Wednesday, September 5, 2018

How Will it End?

Last year, when I dropped a bunch of weight with zero effort on my part and I was convinced I had some horrible disease that would be the end of me, I felt an overwhelming sense of peace. I honestly was relieved because I found a way to extricate myself from my job: death. [There's a lot of back story to that, but suffice it to say that my overwhelming sense of honor had me feeling as if there was no way I'd ever be able to leave that company.]

Thinking about what I've just written, it sounds so very callous, particularly if someone you love -- or you, yourself -- is in the midst of dying. You might be outraged. I suggest not reading the rest of this post.

You know what other thoughts I had when I thought I was about to be handed a death sentence?

"I won't have to do all the work to downsize."

"My kids -- all of them -- will be all right."

"I hope I outlive my Mom."

"Why doesn't someone just kill VOTUS?"

But not once, during that entire time, did I give one thought that God exists. As most of my life I have been a believer, I know that in past times, I did seek solace in God. When my own Dad died. When my nightly prayer up until a few years ago was to say the "Lord's Prayer," and ask God to keep my kids "healthy, happy, safe and free from harm." [No, I'm not entirely sure why "safe" and "free from harm" both came to be utterances. They strike me now as remarkably similar.]

On my walk this morning, I got to thinking about the catechisms and scriptures that are thrown our way by the most vile of creatures, such as Rubio or Pence or name-a-death-eater-believer. How do they possibly have any faith whatsoever, given the evil they're committing? What religion doesn't have those two fearing for what they'll pay at the end? Aren't they terrified?

My need for vengeance fuels this mad desire I have, to convince men like them, moments before they die, that there is no God. But those last few moments of grief they'll feel won't offset the lifetimes of faith they had. Or the amount of evil they did in God's name.

How will it end? I still don't know.

Saturday, September 1, 2018

The Morning Walk

I got Wonder Mutt to go on what used to be her regular morning walk. In the past couple of months, her willingness to do it has waned considerably. She's getting old. Her original (benign) tumor is substantially larger. Pete says if you look at her from behind, she looks like an American football player with a ball tucked under her arm. And not one of those Brady-wobbly-filled balls, either.

But today I tricked her by taking the regular walk in the opposite direction. She's my walking buddy. I need her up and about twice a day if I'm ever going to make my 14,000-step goal in any given day. So, yay, 4,000 steps already. Thanks, Corrie!

Today's Springsteen music was "The Rising." That's not necessarily relevant to whatever direction this post ends up going. I'm just setting the scene.

I didn't have this blog way back then, during that period of time that centers on the events of 9-11. (Is it because it's September 1 that my mind carries me there or is it just "The Rising"?) I had the added bonus of being about two-months pregnant with Youngest. And by "added bonus," let's just say there was a lot of shit going on for me personally. It was all just such a cluster fuck.

Image result for homer simpsonSo is this post going to bring me to today? Like I realize that I should never say, "This is the worst ever," because the world will say right back, "You ain't seen nothing yet." Or, as the great Homer says, "So far."

Nope. I think this post is about the walks I do with the mutt or on my own, when I just listen to (and, yes, dance and sing to along the way) whatever Springsteen album I play. If it's a song I'm really into, my mind focuses on the song in all its glory -- the words, the music, the voice, the memories of when heard in concert. When it's just my usual soundtrack of Bruce, my mind wanders and I dwell on minutiae and gigantically big deals and everything in between.

I'll take my walks either way.

Saturday, June 10, 2017

Rides to Heaven on a Gyroscope

A couple of months ago, I saw a client I hadn't seen for a number of months. Like more than a dozen people have in the recent past, she commented on how thin I was. We chit-chatted, outside my office building, about stress and aging and health and weight. We talked of the many elderly women I'd encountered in Florida, visiting my spry 81-year-old mother, and she asked if I'd ever noticed how some women, when they get old, get skinny and stay skinny. I didn't really take offense at it, overall, but it definitely stuck with me, her comments, and I've shared them with other people.

