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.

Date Night

Marty and I go out to dinner every Friday night. We call this Date Night. Dates aren’t what they used to be. Date Night includes dinner out, then we come home around 9:00, I put on my jammies, and Marty heads to the man cave. Whatever happened to dates that involved candlelight and heavy petting?  If we are feeling frisky, after dinner we head to our local gourmet grocery store and peruse the coffee aisle, where barrels and barrels of toasty coffee beans are offered. They have an olive bar we like, and sometimes we even buy lunchmeat. Fancy!

Each Friday, we take turns selecting the restaurant. He picks a lot of Mexican; I like Thai. Sometimes we try new places out of town. It’s a nice time to be together and chat without distraction. Many times at the end of our meals, we are asked by servers, “Do you want separate checks, or is this together?” It took me a while to figure out that this doesn’t happen as frequently to other married couples. I suspect that the servers ask us this because we are interracial and therefore assume we are not married.

I understand that it’s human nature to assume that people usually marry partners of (1) the opposite sex (2) the same religion and (3) the same race. But this is not always the case. In fact, it is less and less the case. I understand and accept why these assumptions are made, and make plenty of assumptions of my own. It might even be that some servers ask everyone how many checks they want, but it’s amusing to me.

The next time we are asked if we want separate checks, I think I will respond with, “Yes. Separate but equal.” For now we’ll stick with Marty’s favorite reply: “Just one. She’s paying.”

Mom Chimes In: Bake Sales Beware

Mom contributes the following:

Last week I finished off some strawberries that I am sure were way past prime, and even mixed in with my 2 week expired yogurt they tasted a little strange but edible. Then I realized my orange juice had fizz to it when I drank the last little bit from the carton but since I usually have a T of vinegar in my juice each morning (supposed to help my joints!) I did not realize it was fizzing. So this week I am mixing some questionable raspberries into my yogurt. Just can’t throw out food! So I decided to look around at my food cupboards and inventory my food items. Came to the conclusion that nearly everything I have is expired. Hope I don’t expire eating it! I had promised I would make something for the Bake Sale so I got out an expired cake mix and made cupcakes and iced them with expired frosting and one good thing about Bake Sales -- you don’t have to put an expiration date on the item. I think I will be signing up for a lot more Bake Sales!!  Bon Appetit!!

What Did You Call Me?

I’m middle aged and I’m not sure how I got here so quickly. I swear just last year I was 25 and sun-kissed, basking in the joys of youth. Then one day, things changed. I reached the point in life where strangers stopped addressing me as Miss, and started calling me Ma'am.

Middle Age, just like Middle Earth, is an odd and fantasy-filled place. I am living out those middle years, the underwear years, between diapers. These are the years when I am too old for a spaghetti-strap sundress, and too young to wear slippers to the store. My fantasies of being swept off my feet are replaced with finding a good podiatrist, and staying awake past midnight on New Year's Eve is a real drag. This is Middle Age. This is Ma'amhood. I have arrived. There's no turning back.

Natural Disaster Etiquette

What a thunderstorm we had last night! I hate them. I feel like thunderballs live in the attic and want to burst through the ceiling and kill me. The flashes of light outside make me flinch and I can't relax until it is quiet. Sometimes I slip down to the basement Man Cave to escape. It's dark, stinky and safe down there. Hopefully Marty will throw his body over me to protect me from a tornado. But given our history with natural disasters, I'm not so sure.

It was 1999, and we experienced an earthquake that scored a 7.1 on the Richter Scale. I was visiting Marty when he lived in Joshua Tree. Around 2:30 a.m., southern California SHOOK. I learned later that the quake lasted for 35 seconds. While 35 seconds doesn’t sound like much time, it’s a lifetime when you are experiencing sheer terror. When the earthquake began, I shot out of bed and ran for the sliding glass door at the back of the apartment. Here is a tip for you. Don’t sleep naked. Ever. Nudity will always prevent a dignified escape. At any age. So instead of escaping, I wisely took cover next to sliding glass doors. Death by jagged shards of flying glass didn't occur to me in the moment. I crumbled to the floor, huddled on my knees and covered my head. I expected the roof to collapse, but at least the doors held fast.

During those next 30 seconds, I huddled, listened and felt. What I heard were car alarms, barking dogs, glass breaking, and Marty, shouting my name in panic. He sleeps like the dead, and by the time he woke up, the waterbed was sloshing so violently he couldn't get out. He later said that it felt like he was white water rafting. Here's another tip for you. Never own a waterbed. For many reasons.

