The Party Bra

Jo called. "This is so intense," she said. "I'm coming up there. I'm taking you shopping, then we'll go to Temple together and give your mom the day off." There was no arguing with Jo, anyway I didn't want to argue. Dad was 3 weeks in the surgical ICU not making any progress, and Mom and I were emotionally exhausted. Jo was coming. Mom and I would have a break in the monotony of traveling in and out of Philly together, an hour each way, visiting a man who would not awaken. Everyday the doctors said the same thing: "We just don't know."

Jo pulled into the driveway on Friday afternoon at the same time we were returning from our daily trek to Temple. She lugged in a HUGE pan of peanut butter fudge. Mom stayed behind to make phone calls and embark upon a fudge-based-stress-reduction regimen while Jo and I went to Kohl's in Exton.

In the large handicap dressing room together, I voted against a blouse and tossed it aside. "Uh, WHAT is THAT?" Jo asked, referring to my bra. I looked at it in the mirror. "What? I'm not saggy, am I?"

"Honey, you need a new bra. That thing is sad."

I reviewed it in the mirror. It was beige, but I think it used to be white. The straps were fraying a little, and there was a runner in the nylon on the side of the cup causing a pucker. I had to agree that it was sad.

"Bras are not a priority for me right now, Jo."

"Stop. You need a Party Bra. Every woman should have a sexy bra that makes her feel good even though she is the only one who knows. There should be a party going on under every t-shirt and turtleneck in America."

This was part of Jo's midlife crisis. She had lost weight, which had done favors for her curves, and she became obsessed with underthings. Randomly, she texts me photos of her bosoms in V-neck dresses or in new bras with messages like "Jo's got her groove back" or "44 going on 30". We split up to scour the racks for Party Bras. Mostly I gravitate toward matronly bras with padded straps, full coverage, deadbolt latches and emergency ripcords because I don't like any jiggle or sag. Cutesy, silky, decorative bras don't usually do the job, and I gave up on them a long time ago. Even when I was 12, I hated the stupid embroidery flower in the middle of training bras and would cut them off immediately. But today I was in Jo's hands.

Soon she was charging toward me waving a fuchsia bra with black lace trim. "No!" I protested. "Hush, just try it." When I put it on, I laughed. I hadn't laughed in days. It was ridiculous. Was it supposed to be sexy? Do people really wear these? But Jo was right. It made me laugh and I saw the value of having a secret like this to share with myself. Jo would not let me escape without matching panties, so we found an equally ridiculous zebra and pink polyester number for a Party Down Below. Is this what a midlife crisis looks like?

The next morning as I dressed, I was already anxious. The hospital had called early. Dad aspirated overnight and they were trying to regulate his breathing. Mom would not get her day off as we had planned. I looked at my new purchases on the dresser. If there was any day I would need a pick-me-up, it would be today. I tore the tags off the Party Bra with my teeth, and donned the polyester underpants. There. Please God, let this Secret Party lighten my load today.

It was a Saturday. The Philadelphia Flower Show was drawing record crowds. Traffic was gridlocked. It took us several hours to get to Temple. En route, the hospital called twice to ask us how close we were. With each call, our stress mounted. They kept dad "alive" on the ventilator until we arrived bedside. His skin was already cool to the touch when I kissed him goodbye. They snapped off the machine and it was over in seconds. Nurses comforted us, rubbed my back and patted me gently on the hooks of the Party Bra they could not see under my sweater. They repeated, "I'm so sorry...I'm so sorry..."

After primary phone calls were made and we shifted from emotionally raw to just numb, we headed home. I drove, Jo rode shotgun, and Mom was in the backseat replaying the events in disbelief and making call after call. Jo and I were silent. Each of Mom's calls started out calmly but ended in tears. When she cried, Jo and I cried too as we listened to her tell the tale. Then it hit me. Through tears I looked at Jo: "This is NOT a Party Bra. It's a DEATH Bra!" and we burst into laughter like only a day of emotional tension can create. Mom leaned forward covering the phone with her hand, "What? Are you talking about me?" And that made us laugh harder.

I wore the Death Bra for dad's funeral. It seemed strangely appropriate. In a striped dress and black cardigan, I climbed the steps to the pulpit. I stood before a congregation of 250 to speak a few words of remembrance, and not a single mourner knew I sported hot pink cones of glory. One by one they hugged me and my Bra of Death: "I'm so sorry...I'm so sorry..."

I put away the Death Bra for a while. It carried too many sad memories. Then I said to myself, "This is stupid. It's just a bra! I didn't pay $40 for it to lay in a drawer." The underpants, I must say, were tossed after 1 use. They made me sweat so bad I knew I'd never wear them again - $1.99 wasted.

Jo called. "What are you packing for our trip? My new bathing suit shows lots of cleavage." We were heading to San Diego for business and for pleasure. I told her, "I guess I should bring my Party Bra if you are going to flash cleavage everywhere."

"Oh no you won't!" Jo insisted. "I'm not going down in flames over Kansas because your Death Bra is on board. Leave that thing right where it is, please."

"You are the one who made me buy it!" I was indignant. I had to get over my superstition and this wasn't helping.

"We'll get you a new one. How many shoes are you taking?" And that was that. The Party Bra stayed in the drawer.

A month later, I tried again. I wore it a third time. Two things happened that day. First, I learned that B.B. King died. Marty and I had the privilege of watching him play once, and it was sad to know that The Thrill was Gone forever. Second, Mom told me that she saw a helicopter flying so low that she thought it was going to crash into her house. I couldn't take any more risks - that was the last day I wore the Death Bra.

