-level: 3;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-outline-level: 3;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana", "sans-serif";"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Some noteworthy gems:</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-outline-level: 3;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoListParagraph" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; mso-outline-level: 3; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span></span><span style="font-family: "Verdana", "sans-serif";">Your mother overhearing me say unflattering things about you at a school concert before we were friends and to my absolute horror, having the story repeated back to me by you. Have I ever told you how much I appreciated your forgiveness? My big, occasionally obnoxious mouth thanks you as well. Given our tender ages that could have so easily caused permafrost. I’m so glad it didn’t. And if I didn’t do a good job apologizing at the time, let me say again how sorry I am. Insecurity can be an ugly thing.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-outline-level: 3;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoListParagraph" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; mso-outline-level: 3; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span></span><span style="font-family: "Verdana", "sans-serif";">Rotating birthday parties. Surprise sweet 16s, being kidnapped for breakfast and having to go to school in pajamas—was that for 17? It began with me in January, then Denise in February then you in March.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-outline-level: 3;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoListParagraph" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; mso-outline-level: 3; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span></span><span style="font-family: "Verdana", "sans-serif";">Sleepovers, sleepovers and more sleepovers!</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-outline-level: 3;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoListParagraph" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; mso-outline-level: 3; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span></span><span style="font-family: "Verdana", "sans-serif";">Monterey Dunes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The hot tub.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Jamie’s wet jockstrap landing on my face.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Jamie, WTF?</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-outline-level: 3;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoListParagraph" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; mso-outline-level: 3; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span></span><span style="font-family: "Verdana", "sans-serif";">Breaking up and getting back together. You and I. Several times.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-outline-level: 3;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoListParagraph" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; mso-outline-level: 3; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span></span><span style="font-family: "Verdana", "sans-serif";">Sophomore year I started it, then you took it up, and Denise finished it: sequential crushes on Sean Trippi. As I recall, Denise won that prize; he certainly seemed like a prize at the time. I’ve gotta be honest, I got over it then and there, but I still remember the sting.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-outline-level: 3;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoListParagraph" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; mso-outline-level: 3; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span></span><span style="font-family: "Verdana", "sans-serif";">Our junior year road trip to Fresno State and UCSB. Remember stopping at Anderson’s Split Pea House, Casa de Fruita, and how terrified you were of my driving? Remember your dad warning us about the dangers of Pacheco Pass? Your dark green Camero survived and so did we. Of course we did. We were 17 and invincible.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-outline-level: 3;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoListParagraph" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; mso-outline-level: 3; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span></span><span style="font-family: "Verdana", "sans-serif";">Being included in enough Weissenborn family gatherings to wish I was a relative rather than a friend.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-outline-level: 3;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoListParagraph" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; mso-outline-level: 3; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span></span><span style="font-family: "Verdana", "sans-serif";">The Dwyers. I wonder from time to time how they’re all doing. Would love to see what those boys-turned-men are up to these days. I envision Brian struggling, Billy gliding, and both of them still not liking each other very much. Reminds me of another couple of other siblings I know but I’m not naming names. Ah… Some things never change even when you wish they would.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-outline-level: 3;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoListParagraph" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; mso-outline-level: 3; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span></span><span style="font-family: "Verdana", "sans-serif";">A story I wish I could forget or better yet, have expunged from the record: Altos Oaks. How exactly the whole thing transpired I can’t explain. It was then and still remains completely out of character for me and for you too—to my knowledge.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In retrospect, it seems like I only watched the movie but, no, we starred in it. Leading lady, Lyn Nave, in the back seat playing tonsil hockey with two boys a year younger. Leading lady, Bits Weissenborn, with you-know-who (at least he was in our class), practicing her lip-lock and padding her make out resume. I’m blaming you, because I cannot for a second imagine such a thing happening with any other friend of mine. As far as I know this tale never made the gossip rounds—thanks be to God. I still cannot believe it was us in that car. Strangely enough, this is one of my husband’s favorite stories about me from high school.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-outline-level: 3;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoListParagraph" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; mso-outline-level: 3; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span></span><span style="font-family: "Verdana", "sans-serif";">And <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">never</i> to be forgotten (although I know you wish it would): the flaming popcorn/exploding beer babysitting event of senior year. In short story form the title would be: “How to do Nearly Everything Wrong on a Babysitting Gig”. Thankfully, at the end of the night everyone was OK, if more than a tad bit frightened.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can still hear that little boy asking, “Is my refrigerator going to catch on fire?” And weren’t they the same Altos Oaks boys who invaded the house playing football with a can of beer? OY! The last thing any parent wants is to come home to a house smelling of liquor, burnt popcorn, and Lysol. We did the only thing reasonable—told the truth. Talk about your crunchy moments. Oof.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-outline-level: 3;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-outline-level: 3;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-outline-level: 3;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana", "sans-serif";"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Darling, beautiful, friend—</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-outline-level: 3;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana", "sans-serif";"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Isn’t evolution a wonderful thing? With age comes all kinds of excellent things: wisdom, patience, acceptance, and ability to see things from beyond our own perspectives. I’m so glad to have had the chance to see life through your eyes from time to time.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-outline-level: 3;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-outline-level: 3;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana", "sans-serif";"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Just remember, you hit fifty; fifty did not hit you. Be sure to keep that as your goal in the many, wonderful years to come.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-outline-level: 3;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-outline-level: 3;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana", "sans-serif";"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">In closing, I’m including the blog posting I made when I made the 50 milestone in January. You can run but you can’t hide.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-outline-level: 3;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-outline-level: 3;"><b><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Georgia", "serif"; font-size: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Hello? Fifty's Here </span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-outline-level: 3;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Verdana", "sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Today you are 50. Five decades. Half a century.Two score and ten. No matter what you call it or how you slice it, 50 is, well...let’s say it’s substantial. It's got some heft. It packs a punch and cannot be sidestepped. It means business. Fifty knocks on your door bold and brash as life itself, because that’s of course what it is, and you have no choice to but to answer it. <br />
<br />
I propose that turning 50 is like a knock, knock joke. <br />
<br />
“Knock, knock.”<br />
“Who’s there?” <br />
“Fifty.”<br />
Your head rushes as your heart gives a funky double beat.<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> Holy shit! Fifty?! How did this happen?</i>you wonder. You try to gather yourself and hesitate before responding with your gut reaction.<br />
“The person you’re looking for is not here.”<br />
“Oh, please! Don’t be coy. YOU are the person I’m meeting today.”<br />
