Threnody

Just got back from St. Patrick's Manor where Cheyenne, my 5th grader (and the rest of the 5th grade orchestra) played the violin for a room full of the elderly. I want to say something poignant about the justaposition of pediatric against geriatric or the spirit of the season or the warm glow on the papery skin of those all but lost to this reality but you know, it just isn't coming to me. I guess the words of a shriveled up little fossil of a woman behind me kind of sums it up. When she heard that the sisters were moving the wheelchairs back to their rooms first and that she would have to wait five minutes before leaving she yelled, "This place is stupid."

The Last two things I put on my new Myspace Blog, in case anyone ever looks here again.

My editor said that sometimes you worry about the person you've interviewed for an upcoming article might die before the magazine comes out. But he's never heard of worrying that the person you just interviewed for an upcoming article will run over your dentist's receptionist's 200 pound husband then keep right on going. That's me. Setting precedents.

Today my editor (maybe i'll shorten that to Ed because editor sounds a bit pretentious but Ed just sounds like my trucker boyfriend.) OK. So. Ed told me that my next article will be interviewing human statues. At first I thought that he was trying to subtly tell me I was fired. But then I realized that interviewing statues is really more like making up a bunch of crap which is what I LOVE BEST so I became very happy and excited. Then I realized (after visiting the website for the aforementioned statues) that human statues are people who stand really still for a living. Sigh.

A Little Bit 'O Mothers Wisdom

On this Sunday mornin' fer ya. (In case you were wondering, I affected a Welsh accent for that part but since all my accents come out sounding like an Indian/German mix, I only spelled in a Welsh accent. And since I don't actually know what a Welsh accent is, I REALLY only wrote in an unknown accent, then labeled it as Welsh.) OK with that bit 'o book keeping out of the way, let's move on.

I am on day 3 of a raging, angry infernal bacterial infection. The differences between a viral and bacterial infection are, 1. bacteria generally requires antibiotics and 2. They make me hurt in every conceivable place. Also, if you google bacterial infections you'll learn that they can poison your blood and kill you. If you Google them after you've already googled the side effects of Bactrim (Or whatever antibiotic you've been prescribed) aye yai yai....forget it. You're doomed. Which leads me to Motherly Wisdom Nugget #1: A Little Information can be A Lot of Trouble. I know there's a cliche there but I can't remember it. If a half a percent of people report a flesh eating bacteria reaction from a certain infection, it's going on the side effects. It doesn't mean you're going to get it or even need to know about. But if you read it, the next 5 or ten days are going to be filled with hyper vigilant monitoring. And that, in a nutshell, is me. It's almost guaranteed that if I read a side effect I will have it. Within minutes.

So, I asked my Mom for some help. My mom believes that you get more of what you focus on and what you focus on effects the landscape of your existence. For example, if you look at the glass as half empty, you see lack and emptiness and that colors your world. If, however, you see the glass as half full, then you have something and you are grateful and fulfilled. Over simplified, yes. But Already I can hear the kids waging war upstairs. So, she told me instead of focusing my attention on how many bad things could happen to me, to visualize the Bactrum coming in like stormtroopers and slashing the little green bacteria throats. And to imagine the Bactrum rescuing my poor POW immune system and they get together and fight.

Say what you want. It's day three and I feel the wind turn. I'm stiff and aching from being locked into a fetal position for 36 hours, but I can feel the white army winning. And I didn't spend it scared. At least not all of it. At the very least, I'm not scared of the antibiotics anymore and that's a big thing since I'm pill-phobic. And I think I'm pill phobic because I'm Elvis reincarnated. But that's a story for another day.

I'm one hot mama. My doctor said so. According to her, I've had a fever for the last year. Yesterday on the boat we ran over what was probably the corpse of a mob hit. It was dark, it could have been a stick, but my bets are on the corpse theory. Also, my dog learned how to speak good morning. It's slightly disturbing. She just said it and it's four in the afternoon. For Pete's sake, Bambi, learn how to tell time or shut the hell up, right?