Until today. It has been 5 months since B.B. King died, and I decided I needed to wear it or burn it. So here I sit, cupped in brilliant pink, ending my day, death-free. But I think I might burn it anyway. It's probably carcinogenic.

Like a Moth to a Flamer

"Lover, I'm going to write about you. Would you be offended if I described you as 'gay as a maypole in Spring'?"

"I wouldn't be offended, but I prefer 'as queer as a three dollar bill.'"

This is my Cole. We address one another as "Lover" and we mean it. We delight in each other completely. When together, we are crass, bawdy and at the very least, politically incorrect. It was instant and lasting love. We met at Red Lobster in Wyomissing, PA. We waited tables there. I was fresh from college in the Midwest, with tattered Birkenstocks, Carole King hair and an anthropology degree. Cole had a Bette Davis shower curtain, worshipped Stevie Nicks and owned leather pants with side zippers. Together we wallowed about men, wrote depressing poems about heartbreak, and cracked each other up. Constantly. Consistently. Still do.

The summer of '93 was the best summer of my life for several reasons. Primarily, it was the last totally carefree time in my life, but another reason was Cole. He shared my sense of humor ("twisted," he calls it) and we learned quickly we could feed each other's need for idiocy. He flirted with me so intensely I didn't realize he was queer, despite his immaculate highlights, until another server told me. He seemed more fascinated with my lady bits than any man before or since, and has been loyally groping them for 22 years.

Me and Cole, summer 1993 in PA, at Maria-from-Red-Lobster's wedding.

We fit into the crew at Red Lobster perfectly - a cast of misfits well-suited for any combination of art school, rehab or vagrancy. Lost souls, all of us. But working was actually fun! I was always surrounded by humor, shenanigans and cigarette smoke. Cole and I pretend we are above it all. We pretend that we have grown up and no longer crave those salty delicious cheddar biscuits with comments like, "If only they were made with rosemary and a bit of truffle oil." Other times we get our Pennsylvania Dutch on and declare how a tall glass of chicken gravy would really hit the spot.

But the truth is, we have grown up. Cole has a well-established career and faithful clients; I straighten my hair and make science. His life overflows with decorative urns and designer footwear; mine with spreadsheets and national parks. Our "twisted" humor and our history tie us to the summer of '93 and remind us how carefree we were. Those things will keep us young-at-heart and crazy and coming back for more.

At the height of my dad's failing health, I visited Cole and his husband, Kevin. As I sat in their living room in a stress-induced stupor during the Oscars, I listened to them banter about Lupita Nyong'o's misunderstood pearl dress. I swelled with love for them. I was there because they are my balm. A tonic for what ails me, any time, any place.

In the Fall of 1993, I broke two hearts when I moved away - his and my own. We said if we were still single and pathetic at 40 that we would marry each other. To his mother, he describes me as the wife he would've had if he wasn't such a homo.

When I recently was in my file cabinet and discovered some old poetry, I found one that Cole wrote in '93 in honor of me. I treasure it, and I love my Cole!

Here today, gone tomorrow.
The sweet sorrow of knowing her.

Is she just an angel

sent to make me smile,

here to help me heal?

Or is she just a dream,

gone when I wake.

Leaving me with something

she did not take.

The reality of losing someone to

distance is haunting.

It won't be the same.

But someone in Minnesota will know my name

and I will be loved

a long distance away.

Me and Cole, summer 2015 in NC, selfie in the garden.

Team Who?

"Pig Sooie!  Wooooo Pig Sooie!"  What the hell?!?  Is she talking to me?

Maybe I know this person from middle school, but I don't think so. She's being awfully rude with the pig reference. Then she pointed to my shirt with a smile. "Are you from Arkansas?"

At some point in our marriage, my husband decided it was necessary for me to wear clothing with logos that promote his sports teams. While I consider myself fairly athletic, I do not and never have followed any college or professional sports team. Mostly because I have better things to do. Like nap. But here I was, once again, caught off guard, feeling like a tropical bird in flashy feathers attracting a mate only to disappoint the suitor. My University of Arkansas t-shirt succeeded in attracting a Razorbacks fan who wooed me with the trademarked "Hog Call." I had never heard it before. "Oh, what? Me? No, my husband is. He's the Razorbacks fan. I just have a shirt." The rejection. The apologetic smile. A parting of ways. Damn, I hate that. This isn't the first time this happened. On the trail near my house, I was strolling one Sunday and a stranger walking his dog said to me, "Are you ready for tonight?" I hoped he was flirting. "Excuse me?" I questioned coyly. "Your shirt. Tonight's game. Are you ready?" I was wearing my San Francisco 49ers shirt. Not flirting. "Oh, that. Sure," I said, and gave him a fake-enthused thumbs up. Whatever. I didn't know the Niners were playing that day. Turns out it was Superbowl playoffs.

Strangers approach Marty all the time in public when he is wearing his sporty garb. They gush and bond over their beloved team of choice. They exchange words I don't understand like "Orange Bowl" and "Kaepernick." Sometimes quietly in passing, they share an intimate nod of the head or a tip of the logo'd cap - a silent acknowledgement between lovers...football lovers. It's weird. Marty doesn't speak often, but I have seen him converse with strangers in the grocery store at length about defensive strategies or argue the merits of a coach. But the opposite happens to me. Someone asks me cheerily, "How do you like Russell Wilson this year?" and I reply in earnest: "Who?" with a Seattle Seahawks logo blazing from my chest like a beacon. Inevitably they point at the logo while I stare blankly. I am the killer of friendly conversation. I have learned to say "My husband's team. Go team!" shrug, and flash the apologetic smile before they do. I really should watch more football.

Wearing my 'Niners shirt at Candlestick Park, San Francisco, 2012. Go team?