“Uh…Could you come back some other time? I’m really not ready for you today.”<br />
“Sorry, ma'am. Today is the day, YOUR day, the day you turn officially middle-aged.”<br />
“I, uh…could you just give me a little time to spruce up and get myself together? How about tomorrow? I could meet you tomorrow.”<br />
“Today is YOUR day. Don’t worry. I know what you look like and how together you are and are not. Just open up. I promise not to hurt you.”<br />
<br />
You gasp. Is it possible you heard a garbled “much” at the end of that last sentence? You fear this is the case. You calm yourself by taking deep breaths and consider logically what to do. After some reflection, and seeing no escape, as much as you really don’t want to, you determine that you will meet Fifty on your own terms. You decide if you have to do this—and apparently, you do—you will do it graciously. You have your shoulders back and head held high when you open the door and look Fifty straight in the eye.<br />
<br />
The big Five-Oh looks decidedly older than the less significant Four-Oh and somewhat more fragile and out of shape. Five-Times-Ten doesn’t seem to be bothered by the thickening of her waist or embarrassed by the dark splotches that have begun to show on her face, although you find these changes rather disconcerting. It's been a while since Ms. Fifty has been to the hair dresser. You can tell because the gray and mousy brown is showing in her part and at her exposed temple. You notice Ms. Half-Century has brought you a copy of AARP magazine, the publication which will from now on grace your mail box every month; it’s there in her jacket pocket. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Verdana", "sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">And by the way, that jacket—oof! Fifty needs to get a better stylist because plaid corduroy wasn’t a good look even fifty years ago. You think you might do her a favor by mentioning this and suggesting a nice medium weight charcoal gray wool blazer instead, but you’re distracted from saying anything because you’re not sure but you think you can hear Fifty’s joints creaking just a teeny bit as she shifts from foot to foot. Her sensible shoes—Naturalizers—make you blink, trying to clear the vision. At best, the footwear can only be described as beige, frumpy and cankle-inducing. There is a definite whiff of cantankerousness emanating from the enlarged pores of her slightly sagging skin and you wonder if she’s noticed the faint budding of jowls on either side of her once charmingly dimpled chin. The chin cleft doesn’t reach the alluring depths it used to because it's been filled in with a substantial layer of subcutaneous fat. Whatever sex appeal Fifty may have possessed hit the skids at least a year or more ago. You hold back a shudder, not wanting to hurt her feelings.<br />
<br />
She looks at you triumphantly with a certain tinge of smugness thrown in that you suppose is meant to keep you humble. You shake off your dread, tell yourself that despite any appearances to the contrary, you are an adult and will act accordingly. With a deep breath of resolve you try to make the best of the situation by smiling, extending your hand and saying,</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Verdana", "sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Thank you. Thanks so much for coming, Fifty. You’ve brought a lot of changes with you. I want you to know I appreciate the wisdom you’ve shown me in the last decade. You've offered me a deeper perspective and broader understanding of life and how it works. I have more tolerance, am less judgemental and am trying to keep an open, questing mind. There is still so much I need to learn. I want you to know I am truly grateful for your time.”<br />
<br />
Instead of shaking your optimistically offered hand, Madam Fifty deposits the wretched AARP magazine into your proffered palm and says,<br />
“You’re supposed to say, ‘Fifty who?’”<br />
“What?!” You’re confused. Here you are trying to be a good sport about all this and Two-Times-Twenty-five is ignoring your good intentions. What in the hell is she talking about?<br />
“You’re supposed to ask me ‘Fifty who?’ That’s how the joke goes. Remember? Knock, knock?”<br />
“Oh. Right.” You want to show Fifty that despite her disenchanting presence you are still in possession of your well-developed sense of humor. You play along. “OK. Fifty who?”<br />
“Fifty, your new decade.Geeze, woman! Pay attention. Have you gone senile already?”<br />
<br />
You muster a wan smile, shake your head and roll your eyes. Along with being a supremely snappy dresser, Fifty is clearly one bitch of a laugh riot. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Verdana", "sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The best is still to come. I truly believe that. Hoisting a glass in your honor: Cheers, dahlink!</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Verdana", "sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">x<a href="http://www.blogger.com/" name="_GoBack"></a>oxoxo,</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Verdana", "sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Lyn</span></div>Lyn Nave Garretthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15683469624877390358noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2960598349901004178.post-6688184714055815482011-03-20T12:45:00.000-07:002011-03-25T10:40:45.653-07:00GHOST IN THE MACHINE <br />
<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Looks pretty innocent, doesn't it? Cue ominous, foreboding music...</td></tr>
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Despite the fact that I'm a scientist and am not religious in the traditional sense of the word, I do in truth, believe in ghosts. It’s generally not a thing I blurt out for everyone to hear because I’m well aware that people tend to think you’re a crackpot when you say stuff like that. But in light of what I’m about discuss, I think it's fair you know this in advance.<br />
<br />
I probably wouldn't be so sure about the presence of ghosts except for the fact that I’ve seen one. I was 21 when a ghost of unknown origin appeared to me in the middle of the night. It was not a hallucination. I was not dreaming. The reason I know I was not dreaming is because I was wide awake while she—the apparition—hovered at the foot of my bed, and I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">remained</i> wide awake until sunrise finally melted me out of my petrified state many hours later. While she floated near my feet, my ghostess had both hands outstretched as if wanting something from me, but I didn’t know what she needed. I was pretty sure I didn’t have whatever it was, but I was <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">very </i>sure I wanted her to go away. She was opaque and slightly glowing in the classical way that ghosts are portrayed in cinema. Her clothes were turn-of-the-nineteenth-century, ragged and dirty. She appeared to be a beggar.<br />
<br />
In response to her presence, I froze. An almost full-body paralysis overcame me. In that moment I knew precisely the meaning of the phrase “scared stiff.” The only things I was able to move were my eyeballs. I couldn’t turn my head, but found I could avert my eyes. So I looked away from her as far as I could. In my peripheral vision her image persisted. She remained levitating but still for maybe another 30 seconds, arms and hands beseeching. That half minute seemed like an eternity. She faded while I remained tightly clenched, an overwrought mound of panicked protoplasm.<br />
<br />
When enough light infiltrated the curtains many hours later, I got up cautiously and with no small amount of trepidation, crept out of my room and told my mom about it. She’d been sleeping in another room across the hall and had neither heard nor seen anything unusual. For the next four weeks I slept in the same room and, thankfully, the needy spirit left me in peace. My mom, who lived in that house another year or two, never saw her or any signs of her.<br />
<br />
Subsequently, I worried that maybe I was one of "those" people—the kind of person to whom ghosts feel the need to make their presence known. A few years after this event, I attended a neuroscience conference in New Orleans and was lodged in the French Quarter in what used to be slave housing. In modern times the place had been refurbished—Big Easy bungalows was how I thought of them. I figured if there was any place likely to be haunted, this was it. My week’s stay was uneventful and unmarred by anything that could remotely be described as eerie. In a town overflowing with voodoo and other supernatural fallderall, I felt a sense of relief. I must not be susceptible to ghosts after all. Whew!<br />
<br />
Nothing paranormal happened in the next twenty-plus years so I stopped worrying about it. Although I had talked to two people who'd had similar experiences, (there is some comfort in hearing other peoples’ spirit stories—makes you feel less crazy) I didn’t dwell on my apprehension of apparitions. I was over it.<br />
<br />
Then, about eight years ago, we took a family trip to Newfoundland. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was Tim—my husband-to-be—his two kids, Katie and Mike, and my son, Theo. The kids were fourteen, thirteen and nine respectively. Turns out Newfoundland is bursting with ghost stories. I’ve never been to a place so heavily laden with tales from the crypt. We talked about, but didn’t end up taking a walking tour of the capital, St. John’s, which highlighted ghosts and haunted places. I bought a book of collected spook stories of the island. You could say we were immersed in the incorporeal. <br />
<br />
On the last leg of our stay in Newfoundland we rented a house in the town of Trinity. Trinity’s claim to fame is that it’s where the movie, “The Shipping News” was filmed. In addition, Trinity seems to have more than its fair share of ghost legends, even for Newfoundland. There was a high incidence of drowning in Trinity Bay and the local sentiment is that those sodden souls cling to the area relentlessly. Admittedly, by this point of the trip my spirit sense was heightened. <br />
<br />
The house we rented was old but had a clean, modern look and had been somewhat recently remodeled. It was simple, with two stories, three bedrooms and one-and-a-half bathrooms. We stayed for three nights. Every evening the wind picked up and I’d hear knocking against the outside of the house. On the second night I asked Tim to see what was making the noise. He reported and I verified: There was nothing near or touching the house that could be responsible for making the sound. Huh, I thought. Weird.<br />