I have been so STINKING GREEN this year. First of all, we bought rain barrels and attached them to our gutters so we could conserve water and still have a garden. We switched all our lightbulbs and faucets to conserve water and electricity and I've used the clothes drier ONCE since May. Two loads of laundry a day go out on the line to dry in the sunlight. And we've been buying all of our produce local and I've been riding my bike more to go places (with the little ricksaw on the back toting the yunguns.) I've attached the TV's and computers to power strips that I switch off when we aren't using them The only ungreen thing we do is pollute Lake Whitehall with our motorboat twice a week. But that boat is so darned fun! I can't believe I used to hate it. Last night we took sandwiches out to the middle of the lake and drifted while we ate and the sun sank behind a pillow of pinkness. At one point the surface of the water - which turns into glass at sunrise and sunset - bubbled as if there were a diver beneath the surface. The bubbling continued, some fifteen feet away from us, for about two minutes then stopped. I've no explanation for it at all except that the swamp thing was about to come out but saw our boat and thought better of it. Thank God for that because the swap thing scares the shanizzle out of me. I'd tangle with a lot of things but "Swamps" not one of them. Today is 8-4. I wonder if something magical will happen. I expect so since I dreamed about my dad and a pegasus and a little bitty fat turtle. So now I'm off to water everybody's gardens. I am the keeper of the green. PTCakes garden is the garden of a scientist, organized and full of the products of a brilliant mind. My mom's is the garden of an artist, lush and trailing and colorful. Peace.

Whitehall

Tonight we packed a picnic and took the boat to Whitehall. We docked out on this teensy little island and the kids swam for a little while. Delta fished and I spent some time communicating with a school of kivvers who identified themselves as "The Angry Anklebiters" and gratefully shared my chicken salad reciprocating by blowing oily purple bubbles that spread along the laketop like fireworks. Eventually they lured me into stripping down to my unmentionables and diving in the water much to the surprise of Delta and my children who thought I was some sort of sea monster when I came around the other side of the island. Here are two pictures I took with Delta's phone. The sun set on the right side of the lake and the moon rose over the left as we zipped through the water. We were extra-zipping when I took the moon picture hence the special effects.

Home Again

I'm glad to be home, if only for my kitchen. After two weeks, restaurants all taste the same and there's always that little niggling paranoia that I'm going to get salmonella or e coli from something somebody else cooked. Or hepatitis c. or Ebola. Boy am I glad to be done dodging bullets. Besides, the kitchen is a place for witchcraft. Outside, on vacation, I am a mere mortal but back home I am a sorceress. Food Alchemy is my medium and my meditation and the most direct way I can pray for the people I love. And, to paraphrase an apron I saw once, most of the people who eat my cooking go on to lead perfectly normal lives.

Yesterday we stopped by little house on the side of the mountain because it had a sign outside that read "Gifts by Lavender." Delta said that sign's been up since he was a kid but he's never been in there. So we stopped. I wanted to find a face jug made out of local pottery for my mom Face jugs are jugs made from pottery that have scary, twisted faces made into the belly of them. Making the jugs is a traditional craft as old as moonshine and potters and the purpose was to scare children away from the poisonous substances inside. (i.e. moonshine, whiskey, medicine) Face jugs were, literally, the original skull and crossbones.

Anyway, we stopped by this little Lavender shop to see if the local crafter inside had any to offer. The shop was attached to the house, right inside a little carport and there was a sign asking you to wipe your shoes and ring the doorbell. When a little old lady in a wheelchair wheeled up to let me in, I knew that pottery or not I would have to buy something before we left. She had a houseful of old lady crafts. You know, crocheted afghans and doilies and stars for Christmas trees. She had handmade quilts selling for $500 a piece. She had teddybears and baby booties and dishrags. But no pottery.