The most prominent noise was that of the quake itself, like a moving locomotive, with me in the runaway caboose. When the quake ended and blackness settled around us, Marty stepped free of the River Wild and we frantically embraced each other. We walked into the living room to find a flashlight and assess the damage. The problem now was, although clothed, we were barefoot and the flashlight batteries were dead. Of course. We lit candles because open flame in the aftermath seemed like another wise decision. The living room looked ransacked, and several of Marty’s drinking glasses had shattered right there in the cupboard.

The phone lines were working, so I called my mom. It was 6:00 a.m. in Philadelphia, but she answered the phone like a good mom always does. I told her there had been an earthquake and I was certain that California had snapped off from the continent and was floating out to sea. She turned on her TV. The quake had been felt from Las Vegas to Phoenix to San Diego. Joshua Tree was only 30 miles from the epi-center. An Amtrack train had derailed, but nothing was floating to sea. Damage was minimal because most of the area is underpopulated desert and everyone was in bed.

Hopefully Marty and I could apply better sense to a Carolina Tornado Emergency than we did during the Quake of '99. Honestly I don't even know where the flashlight is, and I'll bet its batteries are dead. Would he throw his body across mine to protect me? Maybe. If he's awake. I can't help remembering that during the quake, I was the one who abandoned him entirely and ran for the door. I hope he doesn't expect me to throw my body across his - you're on your own, Sucker!

Joshua Tree National Park, 1999. We have better photographs (pre the digital age) but I didn't feel like searching for them. Maybe later.

Tigress in Spandex

I took up running when I was 43. This would have been easier if I hadn't taken up 20 extra pounds at 42. Needless to say, it's been a year and I still work really hard at being able to maintain endurance for a 5k. What a chore.

First is the mental piece. I have to tell myself all day that I am going to run after work, because otherwise I'll be in the break room eating doughnuts. Several times. Before lunch. One must not run with a belly full of fried dough and sugar glaze.

Second, I have to gear up. Sports bra first. All hooks hooked? Check! Velco fixtures firmly affixed? Check! Nipples aiming the same direction? Emergency rip cords and flotation devices in place? Check, check, check! Amen, these jugs are not going to budge. Pull on tiny, unflattering spandex shorts, lace up the shoes, and out the door I go.

Next, I drive to the trail, start up the tunes, and start plodding along. If you didn't know how old I was, after one glance at my playlist, you would know: Counting Crows, Bell Biv DeVoe, Bjork. I'm out of breath by the 5th stride. Oh my God, when is this OVER?  The first 10 minutes are the worst. The only thing I can think about is what I want to eat later. Today the sports bra might be a little snug with the monthly bloat, and I can feel an overhang of backfat jiggling with each step as it oozes fearlessly out the back of my racerback tank. I feel fat. I feel old. I feel out of shape. This is torture.

Then my body finally takes over, and I get my groove on. My blood is pumping - sha lalalala la, it's Mr. Jones and me, and we are INVINCIBLE, baby! My stride is rhythmic, my breath is confident. My backfat has dissolved into a sheet of lean muscle, and before I know it, my run is over. I walk it off, a sweaty tower of endorphins. I am a tigress! I am an Olympian! In the car on the drive home, I extend my arm out the window, palm open, fingers splayed like a starfish. I feel like I am shooting magic energy from my fingertips into the universe - hold on. WAIT! WHAT IS THAT IN THE REAR VIEW MIRROR?!? It's my upper arm skin, unfurling and flapping like a flag, oscillating in the wind. And just like that, my magic is gone.

Literally

Yesterday morning, my husband Marty said, "I might grill later."  So in the afternoon, thinking I should start marinating and skewering stuff, I asked if he decided whether or not he was going to grill. He responded, "I guess so, maybe."  I stared at him. What does that MEAN? Can't he just give me a yes or no? He says stuff like this all the time. I decided to marinate meat and hope for the best. It wasn't worth an argument - been there, done that. I planned to make corn on the cob and asked him how many he wanted. He responded, "One or two."  Sigh.

My sister accuses me of "being too literal" so I try to remember that. Maybe it's less a matter of others failing to be clear, but a matter of me not being able to interpret properly. I wonder if how we interpret and how we communicate have more to do with the way we think or the way we listen.

I listen literally. I can't help it. My brain is bad at translating. I won't even mention the horrifying things I have done to song lyrics. At one point, I asked my doctor to check my hearing. It was fine.  My favorite example is when Marty and I were dining out. He ordered for dessert, what we nickname a "Chocolate Bomb." This is a general term we use to refer to any warm chocolate brownie or chocolate cake smothered in hot chocolate goo and a scoop of vanilla ice cream melting all over it. Anyway, at the end of our meal, the server delivered Marty's Bomb and said, "Mexican plate?" Marty smiled and agreed. I stared intensely at his melting chocolate shit pile while he ate, desperate for my brain to translate. I knew I misheard something, but couldn't figure it out. Marty read my face, and I confessed. "Why did the waiter call your Bomb a Mexican plate?"  Marty said, "Oh my God, he said 'MAKES IT COMPLETE'." Say that with a Southern accent (like the server), and you'll see my point.