<br />
On the last night of our stay, we watched "Casablanca" on videotape. While the five of us watched, the channel on the TV changed all by itself <em>three</em> separate times. We changed it back and continued with the movie. Then again, without human intervention, the TV switched off. We switched it back on and were able to get to the end of the film. I went to sleep that last night hearing the ever-present knocking apparently emanating from nowhere.<br />
<br />
I said nothing to the kids or even to Tim until we got back to the States. Once home, I brought up how extraordinary the Trinity events seemed. I told Tim I thought the place was haunted—not in an evil way, just a sort of eerie, annoying way. Then he told me something he’d not mentioned before. When the leasing agent walked him around the house and the rest of us were out of earshot, she told him that under no circumstances was anyone to go in the basement. Oh. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">NOW</i> he tells me? We discussed it a bit more and agreed—there was something pretty strange going on there.<br />
<br />
You may be wondering why I’m bringing this up, because you know this preamble is leading somewhere. So here goes—<br />
<br />
We moved into a new house last June. The house is only five years old and we got a good deal on it because it was a foreclosure. It’s modern, roomy and allows us to spread out and live large. We have loved the design of this house ever since we saw the model five years earlier. We feel extremely fortunate to have gotten the house “on sale” so to speak.<br />
<br />
About a month after we moved in, Tim and I christened the master bath Jacuzzi tub. We lit candles, had champagne and enjoyed a bubble bath for two. The next morning at about seven a.m. the jets in the tub turned on all by themselves. I got up, stumbled into the bathroom and shut the thing down. We couldn't quite figure out how it had happened. Huh, we thought. Weird.<br />
<br />
Since then things have been calm and normal—I say that even though I went through a major upheaval and changed jobs. We are settled in and loving our new house. We do wonder about the previous owner—I feel badly for him, losing such a beautiful home. Lately, we’ve been dealing with a shower leak we thought we'd dealt with in June, but other than that things are basically copasetic. <br />
<br />
Last night we watched Paranormal Activity 2. To me, the family seemed vapid and shallow so I went upstairs before the end. Tim stuck it out to the finish and liked it. We went to bed around 11:15. <br />
<br />
This morning at a few minutes after seven, the Jacuzzi jets powered on. Tim apparently recognized the sound right away. I heard the noise but couldn’t place it. I thought the garage door was going up. “The tub” he grumbled, as he elbowed me—apparently it’s <em>my</em> job to deal with anything involving the haunted tub. So I staggered out of bed and zig-zagged toward the tub. I hit the power button and turned it off. No one has used the tub in probably two weeks. Huh, we think. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Very</i> weird.<br />
<br />
So if anyone reading this has any idea as to what might be causing our tub to switch on by itself that doesn’t involve spirits, ghosts or poltergeists, I’d be happy—thrilled in fact—to hear about it. Please feel free to explain. I’d feel so much better knowing a power surge or lightening strike could have this effect. You have no idea how happy that would make me.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Anybody out there have any ideas about this tub?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Lyn Nave Garretthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15683469624877390358noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2960598349901004178.post-86232778573549671862011-02-15T16:52:00.000-08:002011-02-17T21:23:18.240-08:00Valentine's Day is Over. Time for the Antidote.<span style="font-family: "Calibri", "sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUNt5RP439Wm2CZD5lFZS_eLLf2-5lLPp33ajIdHuEINJd0THcrEHIRKu6fBfBZ9w5x0trQNaOtbQ0owI0BS3DQ5nLuVbS08Z6GY6KtAMroIWW66WVd6ipm7oYpMJlbyLfvhhruO429IU/s1600/1valentines_day_sucks1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" h5="true" height="316" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUNt5RP439Wm2CZD5lFZS_eLLf2-5lLPp33ajIdHuEINJd0THcrEHIRKu6fBfBZ9w5x0trQNaOtbQ0owI0BS3DQ5nLuVbS08Z6GY6KtAMroIWW66WVd6ipm7oYpMJlbyLfvhhruO429IU/s400/1valentines_day_sucks1.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.zwani.com/graphics/antivalentines_day/">http://www.zwani.com/graphics/antivalentines_day/</a> By the way, this site has tons of most excellent anti-Valentine’s Day cards. February 15<sup>th</sup> is the perfect day for checking it out.</div></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">As an antidote to Valentine’s Day this blog posting is meant to clear away any VD hangover symptoms you may be experiencing. Such symptoms may include but are definitely not limited to the following:</span></div><ul><li><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l3 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">· </span></span>Although you got in the spirit of the thing yesterday by hauling out your one pink or red sweater, black is the only color that seems appropriate for February 15.</span></div></li>
<li><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l3 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">· </span></span>You’re suffering delusions of winged, hot pink hearts dive-bombing you and sucking your blood.</span></div></li>
<li><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l3 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">· </span></span>You’re sure Cupid’s arrow either missed you altogether (sob!) or sank a little too deeply into a vital organ and you’re feeling like you’re down a pint. Or maybe it was just those pesky vampire hearts.</span></div></li>
<li><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l3 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">· </span></span>The thought of chocolate and bubbly makes you nauseous and gassy—as if you were expecting anything else.</span></div></li>
<li><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l3 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">· </span></span>You dreamt your colored candy hearts had mean messages on them like “Give it up already” and “There’s someone for everyone—EXCEPT you” and “Good Christ. Are you still here?” and “How can I miss you if you won’t go away?”</span></div></li>
<li><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l3 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">· </span></span>You can’t stop thinking of that Willie Nelson quote, “Ninety-nine percent of the world’s lovers are not with their first choice. That’s what makes the jukebox play.” You think he was really on to something.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span></font> <br />
<div></div></div></li>
</ul><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The remedy I’m suggesting is this: Just go with it. Dive down, go deep, and inhale fully. Let your lungs fill with melancholy and allow despair to course through your veins. Let your arteries stiffen as they clog with gloom and heartache. Envision your blood going blue from lack of oxygen and your broken heart pausing, wondering if you’re planning to live or die. For one day, immerse yourself in the pain because, let’s face it, there is beauty in misery. Don’t be so afraid of it that you miss the sad splendor altogether. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And how do I get there? — you ask. How do I achieve such a level of wretched depression? </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It’s easy. In fact, it’s super simple. I suggest listening to sad songs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I adore sad songs. They’re beautiful and gloomy at the same time. Most of us <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">do</i> like them—and please, you Pollyanna’s out there, don’t bother denying it. It’s evident every day at any time if you tune in the radio. If we didn’t love sad songs, those bluesy, wrist-slitting lyrics wouldn’t be sliding down the radio waves the way they always, always do.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">In fact, the most recent piece of evidence of love for sad songs just transpired this past weekend <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">after</i> I had the idea to write on this topic. Lady Antebellum won the Grammy in the best song <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">and</i> best record categories for their heartache song, “Need You Now.” It’s all about that person who’s not there anymore: “And I wonder if I ever cross your mind. For me it happens all the time. It’s a quarter after one, I’m a little drunk and I need you now.” The guy sings, the girl sings. On they go—yearning, bleeding out and not getting what they want—each other. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Classic heartbreak. What’s not to love?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">To help you in this post-Valentine’s quest of morose inundation, I’ve compiled a list of sad songs. It is not exhaustive, in fact, it’s grossly incomplete. I am not putting myself forward as an expert. This is my <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">personal </i>list with help and add-ins from the Huzby who is also a big fan of sad songs. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And I’m asking for your help. Yes, audience participation is what I’m hoping for. After looking at this list, see what I’ve missed and add it into the ranks. Let’s see if we can shake the Valentine’s saccharine-sickness and get our big bad blues on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I challenge you: How low can we go? </span></div><ul><li><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><u><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">In no particular order I give you:</span></u></div></li>
<li><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l1 level1 lfo2; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">· </span></span>Crazy—Willie Nelson</span></div></li>
<li><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l1 level1 lfo2; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">· </span></span>Wichita Lineman—Jimmy Webb</span></div></li>
<li><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l1 level1 lfo2; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">· </span></span>By the Time I Get to Phoenix—Jimmy Webb</span></div></li>