Carousel Horse

In my late teens and twenties, I wrote poetry in times of confusion. I've decided to dig some of them out of the file cabinet this weekend. Carousel Horse is about my urge to move around a lot after college. I had 5 different addresses in 4 states (two time zones) between December 1992 and August 1994. Moving around and starting over was always both exciting and sickeningly sad for me. I could never sort out in my head what I was supposed to do or where I was supposed to be. I suppose this is true for tons of people in their early twenties, but not everyone bounces around the country in the process. I used to brag that everything I owned could fit in my Oldsmobile.

Carousel Horse, 11/27/1993

A smile on a painted face,
An easy road,
A steady pace.
Predetermined destination,
No vagabond inclination.
No searching soul or shedding tear,
No goodbyes filled
With love, with fear.
Existing void of grief and pain,
No memories to retain.
A carousel horse I yearn to be -
But if I were,
I'd yearn to run free.

Also found in my file cabinet, this picture from December 1993. What you cannot see, are the stirrup pants and penny loafers. This was taken in PA, but by the time it was developed, I was living in Minnesota.

Family Reunion

Hackett family reunion, 2015.  Marty's mother's paternal kin, I think. It's been a LONG time since I went to a family reunion, and this would be the first one we would attend as a couple. I haven't been to any of my own family reunions since the 1980's unless you count dad's loud and lovable cousins having a cookout from time to time.

First we had to RSVP and pay a $50 registration fee. It was an extra $15 per person for a t-shirt emblazoned with the family name. We opted for no shirts. Marty coordinated with his brothers, and made hotel reservations in Hot Springs for several nights - black family reunions apparently go on for days, like Hanukkah without the presents.

This pre-event fanfare was foreign to me. Growing up, all my family reunions were simple afternoons in a Lancaster County public park or church. Grown-ups brought food and lawn chairs, and there were games for children usually involving getting pelted with candy or peanuts. An oldster with a notebook would make announcements and give prizes to the youngest and oldest people attending. We prayed and passed the offering plate and went home. No registration fees, no t-shirts. My favorite was the Shaubach reunion, partly because of its cake walk. Cake walks involve forming a circle and walking 'round and 'round until Someone said stop. Then Someone would ask for a characteristic, like "Birthday in May." The first person in the circle from a designated starting point who fit the criteria would win a cake of his/her choice, and leave the game. Shaubachs were Mennonite and Mennonites can bake like no one else. This means getting eliminated early was a perk, because you had the biggest selection - apple spice cakes, shoo fly pies, chocolate layer cakes, whoopie pies and angel food cakes galore.

Marty and I drove 13+ hours to Arkansas. The first night of the reunion, Friday, was a "meet and greet" at a lake house the organizing family rented. It was a small event, followed on Saturday by a larger gathering of families. We were there for 10 hours on Saturday, and another 4 hours on Sunday before leaving town.

Being bombarded by 50 never-before-seen spousal relatives in matching t-shirts is overwhelming. Even moreso when they have multiple names: Cookie, Button, Tee. Which one is Ruth - Cookie or Button?  There was generational confusion, like Uncle Jerry and Jerry Junior, who is also Uncle Jerry to some. My all-time favorites are Uncle Little Brother (Uncle Li'l Bro), who is Little Sister's (Li'l Sista) twin. They are Mama's youngest siblings. Li'l Sista is deceased and ULB (who always calls me "Li'l Missy") lives in Chicago and were both missed. And there sat Mama herself, 83 years old, half deaf and fast asleep in the chair. Marty and his naughty brothers joked about who should slide a mirror under her nose to test if she was still breathing.

The most popular question I was asked: "Who are you married to?" My answer was always, "The bald twin." The second most popular question was, "Do you have children?" While I would expect this at a family reunion, what I did not expect was the "Why not?" that often followed. I don't think I've ever been asked by strangers WHY I have no children. I find this incredibly personal. Maybe I am an ovarian cancer survivor or miscarried 10 times. Maybe Marty has no genitals or we just hate kids. At any rate, it's a question best left unasked. Otherwise, it was a raucous great time. Once the board games came out, it was ON. I was the #1 draft pick when teams were selected - I am, shall we simply say, enthusiastic and experienced. We were loud and crass and laughed until tears streamed. The Barren White Girl Married to the Bald Twin was HOME. This was FAMILY!

I think the trip was so valuable, not only to meet these wonderful relatives and get flashy with my gangsta game skilz, but to be enriched by Hackett perspectives on current events involving the Confederate flag, the 1-year anniversary of Ferguson, and police brutality in Baltimore. Black Lives Matter, especially when they are family. I miss Kim and Bobbi the most, even though proper Kim thinks her white girlfriends are uncouth for eating off each other's plates all the time. She asked Marty if I did that. He said, "Oh yes. And much worse." I smiled and kept my thoughts on food safety to myself. Secretly I was thankful she didn't see me fork-and-eat a random glob of potato salad off the kitchen countertop earlier.

Drunk Jesus

Mom, my sister and I took a short Girls Vacation that included a night at a Ramada Inn in Richmond, Virginia. We booked the Ramada in advance with no knowledge of the city, so we didn't know it was located in a seedy part of town. We huddled in our beds as we listened to a domestic disturbance through the wall. We called management and hoped Hostile Man wouldn't come after us next. After some time, a door slammed and there was silence. After nerves calmed, I fell asleep.

"Shannon! Shannon!" My sister, with whom I am sharing a queen bed, is jabbing me in the ribs. It's a flashback to 1977. I hated sharing a bed with her then, and I hated it now. "There's someone at the window!"

"No there isn't. Go to sleep."

"No, I see a shadow! Don't you see someone lurking at the window?!?"