Yes, I have lost a lot of weight. Yes, some of it was intentional. Give up drinking, and you'll easily drop some. Set your steps goal to at least 14,000 steps per day, and, yeah, you'll drop some more. Try to eat slightly more healthy, and, yup, there goes another pound or two.

And that's what it was like for me, until about February, when I got really sick with back-to-back viral infections, and then ended up with a raging ear infection, which caused me to go on a regimen of antibiotics, and all that time, the weight kept dropping. I started to eat high calorie foods with utter abandon, only my appetite was lackluster at best and the weight kept dropping.

When I could start wearing my sister's size 2 shorts, I knew something was wrong. (Besides the fact that, clearly, clothes manufacturers have, over the year, tried to make us all feel good by calling a 1970's size 10 a 2017 size 8 (or 6).) So I reached out to my doctor, mentioning the weight loss (which was clearly detailed in my damn charts over the years), and asking for a test to see if my hyperthyroidism had kicked in as it had a number of years ago. When the doctor told me the test was normal, I messaged back, "I guess I'll just have to be happy I'm skinny."

Only I wasn't. Happy, that is, to be skinny. I didn't even need my good Dr. Google to tell me that unintentional weight loss is a thing. So when there was another not-good sign, I turned to my ab-fab OB-GYN, and she took up my cause. And, thankfully, she took it up with a vengeance. Detailed blood tests, ultrasound, biopsy, CT scan and, come Monday, colonoscopy and upper (and maybe lower) endoscopy.

For the record, nothing definitive yet, and the scariest (I think) things it could be have essentially been ruled out. In the end, perhaps my client is correct and this old lady has just reached her old-age weight. I will strive to continue to expect that to be the case, even as I chug through a gallon of some vile medication in advance of Monday's procedures, waking up at 3:30 a.m. to finish it as required.

Exactly 30 years ago, as my dad fought a 3-month battle against a clearly winning brain tumor, I started getting massive headaches and had to see a doctor. We laughed -- really -- at the highly improbable likelihood that I, too, had a brain tumor. I didn't. It was TMJ (Temporomandibular Joint Syndrome).

While the doctor and I didn't laugh this time, there's nothing that says we won't be laughing later this week. I'm counting on it. 

*Guess where the title comes from? Yeah, Springsteen's "Does This Bus Stop at 82nd Street."

Sunday, June 4, 2017

The Old Angry White Woman

I am just an old white woman tired of bullies. And I am legion.

That's what I'm feeling right now. Maybe it was schlepping to the #MarchForTruth in San Jose yesterday, early so I could help with the set up. Maybe it was standing with hundreds of other people, listening to Americans from all backgrounds, talk about, really, saving the world. [Yeah, I really believe that. That's our purpose now.] Maybe it was the postcard I sent VOTUS the other day, asking him to "Fuck off."

But what pushed me over was something I saw in a closed group I'm part of. It referred to some antics on another closed (but less secret and discriminating) group that I also happen to be a member of. One of the women in the all-women's super secret group -- yes, anti-female-only screenings of a fucking movie, an ALL-WOMEN'S group --was being sniped at by some run-of-the-mill local crazies on that other group.

So, yeah, off I went to that group. And one of the biggest asshats in town, after my friend commented, went on to post information identifying her as a county employee working for the Board of Supervisors. Mind you, the issue at hand was not county-related. No, it was city-related. As in, the city we all happen to dwell in. And it's called "City in the Know," and people post items which are generally non-controversial. When the more controversial items start up, it mostly stays civil. But every so often, it's not so civil.

Like on that thread where the asshat posted my friend's career information. I wouldn't have necessarily seen the post at all, had I not been referred to it. I must admit my life has been consumed by larger battles of late, so I don't pay as much attention. But then I realize it's precisely because I haven't been paying that much attention locally that we're in the mess we're all in. Not just me, of course, but all of us, complacent in our bubble of contentment and kumbaya, as the crazies took over, by sanitation district by school board by planning commission, and we let them.