<li><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l1 level1 lfo2; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">· </span></span>Bobby McGee—Kris Kristofferson</span></div></li>
<li><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l1 level1 lfo2; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">· </span></span>Hot Burrito #1—Gram Parsons</span></div></li>
<li><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l1 level1 lfo2; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">· </span></span>Love Will Come to You–Indigo Girls</span></div></li>
<li><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l1 level1 lfo2; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">· </span></span>River—Joni Mitchell</span></div></li>
<li><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l1 level1 lfo2; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">· </span></span>Little Green—Joni Mitchell (Very sad once you find out it’s about the daughter she gave up for adoption—get’s me every time.)</span></div></li>
<li><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l1 level1 lfo2; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">· </span></span>Blue Bayou—Roy Orbison</span></div></li>
<li><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l1 level1 lfo2; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">· </span></span>Love Has No Pride—Libby Titus and Eric Katz</span></div></li>
<li><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l1 level1 lfo2; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">· </span></span>Someone to Lay Down Beside Me—Karla Bonoff</span></div></li>
<li><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l1 level1 lfo2; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">· </span></span>Suzanne—Leonard Cohen</span></div></li>
<li><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l1 level1 lfo2; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">· </span></span>So Long Marianne—Leonard Cohen (Apparently Marianne really put a big hurt on LC.)</span></div></li>
<li><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l1 level1 lfo2; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">· </span></span>That’s No Way to Say Goodbye—Leonard Cohen</span></div></li>
<li><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l1 level1 lfo2; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">· </span></span>Diamonds and Rust—Joan Baez</span></div></li>
<li><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l1 level1 lfo2; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">· </span></span>Romeo and Juliet—Mark Knopfler</span></div></li>
<li><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l1 level1 lfo2; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">· </span></span>Another Grey Morning— James Taylor</span></div></li>
<li><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l1 level1 lfo2; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">· </span></span>Fire and Rain—James Taylor</span></div></li>
<li><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l1 level1 lfo2; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">· </span></span>Goodnight Elizabeth—Counting Crows</span></div></li>
<li><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l1 level1 lfo2; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">· </span></span>A Long December—Counting Crows</span></div></li>
<li><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l1 level1 lfo2; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">· </span></span>White Flag—Dido (Apparently she wrote this based on letters she found in her father’s stash after he died. Until then she’d never known there was a threat to her parents’ marriage.)</span></div></li>
<li><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l1 level1 lfo2; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">· </span></span>I Can’t Make You Love Me—Mike Reid and Allen Shamblin</span></div></li>
<li><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l1 level1 lfo2; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">· </span></span>Dimming of the Day—Richard Thompson</span></div></li>
<li><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l1 level1 lfo2; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">· </span></span>Angel From Montgomery—John Prine (The line about how a man can go to work all day then come home and have nothing to say reminds me of my first marriage. Nothing lonelier than a bad marriage.)</span></div></li>
<li><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l1 level1 lfo2; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">· </span></span>Candy’s Room—Bruce Springsteen</span></div></li>
<li><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l1 level1 lfo2; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">· </span></span>A whole slew of songs by Lucinda Williams (But I like ‘em better when someone else sings ‘em.)</span></div></li>
<li><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l1 level1 lfo2; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">· </span></span>Last Kiss—Everly Brothers</span></div></li>
<li><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l1 level1 lfo2; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">· </span></span>You don’t Know Me—Cindy Walker and Eddy Arnold </span></div></li>
<li><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l1 level1 lfo2; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">· </span></span>Do I Ever Cross Your Mind—Dolly Parton (Yes. I think of you and the twins every time I’m near the cantaloupe bin, Dolly.)</span></div></li>
<li><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l1 level1 lfo2; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">· </span></span>Killing Me Softly—Roberta Flack</span></div></li>
<li><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l1 level1 lfo2; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">· </span></span>Jagged Little Pill—Alannis Morrisette (True, she’s pissed but she’s also bleeding out.)</span></div></li>
<li><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l1 level1 lfo2; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">· </span></span>Blowin’ In the Wind—Bob Dylan</span></div></li>
<li><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l1 level1 lfo2; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">· </span></span>Don’t Think Twice It’s Alright—Bob Dylan(“You kinda wasted all my precious time…” I know just what you mean, Bob.)</span></div></li>
<li><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l1 level1 lfo2; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">· </span></span>Cat’s In the Cradle—Harry Chapin </span></div></li>
<li><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l1 level1 lfo2; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">· </span></span>Taxi—Harry Chapin</span></div></li>
<li><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l1 level1 lfo2; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">· </span></span>If You Could Read My Mind—Gordon Lightfoot</span></div></li>
<li><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l1 level1 lfo2; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">· </span></span>Leavin’ On a Jet Plane—Peter, Paul and Mary (I used to play this on guitar until my son, at seven, begged me to stop. It got him misty every time. I assume it was the lyrics and not my performance of them but I could be wrong on that.)</span></div></li>
<li><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l1 level1 lfo2; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">· </span></span>If We Meet in Heaven—Eric Clapton (This song about his dead son is wrenching.)</span></div></li>
<li><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l1 level1 lfo2; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">· </span></span>I Can’t Tell You Why--Eagles</span></div></li>
<li><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l1 level1 lfo2; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">· </span></span>Desperado—Eagles</span></div></li>
<li><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l1 level1 lfo2; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">· </span></span>Best of My Love—Eagles</span></div></li>
<li><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l1 level1 lfo2; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">· </span></span>Please Come Home for Christmas—Eagles</span></div></li>
<li><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l1 level1 lfo2; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">· </span></span>It’s Too Late—Carole King</span></div></li>
<li><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l1 level1 lfo2; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">· </span></span>Father and Son—Cat Stevens</span></div></li>
<li><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l1 level1 lfo2; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">· </span></span>Wild World –Cat Stevens</span></div></li>
<li><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l1 level1 lfo2; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">· </span></span>I Am A Rock—Simon and Garfunkle (And a rock feels no pain. And an island never cries.)</span></div></li>
<li><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l1 level1 lfo2; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">· </span></span>The Boxer—Simon and Garfunkle</span></div></li>
<li><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l1 level1 lfo2; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">· </span></span>Wild Horses—Rolling Stones (Huzby informs me this is about Keith Richards’ son.)</span></div></li>
<li><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l1 level1 lfo2; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">· </span></span>She’s Leaving Home—The Beatles</span></div></li>
<li><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l1 level1 lfo2; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">· </span></span>Cowboys and Angels—George Michael</span></div></li>
<li><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l1 level1 lfo2; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">· </span></span>The Sound of White—Missy Higgins</span></div></li>
<li><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l1 level1 lfo2; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">· </span></span>Red Dirt Girl—Emmylou Harris (Poor Lillian!)</span></div></li>