So I uncomfortably engaged her in conversation, checking the prices of everything, cringing because the prices were all up around where I'd have to write a personal check. Somewhere in our conversation I ceased to be a customer and she ceased to be a crafter and we became sisters from opposite ends of the spectrum.

"I'm 84 years old already," she said, "And Harold's already 88." She gestured to outside where Harold was mowing a portion of the hundred acres they owned. "And I still clean this house every Thursday."

She also held mortgages for as many people as a bank, owned a campground, two farms and half a mountain, did all her own bookkeeping and crafting, found her way into a half a dozen most notable women books and received a personal Christmas card every year from the Reverend Billy Graham.

And she'd lost 3 out of four sons, one husband to infidelity and later death and both her parents.

All I could ask was, "How?"

"Don't think about things too much," she said, looking deep into my eyes, transcending roles. "Or the panic will get you."

Instead of a face jug I bought a doily and a few dishrags and hoped that Delta wouldn't blurt out that I made the same old lady crafts myself and I thanked her. When we pulled away, I had the serendipitous feeling that nothing happens by chance. There really IS a sisterhood and during this trip I've been embraced and comforted. The same for at home. It's the sisterhood who carries you when you fall.

I promise never to take that for granted again.

All my sisters-in-law but one are the biggest warmest, sweetest, most Didi-mind-readingist people in the world. One is nuts. Certifiably. I wish I could bottle her up and bring her home so you all could see just what kind of maniac the North American Redneck is but sadly she'd stab someone.

But back to the others. They can all cook and they give you that fresh baked bread feeling.

Oh, wait, I forgot the other other one. SHe's kinda nuts too but in a different way. She channels daytime drama and sprinkles it on everything she touches. '

But the others. They just hug me and tell me exactly how to deal with the crap I've been going through and no one even ever told them! Two of them lost a parent themselves and so they pulled me aside and said things like, "Do you get them there palpitations or that paranoid panicky feeling?" and "Don't you worry girl, you ain't gonna feel this bad forever." And they know it for sure. It's like someone standing a little bit closer to shore and saying, "Come on, you'll be able to touch soon." Plus they're nurses.

Yesterday we went to the place we call Chez Swann. It's a big farm out in the foothills and it belongs to my eldest brother-in-law. There's horses and four wheelers and a pool and dogs and miles and miles and miles of paths. The kids go wild there on the horses or the bikes. Last night we swam in the pool while the sun set streaky pink over the mountains. But then poor old Bambi had some wild idea that the horses wanted to play with her. Then she got stompled. But she's ok, just a little stiff and limpy and beat up. At first I thought she was done for. I thought she was strolling down Old Yeller lane. When she finally dragged herself over to me I told her, "I guess those aren't really big dogs after all, Bambi." Maybe that's a lesson we ALL need to learn.

On Vacation

Hey y'all! We're in NC right now, high up in the Appalachian Mountains where the only radio waves that reach are from country music stations. If you want to know what it looks here, watch The Last of the Mohican's or Dirty Dancing. Both were filmed here. I'd add a link but I'm working on an air card here and it takes forever plus three minutes to change pages. Reminds me of the days of dial up or when you had to type in http//: before you went anywhere.

We're having a good time. The house we're staying in, a house that's been in Delta's family since the family rowed here from Scotland and England and mixed it up with the Cherokee's who were here first, is most assuredly haunted. There's been a series of unexplainable footsteps and the presence of a woman named June who pretends to have been a dream but who I know is real. And there's the cranky old great aunt who tortures me while I go to the bathroom. One of the ghosts told me the rest of my story while I was dozing in the upstairs room and now I can finish (ok, start) writing it. One day when it's a bestseller (in hardcover no less) and I'm negotiating over the movie rights I will publicly give thanks to the ghosts of the mountains.