No more. So you want to know what I posted as a reply to that asshat? This:

"Where I live on the Internet, we call what you did 'doxxing,' ASSHAT'S NAME. 'Searching for and publishing private or identifying information about (a particular individual) on the Internet, typically with malicious intent.' It's an evil stunt. And you just did it with such ease. I'm impressed."

I am just an old white woman tired of bullies. And I am legion.

Saturday, May 27, 2017

My Homegrown Punk

Newly 15-year-old Youngest was invited to go to an amusement park on the "teacher work day" that always seems to ring in an established three-day weekend, turning it into a four-day mini-vacation. Confirming the invite, the lad's mom, a friend of mine, texted this:

"The boys were messing with me today, saying Youngest was going to wear his VOTUS hat to Six Flags. I said, no, free speech is great, but not in my car."

I shared with him what she had said, and the two of us confirmed that it was just a joke and, no, he wasn't wearing that hat to the park.

But then the motherfucker did.

I only discovered that upon his return that evening. I have to give props to my friend, because, had I been her, at the first sight of that hat, I'd have been calling her and telling her to come fetch her son. And I would have fully expected her to read him the riot act, once she had come all the way to the park to retrieve his sorry ass.

It wasn't her son, though. It was demon spawn himself. At 15, you don't listen to what reasonable voices (or even your unreasonable mother's voice) tell you. At 15, you want to just have a good time and show off to the world how cool you are. At 15, your perception of what is cool is completely and utterly fucked up, which any of us who has ever survived her 15th year could confirm.

His defiant act of going against what I said obviously didn't sit well with me. You could say that my actions in response to the defiance aren't sitting nicely with him either. Good.

What the little fucker doesn't know is that it isn't a question of free speech. Not when you're 15 and a Trump-hat-wearing twat could be as easily knifed to death as the two defenders of hijab-wearing women facing off against an American terrorist were. In an instant, someone with a beef against Trump could spot you wearing that hat and... And we all wring our hands at the funeral of my son while we bemoan what this country has come to.

You know what this country is coming to? A remarkably uncivil war fought in the streets by completely unhinged masked lunatics on both sides. When I was his age, the Vietnam War had just ended and the only fighting going on around me was that of my parents amidst the (long-already crumbled) family at their feet. It was Northern Virginia, so we had more than our fair share of the country's fringes around us. But even wearing a Nixon hat or being in full-blown Commie Viet Cong gear would garner nothing more than stares. (Granted, as long as you were White.)

Those bucolic times -- and, yeah, they were bucolic in comparison today -- are long gone. Sadly, from my perspective, Youngest's absolutely horrible first years are looking pretty bucolic to me today. I guess if I go all weak with desire when I see photos of George W. nowadays, I'll have to accept the same when I think about that son of mine downstairs.

Sunday, April 30, 2017

From Small Things, Mama!

It's no secret that I no longer listen to any radio whilst driving. With my good-friend, Google, I don't even need to check for traffic problems. It's just all Bruce, all the time. Thankfully, I've got that 10-CD changer in the back of my Jeep, so no distracted driving on my watch. Well, unless you consider dancing in the car and singing at the top of your lungs to be distracting. To other drivers, perhaps, but not to me.

I've rediscovered gems, and I've given another listening to a bunch of songs that never became hits. Oh, and the live stuff. Shit, Richie! Talk about pulling me back to past outings, each and every one of them the top events of my life. [Don't pity me, man, I am who I am because of him.]

Two of my three kids are away at college. One will be home for summer. The other is moving into an apartment near campus, and she'll be working at the Happiest Place on Earth. I am jealous, even more so as her roommate's parents and I discuss matching beds, dressers and night stands. And sad, of course, because when I dropped her off in August, I really didn't think she'd never come home to live again.