<li><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l1 level1 lfo2; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">· </span></span>My Antonia—Emmylou Harris and Dave Matthews (Died of a fever, wouldn’t you know?)</span></div></li>
<li><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l1 level1 lfo2; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">· </span></span>Just about every song by David Gates from Bread—Diary <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">et. al.</i> (Please pass the tissues.)</span></div></li>
<li><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l1 level1 lfo2; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">· </span></span>Hello It’s Me—Todd Rundgren</span></div></li>
<li><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l1 level1 lfo2; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">· </span></span>Wouldn’t Have Made Any Difference—Todd Rundgren</span></div></li>
<li><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt 0.5in; mso-list: l1 level1 lfo2; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">· </span></span>Need You Now—Lady Antebellum</span></div></li>
</ul><div class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst" style="line-height: normal;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst" style="line-height: normal;"></div></font><br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal;"><br />
<div></div></font></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Special note: I’d like to include Jackson Browne’s songs but beating up your girlfriend gets you an automatic expulsion from my list. Shame on you, JB.</span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal;"><br />
<div></div></font></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpLast" style="line-height: normal;"><u><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">From the wayback machine:</span></u></div><ul><li><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l2 level1 lfo4; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">· </span></span>Streets of Laredo— Frank H. Maynard</span></div></li>
<li><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l2 level1 lfo4; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">· </span></span>Tom Dooley—Frank Warner</span></div></li>
<li><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l2 level1 lfo4; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">· </span></span>Red River Valley—Harlan and Nemha</span></div></li>
<li><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt 0.5in; mso-list: l2 level1 lfo4; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">· </span></span>My Darlin’ Clementine—Percy Montrose of Barker Bradford</span></div></li>
</ul><div class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst" style="line-height: normal;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst" style="line-height: normal;"></div></font><br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpLast" style="line-height: normal;"><u><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Sad songs that are over the top, pathetic or creepy:</span></u></div><ul><li><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo3; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">· </span></span>MacArthur Park (The Cake in the Rain Song)—Jimmy Webb (Man, and it looked good, too!)</span></div></li>
<li><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo3; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">· </span></span>Don’t Let the Sun Go Down on Me—Elton John (It’s gonna be OK, Elton. Just keep taking your Prozac.)</span></div></li>
<li><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo3; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">· </span></span>Most of Us are Sad—Eagles (The tune is entirely too dreary for my taste which puts it in the over the top category.)</span></div></li>
<li><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo3; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">· </span></span>Claire—Gilbert O’Sullivan (Yikes! Dude, she’s a little girl and you’re her babysitter. Can you say chemical castration? Won’t hurt a bit.)</span></div></li>
</ul><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">That’s all I’ve got at the moment. I know I’ve left out a bunch of really good, really suicide-inspiring songs. That’s why I’m asking you to contribute in the comments section. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ll edit the list to reflect your suggestions as they’re made. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Please, don’t be shy. Step right up, and suggest away. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It’s the perfect time of year for sad song day. In fact I propose that February, 15 become an official day of sad songs. Songs to cry with, song to lament over, songs to open up the oven and turn on the gas to. No, no. I’m kidding. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Don’t take it that far.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Just wallow for a while and let the Valentine’s sugar coating dissolve. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Woebegone songs can set you free.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><br />
<div></div></div>Lyn Nave Garretthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15683469624877390358noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2960598349901004178.post-69069508378247038022011-02-08T13:05:00.000-08:002011-02-08T13:22:26.096-08:00Of Life Insurance and Future Scenarios<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img alt="life insurance policy %photo" class="size-full wp-image-1884" height="212" src="http://www.zawaj.com/askbilqis/wp-content/uploads/2009/12/life_insurance_policy.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" title="chro-00030" width="320" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Am I the only one who starts thinking morbid thoughts when the subject of life insurance arises?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>If you have life insurance it has to cross your mind. You pay the bill every month so it cannot have escaped your notice that you're paying a premium on your own and your spouse's lives. Because chances are one of you goes before the other. <br />
<br />
Maybe I'm giving this more thought because I just turned fifty or maybe because I've got a kick-ass cold at the moment, or maybe it's merely the obvious, that I'm strange. In those moments when the Huzby brings it up-- "I got a gazillion dollar policy on you and a gazillion one on me. That way if one of us dies..." (Allright. I'm exaggerating. It's not a gazillion.)--in my twisted, morbid way, I cannot help but play the thing out to it's natural conclusion.<br />
<br />
Me: I just request that when you decide it's my time, I don't have to suffer too much or too long. Make sure whatever it is you have cooked up for me is merciful and quick. I hope that'll be enough for you and Candace to buy that second home in Cabo and you'll be very happy together. <br />
<br />
This is all hallucinatory, of course. In the first place, I have never suspected my husband of wanting to kill me--at least not for a sustained period of time. (Who can say what horrid notion flashes through his brain in a heated argument? Only he knows for sure...) And secondly, as much as I would want my husband to be happy and well should I pass first I don't want him living the high life with that bimbo, Candace, in Cabo. Does this make me selfish?<br />
<br />
To my knowledge, there is no Candace (bimbo or not) in our lives but regardless of the facts, I imagine Huzby hooking up with some large-breasted, wasp-waisted, thirty-something-year-old who can't keep her feet on the floor. She looks like a Candace to me. I can't help it. Really. What am I supposed to say? I just start to internally squirm. It feels crunchy talking about it and yet it doesn't seem to stop the conversation from rolling right along.<br />
<br />
Him (understanding that I'm being sarcarstic and yet kindly trying to reassure me): It's just so if something happens to either of us we can--you know--afford to stay where we are or at least be able to sell and find something smaller. You'd probably want to find something smaller, right?<br />
<br />
Me (hating to picture the scenario but doing it anyway): Yeah. This house is too big for me by myself. I guess you'd stay here, though, right?<br />
<br />
Him: Yeah. I'd stay here.<br />
<br />
End of conversation except for the fact that it plays on in my head.<br />
<br />
Me: Right. There'll be plenty of room for you and Candy and all of her lonely, commiserating girlfriends who feel sorry for you and want to make you feel better because you just lost your wife.<br />
<br />
Him: Sure. A bedroom each for the other three while I share the master bedroom with whoever it is who's keeping me warm and drying my tears that night.<br />
<br />
Me: Wait a second. How come we never talk about me hooking up with someone else? It's always you who gets to be the swinging widower. <br />
<br />
Him: OK. Your turn to be the wild, winsome widow. Who would you go for? Some twenty-five year old stud?<br />
<br />
Me: Ugh. No. Twenty-five? Get outta here. That's <em>way</em> too young. He'd have to be somewhere in the neighborhood of my age. Otherwise, I'd feel too old. And I don't want to be someone's mother's age. Ick!<br />
<br />
Him: So...who then?<br />
<br />
Me: <em>Silence</em><br />
<br />
I have no answer. I am totally stumped.<br />
<br />
How can it be that even in a fantasy I can 't come up with my dreamboat replacement for the Huzby? Am I lacking in imagination? This is not usually a problem for me. Is the Huzby (aka Mr. Grumpy) just so perfect in every way that he cannot possibly be improved upon? Hmm...This is a tempting out but in fantasies, <em>anything</em> is possible, so I <em>can</em> envision a slightly sunnier Mr. G (Mr. Not Quite So Grumpy), but he's still the self same Huzby. I am unable to conjure up a novel stand-in. I think it comes down to so dreading the vision of finding someone else, I honestly cannot come up with a surrogate because I don't want to. <br />
<br />
What this means, I suppose, is that I truly am the one who should go first and that way I'll never be confronted with the problem. Still, thinking of the Huzby and Candace and her three friends enjoying the pay out from my life insurance policy at their Cabo condo is certainly motivating. It motivates me to take my vitamins and supplements, go to the gym, get enough sleep, eat well and take good care of myself. <br />
<br />