"Shut up. Leave me alone."

Mom pipes up, from her bed, "What's going on, you two?"

My sister sits up. "I am telling you, there's someone out there!"

I open one eye, ready to punch her face, and then I saw it.  A shadow at the window. I bolted up. Two grown sisters sitting up in bed, staring at a shadow.

Mom asks, "Do you think it's the wife beater from next door?" God, I hope not.

We all fixate on the curtain in silence. Then the shadow disappears. We hear a key card in the lock. Someone quietly tries the handle. We stare at the door, hearts pounding. We hear it again. I launch out of bed and scamper to the peephole. Through it, I spy a young man, clearly drunk, staring at his key card. He steps back from the door, looks at both sides of the card, and makes one last perplexed attempt at our door.

Relieved, I report, "I don't think it's the wife beater. It seems like a drunk and harmless guy. It's clear he forgot which room is his."

Mom wants more info. "What does he look like?"

I flatten my face against the door for another look. The bearded man, in sandals, is wandering away. "I don't know. I guess he looks like Jesus in a USA t-shirt."

Mom instructs me, "Well DON'T let him in!" (As if I would.)

My sister and I tease, "WHAT? Don't let JESUS in? Blasphemy!"

Mom defends her position: "No! If it really was Jesus, he wouldn't need a key."

Rothko, Night #4

The final class. Rothko, I hardly know you and it's goodbye already! True now as it was in life, since you killed yourself in 1970 when you were 66. Bummer. Something strange is happening. I spend an increasing amount of time each week thinking about abstract art, Rothko, and wet paint. 

Teacher called today's class Rothko Remixed. We were given a slab of plywood to use for our canvas, and our assignment was to apply any of the techniques we have learned, using the texture and pattern of the wood as our inspiration. I wanted to pay homage to my 26-year old Cool Girl flannel smock, so I used the colors of the shirt as my palette.

Homage to Flannel, 2015.

I mixed my pink, adding water to make it a wash moreso than a paint. "Keep it thin so not to lose the integrity of the wood grain," Teacher instructed.

Partially slathered plywood.

Fully slathered plywood.

I really do love to slather. If I painted nothing but bare canvas after bare canvas with colors I mix to my liking, I would be totally content. I applied several layers of wash in slathering strokes with fat pink bristles. Then I mixed my other colors using Teacher's color wheel. I finally got the violet that I intended for Night #1 - closure! I added my layers of colors in strokes and squiggles, smudging areas here and there with a damp paper towel. Step back. Chat with classmates. Annette and Nick said they are making pottery next month. They are "taking a tour" of the available classes at the Center. Bob has been reading an art history book, and recommended a Rothko biography. I was excited to show Bob the photo I took of a plastic model of an ear cross-section that reminded me of his project last week. Sadly, he was not as excited about this as I was.

Bob's Art, Week #3

Plastic cross-section of the human ear 

I learned that the next class in the Mimicking the Masters series will focus on Robert Motherwell. Of course I never heard of him. Google tells me he is from the same period as Rothko - another Abstract Expressionist - and WOW, his art is UGLY. But my flannel smock and I signed up immediately. I think I am addicted. But not addicted enough to get anything tattooed on my forearms. We can't all be as committed to art as Bee.

Rothko, Night #3

I found a smock finally! Balled up on the closet floor where it had slipped from its hanger, was my flannel shirt. I love that shirt! Marty hates that shirt. I bought it as a freshman in college because in 1989 in the midwest, cool girls wore flannel. So I thought. I wear it only around the house on chilly days, so if it gets paint on it, I won't really care. It's the oldest piece of clothing I own, and probably the most beloved.

Today's class focused on the 1940's, which is the period in Rothko's career where he transitioned from linear art to abstract. He and his contemporaries were greatly affected by the 'new reality' of war and the atomic bomb. They felt reality was distorted and abstract, and so was the art of the time. Our assignment was to use a photo as the inspiration for our work, then abandon the forms in the image entirely. Teacher likened it to a 4 year old who draws a rabbit. An adult asks the child, "Why is the rabbit blue and why does it have 4 wheels?" and the child says "Why not?" Rothko wanted to paint without rules. Teacher instructed, "Paint with 'why not?' in mind." After we painted the barest form of our photo, Teacher instructed, "Everyone rotate your work. Abandon the photo and paint what pleases you." Does a hot sticky mess please me? Because that's what I ended up with.

My final work. Can you guess the inspiration?

The Rothko examples that we were mimicking this week were amorphous. But the more we discussed them as a class, the less confused we were and the more we appreciated the "eyes of the beholders." We talked about the images we saw in his work, and what we thought they represented. Then Teacher rotated them and we had the same conversation again with entirely different comments.

Rothko multiform painting, 1948

Rothko multiform painting, 1948

After our discussion, class was unusually silent as we painted. We were all concentrating, cocking our heads, and stepping back from our easels for a view. We would visit each other's easels from time to time to discuss what we saw in each other's work, and then class was over. Teacher painted with us tonight, and at one point accidentally flung paint onto me. Onto my convenient beautiful flannel smock? Not at all. My pink sandals. They don't make smocks for those.

The final works of my class on Rothko Night #3.

My inspiration photo.

Scram

Day 1. Monday.
7:00 a.m. I notice a tabby cat asleep on our deck, in the corner by the bird feeder. If it's still there after work, I will feed him.

6:00 p.m. I go onto the deck. No tabby. I peek over the edge of the deck into the yard and call "Stray kitty where are you?"  Meow, meow.  He is resting on the steps. From above, I see how skinny he is. I retrieve a paper plate full of Moby's kibble and go back out. He is still on the stair, looking tired. He sees me coming toward him and gets up, trying to decide to run or trust me. He decides to trust, and hops up the stairs. He is only using 1 back leg. He eats like he is starving. It was a pathetic sight. Marty frowns. "Why are you feeding him? He will never go away."