I made it home after my freshman year of college. I never lived at home again. In fairly rapid succession, I graduated and moved out to California, visiting my parents in places that were never my home. My mom stressed about my failing to stay in one place long: San Diego, Cambridge, Escondido, Berkeley, all racked up over the course of two years.

I've been stressing about my kids leaving me since Eldest's senior year of high school. (Okay, maybe since he was born. Bugger off.)  I had the most knock-down, dragged-out pity party going for quite awhile. I started off 2017 promising myself I'd do what Eldest had asked me to do a year prior. I made a few resolutions, but everything I set out to do came down to one thing: enjoy my life.

It's a damn fucking good thing I made that promise, because this year has held the worst for me that I ever anticipated. Just start with Voldemort Of The United States. Fuck! I #resist until my hands cramp from sending postcards, and creating databases, and emailing legislators, and rallying people, and making name tags for Swing Left, and attending rallies, and attending town halls, and on and on and on.

And, then, of course, my Mom.

As I replay "From Small Things (Big Things One Day Come)," as the days pass and turn into weeks, the song's meaning changes for me, too. I became jubilant, this morning, as I recognized that, yeah, we grow up, we leave, and our moms fret, but we go out, and we live glorious lives, and maybe someday, we will have kids of our own, and we will see that, yeah, from small things, mama, big things one day come.

Thursday, April 20, 2017

I Could Use Less Excitement, Too

"So glad you were all able to be here. A little less excitement next time. Love all of you."

I received that text from my Mom as I sat in an airport Monday, making a long trek back to California after a whirlwind few days visiting her in Florida with husband and Youngest. During the course of four whole days with her, our motley crew managed to:

1. Knock over a glass of water at a restaurant with the ultimate result of our waiter rounding a corner and taking a dive, wrecking his knee in the process.

2. Make a conscious decision to not leave a bag in the car because it had chocolate in it and then take a stupid path of putting said bag on floor. Gorgeous hound dog nosed open the drawstring closure and proceeded to eat said item. Chocolate. Brownie. With cannabis.

3. Heading home from the dog-poisoning gathering the next day, shred a tire and have to change it on the red clay sand on the partial shoulder of a busy Florida highway.

Let's just argue that it was a good thing #3 happened when we were with Mom as two of her tires were ready to blow so at least it didn't happen when she was on her own.

And let's argue that you can't really blame #1 on me as I was the mere recipient of the water spilled by my sister. I was not even present for the great disaster befalling our poor waiter.

#2? No one to blame but myself. And while I do believe the possession of said cannabis can be explained to the degree that you, dear reader, would find it reasonable, I'll just let you think what you will. And acknowledge that, yes, I did poison a dog. With chocolate. And cannabis. Overall, I think she enjoyed the high.

Sunday, April 9, 2017

Monolingual Soccer Players Have it Tough

Yes, Youngest is still all about the football. And, yes, I'm talking about real football, not the American battering sport of 300-pound men sucking oxygen after running 10 yards.

I could probably search through the archives of this ancient blog and find many references to the battles he has fought on the field and the battles we have all fought off the field. The world of youth sports is exactly like the real world: fucked up by idiots.

Our latest saga involves a competitive club he's been playing with for two years. The first year was mostly fantastic. The second year left a lot to be desired, but I understand that was the case for many youth soccer players as the national organization changed the age groupings, throwing all teams into chaos. So, last year was good only for getting the three 1.5-hour practices in each week. At least he didn't go backwards in skill.

But if you're 14 and you have a goal of playing soccer for the rest of your life, you need to find a coach who is going to up your game, improve your strategic thinking about the game, and, damn it, get you to have at least some fun in the process. The third year with this club is now underway, and he's on a good team with, as always, a couple of exceptions.