My in laws are as colorful as a sky full of balloons. I come from a family only in theory and to marry into a family of this many - more than I can count on all my fingers and toes - is a trip. My one sister in law (she's a redneck. She'd insist that I tell you that. Really.) has a house that was struck by lightning seven times. And just last week her little doggie was struck down a nd killed by lightning too. There are times when the noise level alone sends me running for our little whitewashed room in the attic. You should hear the way they say my name. I'll teach you how to do it. First, stand up. Now take a deep breath in, open your mouth so wide that the person in front of you can see the punching bag in the back of your throat and now holler "Down" as loud as you can and mostly through your nose. Then cock your head and make a little sarcastic face and think about the myriad ways yankees disintegrate the fibers of American culture. But don't use big words when you think about it.

I love my in laws and I love coming down here. And I DEFINITELY don't think southerners are all named Bubba or need a diagram to tie their shoes. I admit, the first time I came here I kind of thought it. But all the years of Mason Dixon hopping have taught me why that is. It all boils down to the speed of speech. Our northern vowels are crisp, fresh, snapping lettuce, crunchy apple. Southern vowels are long, meandering, bottle of molasses, katydid song, mountain brook. To us, fast is the way to be. Slow speech mean slow mind. To them, fast speech means uptight, in a hurry, know it all.

Today we're off to Asheville. The check engine light in my car came on and we have to go see what the problem is. Then we're off to Chimney Rock or Cherokee or up to Grandfather Mountain. We've got an appointment to look at some property in Blowing Rock, the place that the fictional town called Mitford was based on. It's the only place other than Massachusetts that I could ever see myself living. It's about as close to perfect that a town could be.

Talk to ya'll later.

Hello Again

It's hard for me to imagine still keeping this blog. Indeed, I'm not sure if any eyes will ever read this I've been away so long and I'm such a different person now, so unrecognizable, that I'm almost tempted to crumple this page up and relocate to a new one.

I've got an anthem for the past few months, and I before you mock me for quoting Fergie, know that my ten year old daughter leaves few oppurtunities for more "sophisticated" listening. But somehow, on some weird dimensional zit, I've found that Fergie channeled me and wrote a song about the experience:

I hope you know, I hope you know

That this has nothing to do with you

It's personal, myself and I

We've got some straightenin' out to ...

..But I've got to get a move on with my life

It's time to be a big girl now

And big girls don't cry

Don't cryDon't cryDon't cry

The path that I'm walkingI must go alone

I must take the baby steps 'til I'm full grown, full grown

Fairytales don't always have a happy ending, do they?

And I foresee the dark ahead if I stay....

...But it's time for me to go home

It's getting late, dark outsideI need to be with myself and center, clarity

Peace, Serenity

I suppose that could be interpreted a few ways.
Delta and I are happy. My children are fine. I have a house and a car and clothes and food on my table in embarrassing quantities. (And the ass to prove it) But you know, you pass go a hundred times and never notice. It's the one time you land in jail that really gets your attention. An awful lot depends on the way the dice fall.

I don't know how much detail I should reveal. Delta would tell me I should keep my business to myself, but how can I? I've never been able to. And besides, the path I've walked is ugly, scary, dark and full of things waiting to suck the beating heart from your chest. And walking it reduces a person to nothing more than a pile of ashes. I'm too humiliated by my own mind turning on me to write about it yet I'm sure, having survived it, that someday someone is going to need what I learned while I was out there. Someday someone else is going to be where I was, and you know what? I came back with a map. But most of all, I came back.

Had class tonight. Scary lady said I am the star pupil. Learned how to curtsy. When we did our "come" exercise, I ran to Mommy so fast that I had to skid for five doglengths so I wouldn't tackle her. Mommy brought steak for my treat tonight. All the other sucker dogs had cheese or dry cookies Being VIP (puppy) has it's privileges. Mommy was so proud of me, she had me show Daddy all my tricks when we came home. Daddy said I am a good queer-bait dog. Kind of. That made me all warm and fuzzy on the inside. Being warm and fuzzy inside and out was a little strange. Made me have to pee on Phee-Phee's bed. Now I'm not star pupil anymore. Oh well. The sun will come out, tomorrow...