Day 2. Tuesday.
I feed Stray Cat again. He is an unneutered male. His head and chest are like a lion; his body is kitten-like. Every time I turn to go back into the house, he is at my ankles, rubbing, limping and crying. Finally I go in, and he sits on the other side of the French door. He and Moby hiss and posture through the glass; one with a limp and the other with a cloudy eye. Hey fellas, do you really think you are threatening? By evening, the posturing has stopped, the hissing is half-hearted. Stray Cat paces at the door, meowing to come in. I pull the curtain. I've already had enough of this. Marty says "You should name him Scram."

Day 3. Wednesday.
Scram still eats like he is starving. Through thunderstorms and pouring rain, he hides under the deck table. Marty says, "The front porch stays dry. Why don't you show him the porch? Poor thing." I don't. The rain stops. Scram gets on the deck box and stretches up on his good leg to peer in the kitchen window and cry while Marty cuts watermelon. "Look!  Look at him!" Marty laughs.  Later I caught Marty peeking through the curtain at the door looking for him on the deck.

Day 4. Thursday.
Scram enjoys a tickle while I spend some time with him on the deck. Marty teases me by telling Moby, "Mommy loves Scram more than you. You're just a scruffy old sack of diabetes." Later I snuggle Moby and whisper to him with kisses, "You'll be Mommy's Number One until eternity forever." Moby is almost 16, gets 2 insulin shots daily and is purrfect in every way. Scram endures another thunderstorm on the deck.

Day 5. Friday.
Scram finally stops gorging when he eats. He is so pathetic, that I make a vet appointment for Tuesday. Marty and I consider adoption although neither of us favors it. He likes his belly rubbed and the fur on his back is silky. I found a tick on his neck. He still cries to come in the house.

Day 6. Saturday.
Yard work! Marty mows while I weed. Scram runs circles around me in the yard. On 3 legs. Adorable. He is a lithe and agile gimp! He is verbal and playful and is not afraid of the mower. It is this behavior that wins me over. He lets me pick him up, although his body stiffens when I do. Marty gives his fat head a tickle. Scram makes a poop in the mulch. Oh no. It looks and smells like bloody death. Great.

Day 7. Sunday.
Scram curls up with me outdoors on the chaise lounge while I drink my coffee and read in the cool morning. He is purring. Later, he sits at the door and begs for entry. I no longer keep the curtain closed. Moby and he now stare at each other through the glass with no emotion and little interest. That evening, Marty looks at Scram's eager face through the door and assures him gently, "Two more days, Buddy."

Day 8. Monday.
We come home from our run. I stay in the basement to hang wet laundry, Marty goes upstairs alone. I hear his conversation in the kitchen: "Hi Moby. Where's your brother? There he is. Hi Scrammers!" He is at the back door. Eternally.

Day 9. Tuesday
I violate nine days of trust and cram a protesting Scram into a carrier I bought for him at Good Will. I haul him and all his expensive accessories - testicles, limp, bloody colon, fleas, ticks - to the vet. I am hoping he returns without accessories. I fear for this loyal, tenacious, lost little creature who held a lengthy vigil on our deck. He has earned a place in our home if he is disease-free and can use a litter box responsibly. He is cautious at the vet, and leans against me as he sits on the exam table. They poke him, stroke him, and tweak his large cheeks. Normally vocal, he was silent during the car ride, exam, and blood draw. I was silent when they told me he is Feline-HIV (FIV) positive.

They explain that FIV is spread only through deep bites, not sneezes, litter or shared food. Moby will probably be safe. The vet herself has an FIV-positive housecat as well as several healthy cats and FIV has not been transmitted. I ask them to go ahead and neuter him, rid him of parasites, diagnose the limp, and please keep him overnight so Marty and I can discuss the situation.

Day 10. Wednesday.
Scram is silent during the ride home. I release him from the carrier on the deck, and he immediately chastises me. Five minutes of yapping while bumping his oversized head on my shins. I open the door but leave the screen between the cats. Sniff sniff hiss hiss. Scram lays down and Moby walks away. Is it over? After Scram is relaxed again, I pick him up and move him gently into the front bathroom where there is a litterbox, food, water and brand new cat bed. I sit with him a while. For hours he does not make a sound, even though I obsessively check on him. Moby sleeps in the bedroom.

That night, we take him to the basement Man Cave. He thrashes his tail, but does not cry or seem interested in exploring. He rubs on our legs and plops next to Marty's armchair. He is afraid of his new feather toy.  Marty reaches down to scratch his bull-like neck and cups Scram's face: "What's up, Noggin'?" Scram is purring, and rolls onto his back. We don't know his story; we don't know his quirks. For now we will trust him and he will trust us. This is the beginning.

Rothko, Night #2

Rothko Night, hurray! I scoured the closet this morning, searching for a smock. Much to my shock, no smock frock! I usually have no shortage of crummy clothes, but there was nothing I was willing to ruin with paint. I had to improvise. I wore a busy blue print cotton dress to work, reasoning that if I got paint on my clothes in the evening, it would become part of the print. No harm done.

Tonight my AARPeeps and I learned that Rothko(vich) was born in 1903 and immigrated to the US in 1913 from Russia. He attended Yale on a scholarship for one year, torn between studies in engineering and law. In 1923, he visited a friend in New York, was exposed to art, and declared himself an artist. Must be nice. We learned that Paul Cezanne and Milton Avery (mental note: Google them later) were two of the artists who influenced Rothko in his 20's and 30's - his Expressionist period. We discussed how artists are influenced by other artists. Art is a process and an artist's style develops and morphs over time.