The Director of Coaching (AKA the head of the club) is listed as his coach, but in name only. The real coach is a fine fellow by the name of Jesus. There's just one little problem with Jesus (that I can discern at this early stage). He only speaks Spanish.

Now, if Youngest were playing with the Bricenos or another Latino area club, that wouldn't be an issue. Of course, Youngest doesn't play for one of those clubs because he only speaks English (and first-year high school French). In fact, half of the kids on his team only speak English.


Not surprisingly, the monolingual kids and their parents have been pushing the DOC to get us an English-speaking coach. The DOC has dug in his heels and essentially said, "Take it or leave it."


We head out to our second game of spring league in a few minutes. Our first game was yesterday. We got to witness the coach yelling out instructions to players who, upon hearing their name called, turn to listen and then...stare...and wait...until one of the bilingual kids on the bench translated the instructions. Thank GOD soccer is such a slow-paced game.

My email to them this morning was as direct as I'm going to be, before we take our soccer ball and team bench and go elsewhere:

"I want to reiterate the opinion expressed by Pete earlier: Jesus does not speak English well enough to communicate with my monolingual English son. That was evidenced 100% repeatedly in the first match of the season yesterday. We don't doubt he is a fine coach. But we don't know that because Youngest is unable to understand what he says to him. The need to have other players translate what is wanted is not feasible in the moment that communications is necessary as the players are on the field. I know David has made it clear that Jesus is the coach for that team. Pete and I need to make it clear that Youngest does not speak Spanish and needs a coach who speaks English. I will not speak for the many other monolingual boys on the team. I will only speak for Youngest. And I'm afraid I, too, can only speak it in English."

Monday, March 20, 2017

Chasing Something in the Night

I couldn't find my "Darkness on the Edge of Town" CD, so it never got loaded onto my mp3 player years ago and it never got added into my repertoire of all-Bruce, only-Bruce whenever I am in the car alone, and so I never listened to some of the songs for a very long time. Given that I feel like I'm in an all-or-nothing fight on too many levels to count, I needed the damn music. So down to the local music store I went, like any old lady would, and bought another copy.

If you've never heard it, or if you haven't heard "Something in the Night" in a very long time, I recommend listening to it. I'll make it easier for you by putting a YouTube version here.

I wish I had lived in Germany when "Darkness" was first released. Why? Because the B-side for the massively overplayed "Badlands" was "Something in the Night" in Germany. (Those of us stateside got "Streets of Fire" as the B side.) I worked in a donut shop at the time, and my friend Viv had gotten a job there as well. She loved "Badlands" and played it all the bloody time, spending her hard-earned dime tips to play it on our jukebox again. And again. And again.


I turn the radio up loud so I don't have to think.

I look for a moment when the world seems right.

I was born with nothing and I'm better off that way.

Nothing is forgotten or forgiven.

But it's the last one that verse that truly speaks to me:

When we found the things we loved
They were crushed and dying in the dirt
We tried to pick up the pieces
And get away without getting hurt
But they caught us at the state line
And burned our cars in one last fight
And left us running burned and blind,
Chasing something in the night

I am feeling quite on the run, burned and blind. I just wish I knew if the price I will pay to keep on chasing it to ease this fear and dread, to hold true to this fervent belief I have that we've got to make our stand now or never, with all or nothing.

Now it is up to you to decide what I am chasing.

Monday, March 13, 2017

Let Them Bake Cakes

Last week, I baked a cake for no reason other than I had made brownies for an anti-VOTUS meeting I was attending. I had made the house smell like that delightful Ghirardelli chocolate and then taken most of the treats with me. I saw that recipe for a chocolate fudge cake on the back of the cocoa powder bag, and I said, "Oh, the boys won't be so annoyed about the lack of brownies if I bake a cake."