Photo from foodnetwork.com: Almost-Famous Molten Chocolate Cake

Food Safety is a Myth

I am living proof that food safety is a myth. You name it, I have eaten it either on purpose or by accident. I have a stomach of steel and the discerning food sense of a billy goat.

I find it amusing and disturbing how people are so preoccupied with ‘sell by’ and ‘expiration’ dates. It’s all a hoax. I know someone who threw away a bag of baby carrots because they were ‘expired.’ I’m thinking, can’t you tell by looking if a carrot is rotten?  Was it juicy, stinky, moldy? No? Then eat it, don’t toss it. I was embarrassed for her. But she was probably embarrassed for me when I asked her, “You gonna eat this?” in reference to her yogurt, a month expired, in the fridge at work.  It was scrumptious. Just this week I used salad dressing that she would have tossed 14 months ago.

I thaw frozen meat (sometimes clearly freezer-burned), on the countertop overnight. I use a germ-ridden dishcloth instead of disposable wipes in my kitchen. I leave a stick of butter in the butter dish on the table without refrigeration, always. I’ve never poisoned a guest, and I’ve never been poisoned either. Maybe I've just eaten so much rancid crap that I am immune to food-bourne bacterias. Kathleen informed me this morning that a bunch of people got salmonella poisoning at a local restaurant. This is why she checks restaurants’ health department ratings online before she goes anywhere.

My friend Kathleen is obsessed with food safety. She can’t tolerate the fact that I don’t refrigerate my lunch at work. I bring it in a thermal bag, and it sits on my desk until I am ready to eat it. It could be leftovers, fruit salad, cheese – anything. I like to email her things like: “Turkey sandwich with mayo and week-old potato salad. Unrefrigerated for 5 hours. So tasty.” Her reply? “Why do you do this to me?” Kathleen gave me pink grapefruits last month. She received them as part of a Harry & David Fruit-of-the-Month Club two months earlier, and they had simply been around her house too long for her comfort. They were perfectly ripe and tart-sweet-delicious. Mmmm! She considers me a human garbage disposal for her outdated fruit. BRING IT ON! I also scored a pineapple, and became an instant advocate of fruit-of-the-month clubs everywhere.

Kathleen might stroke out if I told her that mom recently sent me to her basement freezer to retrieve black walnuts she shelled. The containers were labeled 1974 and 1978. She shelled them alright - during the Ford Administration. Regardless, we had fun baking a delicious black walnut cake, and nobody knew the nuts were as old as disco.

What's with the Squirrels?

Mom badly injured her hamstring.  She slipped in the wet grass, did a split, and wrecked her leg. No surgery needed, but major recovery in store for her. That's her story. The short story.

BUT what I found out was this:
Dad was shooting squirrels off the birdfeeder from the second story bedroom window. He hit one, but didn't kill it and it was flopping around in the yard, half its head missing. Mom was like, "I'll take care of this, you ass," and charged out the back door. Mom couldn't stand the poor beast suffering - she was upset that the squirrel was badly hurt and unable to run away. So she grabbed a piece of firewood from the porch and marched purposefully toward the squirrel. In her haste, she slipped in the mud and fell.  Firewood went flying and mom did a split. Then she too started thrashing around, badly hurt and unable to run away.

Meanwhile, dad is still hanging out of the upstairs window, cracking up at all this. From his perspective, watching them flail about together in the mud was a comical sight. Mom finally gets up, covered in mud, and limps in the back door. Dad sees the limp, stops laughing, and goes down to help her strip out of her filthy clothes. She tells him that she is seriously hurt.

I hear all of this from my brother, who is dying to tell me because dad specifically told him not to tell me. Dad thought I would be upset with him for shooting squirrels. The truth is, what I find even more upsetting than my dad thinking it's okay to hang out of the upstairs window like a crazy man shooting rodents in a residential neighborhood, is that my mother has the capacity to bash a squirrel to death with a stick of firewood.

As if that's not bad enough, my sister's husband shoots squirrels from his birdfeeder too. Except he dresses his victims in miniature items stolen from the Christmas ornament collection.