Sorry Candy, but by the time you get your chance, your boobs will be sagging down to your widening waist and your feet won't be quite as prone to flight as they once were. Let's face it woman, by then Huzby's taste in women will have probably not have changed. So prepare yourself. I foresee a Veronica, Serena, Raquel, Alicia, Cherie, Romy or Babette on the horizon who's not so long in the tooth. So sad. Too bad.<br />
<br />
Sheesh. Life insurance. What a buzz kill.<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img height="265" id="yui_3_3_0_1_1297190277792116" src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5126/5364694035_92fbfacd2a_z.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="400" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We may be getting older but we're not dead yet. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>Lyn Nave Garretthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15683469624877390358noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2960598349901004178.post-83145548552375637882011-01-25T19:54:00.000-08:002011-01-27T21:39:05.230-08:00Bouncing Between the Blankets with Tigger <br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img height="400" src="http://media4.px.yelpcdn.com/photo/uiUCalZku5-hqqynMbxp4w/l" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="224" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Who? Me? Tigger?</td></tr>
</tbody></table> You certainly can't tell by looking. By observation alone I bet you'd think my husband, Tim, is a serious sleeper. I mean, just take a gander--handsome as hell with resolute stamped all over him like a very serious USDA prime cut of beef. He's serious about <em>so</em> <em>many</em> things, surely he'd be serious about sleeping, right? Truly, it often happens that he does sleep like a normal, serious, sleep-loving person. However, on a somewhat regular basis, he turns into a night time Tigger. <br />
<br />
You remember Tigger. From Winnie-the-Pooh? Striped, stuffed, sprightly, supple? He came spring-loaded onto the scene a little bit later (Chapter 2 of House at Pooh Corner) than the regular cast of characters. He spelled his name T-I-double guh-err. And do you remember what Tiggers love to do and do best? Ding, ding, ding! You are correct. Tiggers love to BOUNCE. <br />
<br />
I know, I know. Hard to believe isn't it? Anyone who knows Tim even a little bit can't imagine him bouncing. "Tim" and "bounce" go together like "Santa" and "pirouette". Or maybe I should say "Tim" is to "bouncy" as "Charles Bronson" is to "fluffy". It just doesn't follow. In fact, if Tim <em>were</em> an actual tiger, most of us in the know would think of him like this:<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img height="133" id="il_fi" src="http://www.marietta.edu/~biol/biomes/images/taiga/tiger_6021.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; padding-bottom: 8px; padding-right: 8px; padding-top: 8px;" width="200" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Your answer was not well constructed and does not please me in the least."</td></tr>
</tbody></table> <br />
And not like this:<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img height="180" id="il_fi" src="http://disneyclipart.net/wp-content/uploads/2010/08/Tigger-Disney-Clip-Art-Animated-ClipArt-18.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; padding-bottom: 8px; padding-right: 8px; padding-top: 8px;" width="200" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Boing! Boing! Boing!</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<br />
Nevertheless, the fact remains: On occasional nights of torment, a rash of restless bounciness sets in. Tim's inner Tigger gets triggered.<br />
<br />
<u>Bounce-inducing sleep scenarios:</u><br />
<br />
1) Vampire dreams. In Tim's fantasy-driven psyche, vampires can assume nearly any form. So far I've experienced by proxy cat vampires, zombie vampires, and porno-babe vampires. True, I thought the porno-babe vampires were pretty funny. Ooooo! So scary! But, hey, I get it. A vampire of any sort is horrifying even if she <em>is</em> hot and horny. Most of us don't want to die by exsanguination. Although surely there are some who'd volunteer if the love bites were given by Jenna Jameson with fangs. (Any takers?)<br />
<br />
2) Alien dreams. Sometimes it's the Predator alien, sometimes it's the Alien alien, sometimes it's a robot alien but often it's left to my own imagination because the Huzby doesn't enlighten me with the details. Sometimes the generic "alien" is as good a description as I receive.<br />
<br />
3) Ghost dreams. Details of such are vague or nonexistent which is fitting for ghosts, I suppose. Apparently a ghost is a ghost is a ghost. <br />
<br />
4) My wife's being mean to me dreams. I'm not sure why, but I seem to be a recurring incubus in my husband's nocturnal story lines. Kind of makes me wonder what I'm doing that feeds this iniquitous hallucination. These occur about once a month if not more. In these nightmares I'm mean to my husband in a variety of ways and differing scenarios and always for no reason at all. They tend to be somewhat infuriating for me also. When I hear of my fictional infractions in the morning, I too, am shocked at the atrocities I commit in these after dark dramas. I wish I could behave myself better, but apparently no matter what I do during real life I'm destined to remain a she-devil from purgatory in my honey's dream life. <br />
<br />
5) Dreams about missing planes and forgetting where the car is parked. A common plague for my poor Tigger who has an anal side that more than occasionally rears its ugly rear.<br />
<br />
6) Dreams combining any of the above, i.e., <br />
~My wife, the alien, is being mean to me and forgot where she parked the car so we miss the plane.<br />
~Ghosts and aliens are colluding with my wife and being mean to everyone by moving their parked cars. Everyone misses their planes.<br />
~Aliens, ghosts and my vampire wife are all making a porno in the back of parked cars. Planes take off with no one inside.<br />
<br />
7) The room is too hot.<br />
<br />
8) Indigestion--food too spicy, food too gassy, food too mucho, drinks over poured.<br />
<br />
9) The catch-all category: Anything else that's aggravating his overactive animus.<br />
<br />
Of course, the vampires, aliens, ghosts, missed planes, misplaced cars, witchy wife, hot room, indigestion and suffering subconscious are Tim's first-person persecutions. I'd like to help, but there's not much I can do beyond waking him up when things get not only bouncy, but loud. The problem for me is that he does not suffer in first person, alone. When <em>he</em> has a bouncy night, <em>I</em> have a bouncy night. <br />
<br />
We have a tempurpedic mattress which allows decent shock absorption and affords a muted experience if you have a restless sleep partner. Still, on a bouncy, trouncy night, while Tim-turned-Tigger is energetically, and athletically plopping the hours away, I'm experiencing our form fitting foam mattress as class II rapids river rafting expedition. And I'm not strapped in. It's a real life demonstration of Newton's law of motion: For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. Tigger <strong>crashes</strong> down into the mattress and I am launched upwards. He <strong>flips</strong>; I flop. He <strong>clips</strong>; I clop. Good Sir Isaac, your law remains intact and in regular use at Tigger's house of bounce. <br />
<br />
It's true, I could get up and go sleep in the other room leaving Tigger to his tough out his tortuous terrors on his own--but I don't. I can never seem to snap to full consciousness and make the move. Instead, I burrow down, hug my pillow tight and grab the covers with all my half-asleep might trying to hold down all the slumberland real estate I started with--not an easy task. I grumble, groan and huff but never manage to remove myself from our tumultuous nocturnal tango to the quietude of the foldout couch. I suppose you could say that in response to Tim turning Tigger, I turn tick. You know how ticks are, the harder you try to get them out, they more tightly they hold on. <br />
<br />
Uh, oh. I think I see the seed of a new nightmare.Lyn Nave Garretthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15683469624877390358noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2960598349901004178.post-89805601049348953702011-01-09T15:05:00.000-08:002011-01-09T21:41:27.786-08:00Hello? Fifty's HereToday I am 50. Five decades. Half a century. Two score and ten. No matter what you call it or how you slice it, 50 is, well...let’s say it’s substantial. It's got some heft. It packs a punch and cannot be sidestepped. It means business. Fifty knocks on your door bold and brash as life itself, because that’s of course what it is, and you have no choice to but to answer it. <br />
<br />
I propose that turning 50 is like a knock, knock joke. <br />
<br />
“Knock, knock.”<br />
“Who’s there?” <br />
“Fifty.”<br />
Your head rushes as your heart gives a funky double beat.<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> Holy shit! Fifty?! How did this happen?</i> you wonder. You try to gather yourself and hesitate before responding with your gut reaction.<br />
“The person you’re looking for is not here.”<br />
“Oh, please! Don’t be coy. YOU are the person I’m meeting today.”<br />
“Uh…Could you come back some other time? I’m really not ready for you today.”<br />
“Sorry, ma'am. Today is the day, YOUR day, the day you turn officially middle-aged.”<br />
“I, uh…could you just give me a little time to spruce up and get myself together? How about tomorrow? I could meet you tomorrow.”<br />
“Today is YOUR day. Don’t worry. I know what you look like and how together you are and are not. Just open up. I promise not to hurt you.”<br />
<br />
You gasp. Is it possible you heard a garbled “much” at the end of that last sentence? You fear this is the case. You calm yourself by taking deep breaths and consider logically what to do. After some reflection, and seeing no escape, as much as you really don’t want to, you determine that you will meet Fifty on your own terms. You decide if you have to do this—and apparently, you do—you will do it graciously. You have your shoulders back and head held high when you open the door and look Fifty straight in the eye.<br />
<br />