Three Bathers by Paul Cezanne, c.1875

Nudes by Mark Rothko, 1926

Milton Avery's Self Portrait 1930

Mark Rothko's Self Portrait 1936

We were tasked with creating a self portrait using Rothko's influence from his style in the 1930's. Self portrait? Hey Teacher, I am pretty sure that's too difficult for my second night with a paint brush. There's Doubt creeping back in. But last week was Doubt - this week is all about ME. To help shape the mood, Teacher played 1930's music - Billie Holiday's rendition of Summertime and Ethel Waters crooning Stormy Weather for starters. I had mood music, canvas, and oils. I've got this. We were instructed to slather a background using the slather technique we learned last week. Start with a thin layer and darken/thicken as we go. Determine our designs; use pastels to outline shapes on the canvas if necessary, and mirrors were available for our reflections. I decided not to use either of these. I decided that my abstract art is organic, and I set out to paint from my new Rothkoesque emotional place.

It was really difficult, not because it was a self portrait, but because we needed to use light and dark to create shadow and dimension. I started with a blank oval face and then squiggled my natural hair. Squiggling and slathering are my favorite things to do with paint! Maybe I can just paint slathered squiggles for an hour. Influenced by the nude bathers, I decided to make myself mysteriously nude - the most organic state of all. Plus I was overwhelmed at the thought of painting my busy blue print dress.

Organic Self Portrait, 2015

Clearly there are problems with my skeletal raised arm and jaundiced zombie eyes, but I can probably fix them some time if I develop any skills. But it doesn't remind me of a Rothko. Fail. What it does remind me of, is a Joni Mitchell self portrait/album cover with wine and squiggles. Teacher was right - artists are influenced by other artists. Score!

Joni Mitchell's Self Portrait on Her Both Sides Now Album Cover, 2000.

Rothko, Night #1

I am not an artist, but I am "crafty."  I like to color, and I like anything involving construction paper. This month, I decided to branch out, so I registered for an art class downtown. It's only 4 sessions, so I think I can handle that. It's called "Mimicking the Masters: Rothko." I have never painted before, but why let that stop me? As for Rothko, I don't know anything about him or why he is a "Master." In fact I never heard of him until Bee got a Rothko tattoo on her forearm. The first time I saw it, I was horrified. It was huge and fresh and scabby and we were eating sushi. A fine introduction to an American Master.

Bee's Rothko tattoo, healed.

I got excited about my adventure, so I told my sister (who is a bonefied artist) and Mom, of course. My sister yawned, and Mom offered sarcastic encouragement: "I'm sure you will do well painting big rectangles of different colors." Well then. Maybe it would be fun to go with an enthused girlfriend. Too bad Bee lives far away. I was shot down no fewer than 8 times. I thought, "This doesn't bode well."

Heading alone to class the first night, my excitement fading, I had two basic expectations: (1) to not be bored, and (2) to learn something - anything - interesting. I found the classroom, and took the last remaining seat. I was the fourth of four to arrive. I was easily the youngest pupil by 15 years or more. The instructor is probably in his early 30's, small in frame, and soft-spoken. I had to lean over my work space in order to hear him, 10 feet away. Oh boy, Expectation #1 was going to be tough. But unlike everyone I told about my class, Teacher is excited about Mark Rothko. In awe of Mark Rothko. Teacher is endearing. I was not bored for a single minute. Expectation #1: Met.

Each week, Teacher plans to introduce a separate chapter of Rothko's life. Starting with his late, most well-known works like Bee's tattoo (titled White Center), he will end the series with Rothko's earlier, lesser-known style of painting. In the 1950's, later in his career, Rothko painted his "multiform style," comprising several blocks of layered colors on large canvases (canvi??). Some of his works are the size of a wall. These works are meant to represent or evoke emotion. Some people have been known to stand before them and weep in their grandeur. At the height of his career, Rothko was not interested in painting objects that could easily be named or described, like still life or portraits. Expectation #2: Met.

Teacher explained that Rothko's multiform style involved layers of paint and basic color. He gave the assignment: Choose an emotion and represent it on your canvas. Huh? Oh, God. Hate? Fear? Sadness? Anger? Grief? Who wants to paint those things, let alone look at them as art on your wall? Even Happiness seemed mundane. I went with something more representative of the moment: Confusion. Is that an emotion? But I focused on it. Contemplation. Uncertainty. Doubt. What the hell color is Doubt?

Violet. Doubt feels violet. With only primary colors to work with, I did the logical thing by mixing blue and yellow. Whoops. Okay, Doubt is green. I went with it. I slathered my canvas with green. Hey, slathering is fun! Slather slather slather. All done. What now? When we felt confident with our canvi, we were told to start blocking out more colors. Confident with my canvas? Is it okay to feel Confident when your subject is Doubt? This is getting deep. This is abstract art, so I decided yes. I told myself Doubt is the new Confidence. Proceed, all ye Doubters! Slather onward!

Blue! More blue! White! Add black; make gray! Teacher wandered the room with comments. Me and my AARP posse started to discuss our color choices. Four enlightened companions in slather. I am an abstract artist! Mental note to self: Next week bring a smock.

Biopsy

[Prologue: If you are squeamish about vaginas, stop reading.]

My pap smear results came back with "squamous cells" noted. What an ugly word. Squamous. What does this mean? I googled it. Still not sure, but it does mean I need to have a cervical and endometrial biopsy. I google "endometrial." Uterus lining. Got it.