Dear Mom

Dear Mom,

Today I was reminded of you. I was walking down the hall in the medical center. I turned a corner and immediately noticed the new wall paint. It was exactly the color of black raspberry ice cream, which was always your favorite flavor when we were growing up. What a terrible color for a medical center. But I smiled about the black raspberry ice cream and was thinking of you as I walked. Then I thought how last week I thought of you too. Jo was telling me how her kids love the books I gave them, especially the one about the hippos. I remember the hippo book, and how you used to read it to me. It had the word species in it, and I asked you what species meant. You said, "kind" and I thought how smart you were to know a fancy word like that. So I crossed out species and wrote "kind" above it - hippos were a unique "kind" of animal. And you know I treasured my books and it was a big deal for me to deface one. I loved when you read to me, and I sat closely or in your lap and had you all to myself. When you read to me, your breath always smelled like coffeestink. And the smell of your breath was a comfort to me because you were my mom and you knew what species meant and you read to me.

Then I thought about your mother. One of my favorite things about going to her house when I was small, was playing with those million-keys-on-a-string because some of the keys were blue and I had never seen blue keys before. From her estate sale, I got the skeleton key from that string and put it on my own key chain for years. And at dad's mother's, I remember the blue toilet water because that was the first time I had ever seen blue water in a toilet. I spent a lot of time thinking about why her toilet water was blue, but at our house it was clear. Or yellow. What would my grandmothers think if I told them this is what I remembered them for? 

So the point I am making here, is you can try all you want to "make memories" with your grandkids and take them to Hershey Park a million times, but they are probably going to remember you for something stupid like coffeestink or toilet water.

The General

   One of the many joys of my aging experience is interrupted sleep. My middle-aged boobs slide into my throat and choke me if I lie on my back, and when on my side, boobs from all directions pool onto my upper arm, cutting off circulation in the middle of the night. Add to this bed, pre-arthritic hips, a thrashing husband and an obese cat and you’ve got yourself a daily nightmare that you’re wide awake to enjoy.

     What caught my eye in the store one day was the Peaceful Sleep Ultra-Pampering Body Pillow, 100% soft cotton, $19.99. The picture on the package was a perfectly-coiffed woman in lip gloss, sleeping peacefully while snuggling her Body Pillow. That could be me! Surely this was the Ultra-Pampering answer to my problem. I lifted one from the caged display and tucked it under my arm.  It was 5 feet long and flapped like a giant quilted cod as I bounced to checkout.

Night #1:  I stripped it of its plastic sheath and admired it. Behold my downy relief! Here lay the imposing 5-foot conquerer, like Napoleon himself. I named it The General. When bedtime arrived, I positioned The General under the sheets with care. I crawled in beside it and clamped my knees around its midsection. Like the woman on the packaging, I hugged the upper end, and snuggled. My feet? Okay, there you go. Readjust. Better. Re-snuggle. What’s that? The “under penalty of law do not remove” tags are crinkling beneath my ear. Really? Roll out of bed like a turtle on her back, flip The General around, tuck it in, re-enter bed, clamp knees, position feet, snuggle. Aaaahhhh!!

~ 3 hours later, I turn over. With much effort, I lug The General with me. Reposition, snuggle, etc. etc. Husband thrashes and turns over. Resume sleeping.

~ 3 hours later, the cat is looking for his nightly nesting spot against my neck, but The General is in his way. He begins to scratch at The General, 4 inches from my face, until I shove The General southward to make room for him. Cat curls up. Purring. Loudly. The General is creating odd bulk at my feet. Husband’s CPAP machine droning on. Resume sleeping.

~ 2 hours later, it is daylight. I wake up and stare at the ceiling. The General has me in an anaconda-like grip and the cat is asleep in my crotch.

Night #2:  I position and snuggle The General, careful to leave cat space at the top, with the tags I forgot to remove bunched up at the bottom of the bed. Cat curls into place. Aaaaahhh!!

~ 3 hours later, husband comes to bed. I awake to see that the cat is sprawled across his side of the bed. He shoves cat. Cat crosses over me and curls against my back. Husband crawls into bed, and starts shoving at The General who has also poached his space. I finally roll over, dragging The General with me, reposition, snuggle etc.

~ 3 hours later, I awake. I’m sweating. The General is making me hot. Cat is snoring; CPAP is hissing. I roll over, kick leg out of the covers, reposition, etc. etc. etc. Cat clings to edge of the bed and resumes snoring.

~ 2 hours later. Husband is in the guest room, cat is sprawled and snoring on his half of the bed. The General is tangled up in my legs, immobilizing me in a full Nelson. I wrestle it out of the bed and throw it on the floor. Ultra-Pampering is the pits.