So, what is a passport, exactly? A few pieces of paper stapled inside a cardboard cover with some info and a picture. Right? I wonder what inside this little book costs a hundred bucks to make. Is there a diamond core inside the cover? Is the ink actually liquefied platinum?

But, in a display of unprecedented brilliance, I aerated, seeded and fertilized the yard yesterday. If you live in the area, you'll note that the weather this week is optimal grass planting weather. I don't have to water a damn thing. We're gonna be golfing in the back yard in a month the grass is going to be so abundant and lush. And all I had to do was bribe mother nature with a US passport.

Another thing, my dog is actually stupid unless there is a piece of cheese in my hand. She's like a remote control car or something and the remote is cheese. And the batteries are cheese. And I'm not really sure where I'm going with this simile.

Someone recommended that I mention the things that are good during the day. SO, here it goes. I was really born. I have evidence of this in the form of a birth certificate that I had to purchase at the Natick town hall today in order to complete my passport transaction. I mean, you always figure you were born because, like, you're here and all, but to have hard proof, well, it's just a little gratifying. And I bought some really expensive lavender tea today. After I drank half a cup I started to wonder if lavender is truly edible. That thought sent me into a mild panic attack during which my esophagus swelled shut. But I'm okay now, and that's the good part. Oh, and lavender IS edible. See? good news and science all in one blog. What more could you ask for?

What I Need For This Blog

Is a gimmick. A theme. Some kind of something I can always write about. Something not self depricating. That's why I'm not going to write about Thursday. If I wrote about Thursday, I'd have to tell you that, in one day, I wore 2 different shoes, referenced nipples in the children's department of Barnes & Noble - LOUDLY - and was informed by the bagger at Stop-N-Shop that I look like I'm expecting. None of those things are particularly flattering and I'm trying to be a positive thinker now.

Bambi's Rebuttal

Salutations. It's been brought to my attention that my dear cousin Daisy has her own blog at PTCakes house. That's nice an all, but since we look so much alike I wanted to be sure y'all knew that she has way more chins than me. I only have one. I'm not saying one chin is better than, oh, the three I counted on Daisy. And I don't have nothin against jowls and big long black hairs either. All I'm sayin is, my groomer's got spaces available. Don't my nails look good? I done got a full set, wash, cut and blowdry today. Damn I look good. Shoot.

First Day of Classes

Today Bambi and I started obedience classes. She's a slutty little trouble maker, that one. From the the very first moment she whined and flirted and called all the other dogs to her. I guess I should just be happy she didn't try to eat anyone. That's a step in the right direction. The woman who teaches the class is, ironically, German. She does nicht approve of zee vay mein hunt behaves. I vill train mein hunt und I vill like it. Yavol!

My cast is off HOORAY!!!!! But not off all the way. It's quasi off. I'm supposed to put it back on when my foot hurts which, according to my doctor, will happen most of the time for the next two weeks. But whatever. I'm FREE!!! No more leaning through the bathroom door when my kids are in there and screaming "Here's MOMMY!" My doctor DID say not to run the marathon this year. You got lucky Kenya - you hear me??!! So, tomorrow I am quitting sugar, dairy and meat until I lose 15 pounds. Except, of course, the sugar that naturally occurs in the foods I eat like chocolate. And except the dairy in the cream that goes into my coffee.

Sunday

Today we went over to Tiara's and Ghosthunter's for dinner. First, all of us (except Tiara who is, unfortunately, not bi-lingual) spoke in pig latin. The kids, for an added challenge, spoke pig latin with pig (ham) in their mouths. Then we all laughed and laughed and laughed till our ribs cracked at things that wouldn't have been funny if we were with anyone else. I'll tell you, a real treasure is friends who laugh at the same things you do. Particularly if you have a "unique" sense of humor, like me. Delta was in such a fine fettle tonight, every time I think of the things he said I chuckle. Unfortunately I can't share them with you because, as I mentioned above, you wouldn't find them funny. I love Regina Spektor even more today than I did yesterday. And this morning, I figured out how to end my short story. Sigh. Now I can stop nodding and lying and really end the story. Yay.