I am nervous when I show up for my procedure. I might have cancer. I meet a young female resident and a 60-ish male supervisor. His name is Dr. Lord. I tell them I walked 10 minutes up the hill from my office in the heat, sweating, and apologized if I am "not so fresh." Dr. Lord assured me, "Don't worry. We've seen it all. We've rescued lost tampons and they stink horribly." Awkward. I joked, "Do you think that's my problem?" He said no. I said, "At least you could find me a lottery ticket in there, because I need a winner." The resident asked if she could claim a finder's fee, and I replied, "No, but you can keep any loose change that falls out."

The resident puts me in the stirrups and takes a front row seat, wielding a crank. Couldn't get the crank to work, apparently. It snaps shut while inserted. I jolt. She struggles with it. This is not helping my nerves. I am losing faith in Dr. Lord and his Disciple.

Lord is by my side most of the time, guiding her and analyzing the procedure. There is a TV screen. He points to the screen. "We have to position it just right so we can see the entire cervix the entire time.  Do you want to see your cervix?"

For the love of all that is Holy, no.

She finally has me at full throttle down below. I'm open for business; locked and loaded. The instruments are selected one by one. He narrates for my benefit. "First the Q-tip to clean the cervix. A little discharge to clean is normal." I feel dull scraping. "Then we squirt vinegar on it, which will highlight areas of irregularity." 5 minutes go by where I have a mild burning and dripping sensation while they discuss areas of irregularity on my cervix. I accidentally glance at the TV screen and see my vaginal walls and cervix larger than life and bright as the sun, being poked with a giant foreign object. I quickly averted my gaze. I didn't realize there would be a spotlight and magnifying glass up there. How do they fit it all in - camera, spotlight, tools???  Poking continues. I fidget.

Good news! They have checked out my clean cervix and declare that a cervical biopsy is unnecessary. Everything seems normal so far. Make a note in the chart, Disciple. On to the uterus!

Then the trouble starts. They have to shove some sort of cattle prod straight through my cervix and "open it like a fan" to obtain the endometrial biopsy. "It will feel like a strong menstrual cramp," he warns. Well I don't know what kind of menstrual cramps he has, but I almost vomited. I croaked, "I think I am going to throw up." He quickly placed a pink plastic bedpan on my belly. The only thing stopping me from heaving was a vision of having to do this all over again because violent puking would sling-shot the crank out of my cavern and send instruments flying. I massaged my neck and throat to keep from dry heaving. My splayed legs started to shake. There is moaning. Mine, I think. The bed pan slides off me, clattering to the floor. Disciple says – of all things – "Hold still," and "Try to relax.” Really? Turns out she was having trouble getting past the cervix into the uterus because my cramps were working against her. You mean she’s not even in the uterus yet? Ten minutes we did this. And finally they were done. Then they extended the table, gently lifted my shaking ankles from the stirrups and placed my feet flat on the table, together, knees still in the air. "Rest," sayeth the Lord, "Let the cramping subside." They left. I cried in solitude.

Ten minutes later I felt much better. Dr. Lord returns to confirm this. "Get dressed and we will answer any questions you might have." My question was, "Am I going to need this every year?" He said No. Thank the Lord.

[Epilogue: Endometrial biopsy was normal. No further procedures needed.]

Pedi-Curious

When we were on our honeymoon, Marty and I had a couple’s pedicure in the resort’s spa. Marty loved it. He basked in the pampering, and admired his own feet for days afterward. Since then – for years – I have encouraged him to have another one. “No! Pedicures are for girls.” When he sits in the living room clipping his toenails, shards a-flyin’, he often remarks, “I should get a pedicure.” I get tired of hearing it, because he never gets one. Apparently he thinks a pedicure will strip him of his manhood. 

Finally, he schedules one. So there it was. The man is ready. But not ready enough to go alone. He asks me to chaperone. 

Helen gives the best pedicures in the world from a little room in a bungalow-turned-day-spa in a residential neighborhood. Marty hikes his dress pants to his knees, gets in the big leather chair and slides his feet in the hot pool of water below. He figures out the keypad for the massage feature of the chair. I sit opposite him at the manicure table, chaperoning.

Marty picks up a magazine and starts to page through it. After a while, he tells me with interest, about the Peach Cobbler Bar recipe he is reading. He even turns the magazine around to show me the photograph, like someone reading Green Eggs and Ham to a kindergarten class. “See the crumble on top?” I see the crumble. I also see Marty is in a vibrating pedicure chair, pants hiked to his knees reading recipes in Martha Stewart Living. Maybe he was right about the manhood thing.

While Marty relaxes in the delights of a magic exfoliating sugar scrub, I gaze at the wall of nail polish - a rainbow of girly dreams. I rummage through them. “You picking your next color?” Helen asks me in her Vietnamese accent. “Helen, do you know the names of all these colors?” There were over 300 bottles. “Most, yeah,” she replied. I quizzed her on reds: Chick Flick Cherry, Red Hot Rio, We’ll Always Have Paris. She got them all right. Remarkable in its own right, but even moreso since English is not her first language. Also impressive are the elaborate and ridiculous names of the colors, my favorite of which was Fresh Frog of Bel Air – a glittery green I can’t imagine anyone wearing.

Marty’s talons are soon trimmed and buffed and we are ready to go. With his pants still bunched at his knees like knickers, we walk out. On the sidewalk, he poses in his flip flops and admires his lavender-scented feet. "When are you coming back?" I ask. He is enthusiastic: "Every month!" We'll see about that.