The big Five-Oh looks decidedly older than the less significant Four-Oh and somewhat more fragile and out of shape. Five-Times-Ten doesn’t seem to be bothered by the thickening of her waist or embarrassed by the dark splotches that have begun to show on her face, although you find these changes rather disconcerting. It's been a while since Ms. Fifty has been to the hair dresser. You can tell because the gray and mousy brown is showing in her part and at her exposed temple. You notice Ms. Half-Century has brought you a copy of AARP magazine, the publication which will from now on grace your mail box every month; it’s there in her jacket pocket. And by the way, that jacket—oof! Fifty needs to get a better stylist because plaid corduroy wasn’t a good look even fifty years ago. You think you might do her a favor by mentioning this and suggesting a nice medium weight charcoal gray wool blazer instead, but you’re distracted from saying anything because you’re not sure but you think you can hear Fifty’s joints creaking just a teeny bit as she shifts from foot to foot. Her sensible shoes—Naturalizers—make you blink, trying to clear the vision. At best, the footwear can only be described as beige, frumpy and cankle-inducing. There is a definite whiff of cantankerousness emanating from the enlarged pores of her slightly sagging skin and you wonder if she’s noticed the faint budding of jowls on either side of her once charmingly dimpled chin. The chin cleft doesn’t reach the alluring depths it used to because it's been filled in with a substantial layer of subcutaneous fat. Whatever sex appeal Fifty may have possessed hit the skids at least a year or more ago. You hold back a shudder, not wanting to hurt her feelings.<br />
<br />
She looks at you triumphantly with a certain tinge of smugness thrown in that you suppose is meant to keep you humble. You shake off your dread, tell yourself that despite any appearances to the contrary, you are an adult and will act accordingly. With a deep breath of resolve you try to make the best of the situation by smiling, extending your hand and saying,<br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Thank you. Thanks so much for coming, Fifty. You’ve brought a lot of changes with you. I want you to know I appreciate the wisdom you’ve shown me in the last decade. You've offered me a deeper perspective and broader understanding of life and how it works. I have more tolerance, am less judgemental and am trying to keep an open, questing mind. There is still so much I need to learn. I want you to know I am truly grateful for your time.”<br />
<br />
Instead of shaking your optimistically offered hand, Madam Fifty deposits the wretched AARP magazine into your proffered palm and says,<br />
“You’re supposed to say, ‘Fifty who?’”<br />
“What?!” You’re confused. Here you are trying to be a good sport about all this and Two-Times-Twenty-five is ignoring your good intentions. What in the hell is she talking about?<br />
“You’re supposed to ask me ‘Fifty who?’ That’s how the joke goes. Remember? Knock, knock?”<br />
“Oh. Right.” You want to show Fifty that despite her disenchanting presence you are still in possession of your well developed sense of humor. You play along. “OK. Fifty who?”<br />
“Fifty, your new decade. Geeze, woman! Pay attention. Have you gone senile already?”<br />
<br />
You muster a wan smile, shake your head and roll your eyes. Along with being a supremely snappy dresser, Fifty is clearly one bitch of a laugh riot. <br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5205/5340597924_062966b7b2_z.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My birthday was a lovely evening of family, friends, paella, German chocolate cake and a flow of wine that's fine and sanguine.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5125/5340599974_c02a10f004_z.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Thanks to Mr. Grumpy for a near decade of fun and happiness. I guess when the wife turns 50 it necessitates more drinking .</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Lyn Nave Garretthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15683469624877390358noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2960598349901004178.post-80595867809946185092011-01-02T17:33:00.000-08:002011-01-03T15:30:44.819-08:00Happy New Year and See You at the Gym!It may be bad karma to do this at the start of the year and I may set my self akilter by giving in to a crotchety moment of pet-peevishness. But this is the time of year it all goes down. And because it is what it is, I'm embarking on my once a year tirade. So please excuse me while I mount my soap box and hold forth. You fitness wanna-bees who swarm the gym for the first six weeks after the start of the new year drive me crazy.<br />
<br />
Let's get this straight: I want you to be healthy. I want you to be fit. I want you to avoid all the dreadful health issues associated with obesity like diabetes, arthritis, high blood pressure, and a myriad of other cardiovascular complications. These are all the things that did in my mother--a major motivating factor for me and why I strive to stay somewhere in the realm of "in shape." I do not and never will be an advocate for "letting yourself go" or embracing your zaftig side. I watched my mother's not so slow slide into morbidity from overeating and under exercising and it was ugly, sad and horrible. I don't wish her fate on anyone. At all times, under any conditions, I urge you to make time for fitness in your life. <br />
<br />
I <em>know</em> you want to be healthy and stay committed to a regular exercise regimen. <strong>Great.</strong> <strong>So <em>do</em> it.</strong> I'm not being a smart ass. I'm not being smug. I mean no disrespect. And if it makes you feel any better, I confess that I too, have motivation issues that sometimes keep me from doing what's best for myself. Nevertheless, I <em>implore</em> you to be healthy and get moving. <br />
<br />
Exercise. Work out. Run. Walk. Swim. Spin. Ride. Glide. Dance. Prance. Trot. Pilate. Sweat. Get wet. Huff and puff. Jump and pump. Vault. Sommersault. Shake your groove thang, money maker, booty, keister, toosh, derriere, or whatever it is you want to call that junk in your trunk that keeps you glued to your couch. Do <strong>not</strong> fall victim to <em>inertia of the gluteus maximus</em>. This disease will kill you in the long run or possibly even the short run. Fight it. Beat it. Win.<br />
<br />
I write this for you if you're the person who starts the year out with all kinds of good but weak intentions and half-resolved New Year's resolutions. It's meant for you if you're one of the many who gets in everyone's way at the gym for the first 4-6 weeks of the year and then finds you're too busy, tired or bored to come back. I'm talking to you if you and your desire to stay in shape part ways around mid-February, just when your body has come to terms with the fact that you mean it when you get your heart rate up. This is not the time to throw in the towel. It's the time to congratulate yourself on making it through the first grueling six weeks and start reaping the rewards of the sweat and sore muscles you've endured. You've hit the sweet spot so pick that towel back up, wipe the sweat off your brow and keep going.<br />
<br />
What I'm suggesting is that this year you do something different. Don't just jump on the exercise bike from January to February and then slack off. Don't imagine we won't notice your absence in conditioning class. Don't let yourself off the hook now that you feel slightly more toned. Don't fall prey to gravity. Go, go, go! Do it! <em>Keep</em> doing it! Do it even when you're not in the mood. I'm convinced it counts even more when you do it when you're not in the mood. Yes. Extra credit for that.<br />
<br />
Because if you do it long enough and regularly enough here is what will happen: You'll LIKE it. You may even learn to LOVE it. Your body will start to crave the release of sweat and endorphins. Your spouse, sweetie or self-image (or perhaps all three) will thrill at what happens to your body. You will sleep better. You may want to eat less. You may be able to eat more. You will stand taller. You will walk straighter. You will feel stronger. You may find yourself smiling more, laughing more, feeling sexier, funnier, smarter, faster, lighter. You may find you can leap small fire hydrants in a single bound. You will slouch less, hurt less, stumble less, lean less, and all the while you will breath better and feel tighter--in a good way. If you stick it out and get to three months you may find exercise becomes embedded in your neural nets. <br />
<br />
Think of it: Exercise will become less like work and more like enjoyment.<br />
<br />
My message to you is this: Regardless of your bad knees, bad back, bad shoulder, bad hip, bad day, bad headache, bad mood, bad hair day, bad fill-in-the-blank, get yourself moving and keep it up. You've got nothing to lose except those lumps, bumps and possible stow-away pounds while you gain muscle, give your heart something to pump about and get healthier. <br />
<br />
So YAY, TEAM! YOU CAN DO IT! KEEP GOING! BE GOOD TO YOUR BODY AND IT'LL BE GOOD TO YOU!<br />
<br />
As Gerry, one of a few fitness gurus I know says, "Take care of your body. If you don't, who will?" In my mom's case, for the last three months of her life, the answer to that question was the caretakers at Pine Ridge Care Center--a nursing home. She had recently turned 70.<br />
<br />
<br />
Here's to a fit and healthy 2011. I'm off to do some sit-ups.Lyn Nave Garretthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15683469624877390358noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2960598349901004178.post-43107669244659920722010-12-28T20:36:00.000-08:002010-12-29T09:56:01.078-08:00Remembering Mom’s Cooking—A Holiday ReverieI'd just been sifting through the New Yorker—the Thanksgiving food issue had been adorning our kitchen counter for a while. Finished with E.L Doctrow's fiction "Assimilation", I read some of the food stories Thanksgiving morning. First, I consumed Allegra Goodman’s story about trying to reproduce her mother's “elegiac” Linzer torte. Next, I digested Jane Kramer’s homage to root vegetables. And lastly, I partook of David Bezmozgis’ sentimental how-to piece on pickled cabbage featuring his deceased grandfather. The pieces were poignant and evoked a sense of "Gosh, that’s interesting.” and "Gee, I can really relate to that." and “I may need a tissue."<br />
<br />
Since then I’ve been thinking about my own culinary upbringing and what I would write should I ever evolve the talent to join the ranks of esteemed contributors to The New Yorker. I’m sorry to say “elegiac” is not a word that sprang to mind as I accessed the memory banks of my childhood food experiences. Aside from my sister, Beth, I doubt there are very many folks out there who can relate. And while I’m quite certain no tissues will be required unless a cold has grabbed hold, I thought I’d give it a go anyway.<br />
<br />
<br />