It was a good cake. Actually, it was a great cake. As Pete helps to get the cake out of the pans, I bemoan once more the lack of cake pans like my mom has had for as long as I've known her. These are ordinary cake pans, mind you, but they have a built-in "spatula" type mechanism that cleanly cuts the cake out of the cake pan, leaving no trace of cake bottom in the pan. My cake pans are just ordinary cake pans without the all-important mechanism.

About three weeks ago, my mom was diagnosed with neuroendocrine tumors that has metastasized to her liver and other lesser critical places. On Wednesday, I managed to attend her first appointment with the superhero oncologist she now can call her own. Along with her sister, my sister and my mom, we all managed to crowd into the patient room with the aforementioned superhero doctor and listen, enraptured, as he talked of hard-to-pronounce diagnoses and even harder-to-pronounce diagnostic tests and procedures coming down the pike.

Feeling remarkably good post-visit, and happy to have her daughters hanging with her for a few days, my mom spent the past few days pretty much pain-free and hopeful. Attitudes are very important, particularly when your goal is to get as much as possible in order before you have to board the plane back to California and try to once again compartmentalize. In the midst of activity, I pull open the storage under the stove to grab a pan to make my ice cream dessert. I lift the cake pans out to reach the broiler pan.

"Dibs!" I shout. I exaggerate my movements to grab the newly purchased pack of multi-colored Post-it Notes so I can put one with my name on the cake pans. It is not unlike the "I call shotgun" and "I call window" and other childhood claims of rights shouted above the roar of the always loud crowd of five kids in six years. My two siblings in the house at the time join me in reverting back to childhood.

"No," my sister says, jokingly, "Why should you get them?"

"I'll just take them when you leave," my middle brother says.

My mother says, "Just take them with you now, Patty." [Incidentally, she also tries to get me to disassemble a vacuum and take that back home with me, too.]

The cake pans are, of course, in the storage drawer underneath the stove. They will remain there for a very long time, I hope. Every cake I make between now and when I have those cake pans, is a cake I will cherish, with every crumb of cake bottom sticking to the pan. I expect many cakes in the foreseeable future.

Tuesday, February 28, 2017

The Purpose of a Squirrel's Appendix

It is as I try to fall asleep each night that my mind most often takes me to the shadow writing of a blog post. Thoughts swirl around me as I process the day's or week's or election cycle's events and emotions. As my husband will readily attest to, I make leaps from one subject to another, leaving him puzzling over how to answer my last point while also addressing something completely unrelated.

When I gave up the whole God bit, I was left wondering what the purpose of living is. It is something that I struggle with quite often. If this life is all that there is, why do we even exist at all? Youngest and I slow for a stupid squirrel to choose whether to end his life by continuing on his path in front of my Jeep or opt to turn around and go back to the relative safety of a tree whose roots have mangled the suburban sidewalk. Youngest does his best "Up" bit -- POINT! -- and we carry on, tires unscathed by squirrel guts.

Why does that squirrel exist? What's its purpose? Raised Catholic, I have long, by necessity, bought into the theory that other creatures are merely props on the human stage. Humans are superior, of course, because they have souls and the chance for eternal life.

Oh. If you take that little bit away, that we have souls and there is a God, then humans fall the way of squirrels. If humans are squirrels, I'm not sure exactly what the Jeep is in my analogy. I guess it's death, in whatever form it arrives. Death, the Jeep of Life.

Since the upheaval in the world, the country and, now, my own family, Youngest and I have spent a lot of time pondering the unanswerable. We have had hour-long discussions about anything and everything. Like, what the hell are we still doing with an appendix? Or wisdom teeth? What the hell is their purpose?

They don't have one, you know, not really. Not any purpose that humans need now. They are no longer necessary.

Which leaves me in a long, windy, roundabout way to the conclusion that maybe we are no longer necessary, too.

*Cartoon courtesy The New Yorker.

How Will it End?

Last year, when I dropped a bunch of weight with zero effort on my part and I was convinced I had some horrible disease that would be the en...