Eulogy

March 11, 2015

Anyone who knew my dad for more than 10 minutes knows that he was a chatty guy who liked to tell stories. Those of us who knew him well, knew that his favorite stories were ones of yesteryear and the outdoors, often embellished to the point where fact and fiction were hard to discern. He told them over and over again until they were threadbare. His personal arsenal of stories gave him great joy and he loved to share them, sometimes to the general misery of the rest of us at the 100^th telling. But these stories embody his favorite times of life; the time when he and his children were young. He told tales of "kangaroo hunting" with his nephews, the 30-year piggyback challenge, and Fat Matt the Bacon Eater. In his memory today, I will leave you with one more story. A story you have not heard 100 times. A story about a little girl who didn’t enjoy hunting, never challenged him to a piggyback ride, and Lord knows never ate a pound of bacon at a sitting.

We used to go fishing together as a family. This was a good time for us. One day, I couldn’t have been more than 7, I caught a fish. I was so excited, and reeled it in. I saw – to my horror – that I had snagged it, not by its mouth, in the front, but by its rear, and reeled it in backwards. As the fish flopped and thrashed on the riverbank with a hook sticking out of the wrong place, I was horrified and immediately began to cry.

Dad wanted to know what all the drama was about. I told him. “Dad! We have to throw it back! I cheated! I hooked a fish by its bottom! It’s not fair!” When he saw my predicament, he gingerly removed the hook and put his arm around me. He said, “You know, only a very skilled and talented fisherman can catch a fish in this way. In all my years fishing, I have never seen such a skillful thing. You did not cheat; you were not unfair. You were quiet and patient and this big fish was your reward for a job well done.” In that moment, my horror dissolved into pride. I caught the best fish ever and I made my dad proud all in one day.

I chose to tell this story today, because he would have liked it, and that was my dad at his best. When we were young, Dad and Mom taught their kids to believe in ourselves and always try our best, no matter what the task. If we tried our best, we would BE our best. Dad also taught his children and grandchildren to respect and enjoy God’s creation, and we will continue to carry these lessons forward in our lives even though he is gone.

Fishin' with dad, 1974.

Useless Wooden Sticks

The call came at 8:30 p.m. on Valentine’s Day.  The holiday of hearts. And of livers. Dad was having a liver transplant. We all knew the call would come, but no one ever knows exactly when. It’s an odd thing to wait around for someone else to die so that your loved one can live. I quickly packed for the trip home to be with mom, and to help prepare for dad’s discharge and long recovery.

Dad’s liver was successfully installed overnight, and an exhausted mom said to meet her at the house. She said dad would be asleep for several days, and had looked white as a ghost post-surgery. Mom didn’t look much better.

But I am home! It’s going to be okay! I am going to help! Then I realized there was nothing to help with. Mom and dad are completely self-sufficient. What now? I had nervous energy to burn until the trip to the hospital tomorrow. I needed to be busy. While mom made the obligatory phone calls to family and friends, I decided to clean dad's bedroom. When he is discharged in the next few weeks, he will have a clean room and freshly laundered bed. Good plan.

Dad, who snores like a motorboat, occupies the master suite. Mom moved across the hall ages ago, and appointed dad Cleaner of Your Own Room. Therefore, under the bed was a perfect rectangle of dust at least a half inch thick. In hindsight, it would have been better for me to roll the dust like sushi and carry it off rather than attempt to suck it into mom’s 1985 Oreck. Seconds later, I smelled burning rubber and saw sparks. I quickly stopped. The last thing I needed was to light the 1974 green shag carpet afire. What a great welcome-home stench this is going to be.

I abandoned the vacuum, stripped the bed and dragged the sheets to the basement washing machine. The mattress pad tag instructed me to use the delicate cycle, so I did. Mom was off the phone, so I told her I nearly burned down the house because her vacuum malfunctioned on a picnic blanket of dust. Grabbing a butter knife and screwdriver, she said, “The sweeper’s fine! It’s just the belt.” She marched up the stairs, turned the vacuum upside down and got busy. I am not even sure she unplugged it. Great. Two hospitalized parents is all I need.

With Granny MacGyver working on the Oreck, I cleaned dad’s bathroom. When the washing machine buzzed, I went to retrieve the sheets to find water all over the basement floor. What the ?!?!?!  As I located the sponge mop, I yelled up the stairs that the washer was broken. Mom scurried down: “The washer’s fine! Except the delicate cycle doesn’t work. Why did you use the delicate cycle?” Stress rising, I said “I don’t know mom, because I thought the delicate cycle might actually WORK like I expected the vacuum to WORK?” As I said this, the sponge snapped off the mop and I was left holding a useless wooden stick. Failing to keep my cool, I yelped, “EVERYTHING I TOUCH IS BROKEN!”  Mom said, “Nothing’s ever good enough for you kids,” while pulling a dingy string mop from the corner that had seen better days.

Mom and dad were raised in Lancaster County PA, the birthplace of Suck It Up And Move Along. Their shared youth was not a luxurious one, but one defined by hard work and hard times. They were raised to throw nothing away that could be fixed or eaten. Farm life in the 1940's and 50's made mom the most resourceful person I know. So resourceful, for example, that when bath towels get thin, she sews 2 together and makes one "new" towel to be used for eternity. She never throws a shirt away without removing and saving its buttons. Because one day, you might need a button. Or a trillion buttons. Either way, she can hook you up.

Anyway, I decided the stress over dad’s condition was getting to me, and peanut butter cookies would make everything better. As I relaxed and admired my good-looking dough, I ran the rubber spatula through it. Of course, the rubber blade lodged in the dough and the handle came off in my palm. For the second time that day, I was left holding a useless wooden stick. Feeling entirely defeated and on the verge of tears, I left my dough, went to the family room, and plopped into dad’s armchair. So much for “helping.” The only thing I needed right now was mindless TV. Oh wait, that’s right. Mom and dad don’t have cable.

Nothing that a butter knife and screwdriver can't fix.