Mom was all about teaching her daughters to cook. Partially, her motive was normal mothering instinct, but I’m pretty sure her prime objective was to get her two daughters cook-capable in order to pick up some of the work load. She worked full time and as a result, for our ages, we were charged with some fairly hefty responsibilities. By the time I was in 5<sup>th</sup> grade, and my sister in 7<sup>th</sup>, we were each cooking dinner two nights a week. Beth, a natural-born homemaker, was much more game for the idea than I. She would spend time, follow recipes, take pride, and put something together that could generally qualify as cuisine. Her chicken and rice casserole was everybody’s favorite. I, on the other hand, had no designs on mastering the domestic arts, and tended to fall back on box meals, mac and cheese and tuna casserole. I viewed cooking as just one more chore on the list. Scrub toilet—check. Vacuum carpet—done. Make dinner—well, if I must. Ho hum—the drudgery!<br />
<br />
As a thrift measure, we’d buy half a side of beef at a time and when the huge freezer truck pulled up in front of the house, my sister, mom and I would form a sort of bucket brigade with meat so the butcher-paper parcels could be loaded quickly into the garage freezer. The white wrapped packages would sit dutifully on the shelves, like nutritive soldiers, awaiting their fate in the oven or fry pan. The steaks and more interesting cuts would always be consumed first. By the time we’d get to the last of the packages—ranks of ground beef—many months or perhaps a year later, the remaining militia would have succumbed to some fairly serious freezer burn. We’d amputate the frost-bitten appendages and put the aged recruits out of their misery in the form of spaghetti sauce, meat loaf or if I was cooking, ‘70s-innovation-run-amok, Hamburger Helper. To my childish palate, Hamburger Helper tasted just dandy, but in my adulthood, I’d never touch the stuff. In fact, as a direct result of eating so much ground beef, I've developed a lifetime aversion to hamburger. Time will tell what such meaty consumption has done to my veins and arteries.<br />
<br />
Vegetables were tricky. Salad was a rare treat and fresh vegetables were not done for the most part. This would have involved too much reliance on timely shopping. Frozen was the vegetable method of choice. Little wonder that my sister despised vegetables for the most part. Beth had a very short list of acceptable veggies that didn’t result in tears when Mom insisted we eat everything on our plates. Born in the 1933 depression years, Mom would turn harpy if your plate wasn’t clean. For me, as long as it wasn’t Brussels sprouts or lima beans, I’d eat it. I may not have liked it but I’d do just about anything to avoid a set to.<br />
<br />
Mom’s method to get the frozen bricks thawed and cooked as quickly as possible was to put the burner on high, dump the ice-blocked vegetables in the pan, add a little water and walk away to do something else. Usually this included refreshing her 16 ounce screwdriver with a shockingly high ratio of vodka to OJ—the seed of another story all together. A good percentage of the time this would result not only in burned vegetables, but a saucepan that required SOS soap pads, overnight soaking, and plenty of elbow grease to remove the charring. We had blackened pan scouring down to a science. If Mom was cooking, you had an 80-20 chance of being required to expunge the cremated remains of some unsuspecting food item off the cookware.<br />
<br />
Indeed, high heat and carbonized food was a recurring theme. Steaks at our house were regularly cooked flambé. I believe this was unintentional but I could be wrong. Mom would set the oven rack so close to the broiler coil the grease would catch fire. It apparently never occurred to her that lowering the rack might avoid this issue. Steak night almost always erupted into a flaming circus act with fire licking the upper cupboard and flour flying in order smother the flames. I was never sure if it was better to be in the kitchen nervously watching the pyrotechnics or hiding in my room and waiting to hear “Hey, the meat’s on fire!” from down the hall. It’s true we never had to call the fire department, but when I was younger, I found these burnt offerings more than a little disturbing. I silently vowed <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">never</i> to cook steaks in my own house when I grew up—<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">far</i> too dangerous. It wasn’t until I got out more that I realized ours was the only family to cook their prime cuts by immolation.<br />
<br />
For company and holidays Mom’s traditional, East Coast, Welsh/German sensibilities would momentarily prevail and we’d dispense with combustible comestibles—except by design. A roast of some sort—beef, lamb, pork or turkey—was always in the offing and, amazingly enough, was always cooked to perfection. On these special occasions, salad and fresh, unscorched vegetables would grace the table having been purchased with the fest in mind. Mashed potatoes and gravy prepared in a conventional manner were welcome additions to the main course which was served with pomp and circumstance on china, accompanied by silver and proper linens in the dining room.<br />
<br />
Dessert for these formals affairs was usually a Mrs. Smith’s pie of some sort. You could almost pretend you made it yourself since it had to be baked in the oven. (An aside: My sister managed to master pies in her late teens, whereas I am still in awe and want of pie-making skills. I trust Whole Foods or Costco for pie unless it’s pecan. Pecan, I can manage with the aid of a store-prepped shell. Pastry seriously intimidates me.) In the event of Christmas, persimmon pudding was our traditional dessert and because old habits die hard, the brown mound was treated to a dousing of flaming brandy. The display was always impressive but nerve-wracking. I’d hold my breath and try to decide if water or napkins might be best in case I had to spring into fire-fighting mode. Looking back, it’s surprising I hadn’t become somewhat inured to the idea of blazing food. To Mom’s credit, the pudding always burned itself out without emergency intervention and the delicious, raisiny cake was devoured with hard sauce. Right-o. The alcohol was never forgotten.<br />
<br />
Aside from formal meals, Mom’s other culinary forte was weekend breakfast. During the week cold cereal was <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">de rigueur</i>. But on weekends Mom would sometimes pull out the stops and make French toast or pancakes and bacon. Reliably, these would be mornings when Beth or I would have had friends sleep over. I think it was mom’s way of waking us up and getting us going on the weekend so there weren’t two or three teenage girls sprawled over the living room fold-out until 11 or noon. She’d also take the opportunity to hang out and get whatever info she could from our friends about her daughters' for the most part unexciting “private lives”.<br />
<br />
These special mornings, much to our annoyance, Mom would start making a ruckus in the kitchen around 9. As soon as the bacon aroma teased our olfactory bulbs, we’d give up our futile attempts at sleep and stumble into the kitchen. It’s true, sometimes the pancakes were a bit darker and oil-smoked than ideal but we weren’t picky. I never told my friends this was not typical weekend treatment. I think they thought every weekend was one, long morning pancake party. Good thing they didn't stick around for steak night.<br />
<br />
The antithesis to formal meals and morning pancakes was Mom's most creative and least delectable contribution to our nutritional history—homemade TV dinners. You remember TV dinners—right? When you’re a kid, they actually seem exotic or exciting in spite of what they actually are—an entire meal frozen in a sectioned-off aluminum tray. Mom would save the trays and when we had leftovers, we’d segregate the food—meat in the middle, veggies on the sides—wrap the tray in foil and freeze it. Weeks or months later the food would be resurrected in the oven. <br />
<br />
Not surprisingly, these were not appetizing meals. My sister was fairly certain we’d die young because of them. The food didn’t survive the storage well and upon the great foil unveiling you’d find desiccated meat and overcooked veggies. Reconstituted freezer burn reigned supreme. To avoid the dryness we tried adding a bit of water to the sections before heating which only succeeded making a runny mess of everything that nothing could possibly help anyway—unless it was the miraculous appearance of Meals on Wheels. <br />
<br />
Maybe it was mom’s way of assuring us these were “real” TV dinners, because more often than not we’d eat them in front of the TV when usually we ate at the kitchen table. My sister, older and wiser, had the good sense to merely pretend to eat—choking down a few bites and pushing the vitiated vittles around with her fork. Younger and hungrier, I ate the ersatz TV dinners despite their unappetizing essence. I don’t think it ever resulted in actual illness, but the thought of this desecration to leftovers does arouse a certain, vague nausea to this day.<br />
<br />
In spite of the burnt offerings, TV dinners gone wrong, and over indulgence in beef, Beth and I grew up healthy. I have not retained many of Mom’s lessons in <em>haute cuisine</em> although it’s widely agreed that my mac and cheese—a noodle or two short of being elegiac—is the bomb. I’ve modified the recipe significantly since my girlhood and my half-Italian husband informs me it’s more akin to baked ziti. Beth has cleaved to her homemaker roots and continues to carry on and improve many of Mom’s food traditions. She is the only person I know who makes Yorkshire pudding for the holidays, a carryover from Mom’s Welsh side of the family. <br />
<br />
Mom passed nearly six years ago. We never really spoke of it, but I assume she was happy in the knowledge that her oldest daughter was and is doing much improved and less flammable versions of many of her recipes. And her youngest daughter, never big on domesticity, has not set anything in the kitchen on fire for at least a decade, and has become a respectable cook herself. Even her discriminating, foodie husband agrees. <br />
<br />
Mom, I applaud you on job well done. I do hope at some point you gave yourself a pat on the back. It's a shame I never did. Now I wish I had. On second thought, maybe I’ll need that tissue after all.<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><br />
</div>Lyn Nave Garretthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15683469624877390358noreply@blogger.com5