If It's Weird, It'll Happen to Me

And that's a fact.
I used to think that The Shining was a work of fiction. Then I fell down the stairs and broke my right foot and spent five long weeks trapped in the house with three little people who lost no oppurtunity to demonstrate my flawed parenting skills. But that's ok. Parenting is mostly hindsight anyway.
Here is a brief summary of the things that have happened since I last hobbled down here to the computer....1. Quit smoking (yay me!!!) 2. Became allergic to Splenda 3. Was test pin-cusion for guy studying to be Paramedic who laced my hand vein up like it was a shiny blue corset 4. Fell madly in love with Regina Spektor.
Monday I go to the doctor and find out if I can take my cast off. I think I had a better chance before the leaping incident of last week. But, you know, sometimes things just chase you down the hall in the middle of the night. Then you have to leap. It's survival.
And then, on Monday when they TAKE THE CAST OFF (because they will, leaping or no leaping) I will begin, in earnest, a health kick that will result in me shedding fifteen pounds by the end of June. Because, believe it or not, that's all that's left till my goal weight. I can't believe it either. Maybe I'm lying. But I DID quit smoking.

Today would have been my dad's 67th birthday. It's also the 3rd anniversary of the day my grandfather died. I dreamed about rats and school showers and I ate an annisette cookie for breakfast. This afternoon I'm getting a new tattoo - one with the mysterious numbers 84 involved. Tommorow I might get to remove my cast - or "have a little incision". Either way, tommorow is the end of my holding pattern. I'm so freaking happy spring is almost here. I like March. I like waiting and vacillating between winter and spring. It's like spring foreplay.

So, I taught myself how to so the Scottish Sword Dance. And I practiced it for 2 days straight, even though my poor little foot was hurting a bit. And then I took the kids to see Bridge to Terebithia. And then I ran around in my snow boots, ignoring the pain in my foot. Then I came home, took off my boots, told Delta my foot felt a little funny, took off my sock and noticed an odd bone poking up through the top of my foot. So, I had a nervous breakdown went to sleep, woke up in agony seventy times and then went to the Emergency Room this morning. "So, you fell down the stairs three days ago, and you're just coming in?" all the nurses and the (very hot) doctor asked me. "Why yes," I answered ("And, I'm having pain a little higher," to the doctor) (Just kidding) (No I'm not) "And you walked around on this for those three days?" they asked, and I nodded, then they all gathered around the xray of my foot on the big computer. My foot, incidentally, looks like a pterodactyl. Turns out, I have sprained my foot, fractured it AND chipped a little bit of bone out, which is the piece that had floated to the top and poked out. Delta said I am much tougher than he thought.

Delta brought me home some chocolate covered potato chips today. If you said "Ew," then you have never had PMS. Or you are a cardiologist. The chips came in a very pretty leopard print Chinese takeout box and are my new favorite thing. And I've discovered the root of my run of misfortune: Our bed is inauspiciously placed. In re-doing our bedroom, we moved the bed so our feet face the door, we're in full (porno) view of the huge mirrored doors, right across from the bathroom and over the garage. Any more anti-shui and we'd probably spontaneously combust in the night. If my back weren't broken from falling down the stairs, I'd move the bed. I guess I'll have to keep my fingers crossed till the bruises heal. Incidentally, if anyone has any holy water they'd like to donate or maybe a necklace of garlic or a silver bullet...wait...am I mixing superstitions?

The last seven days or so have truly been a comedy of errors for me. Aside from squirrel tail trophies, desperately ill children, paper-shredder carpeting, minor vacuum fires, now I have fallen down the stairs and crashed through the wall. My dear friend EmEl took one look at the hole and said, "I just can't believe a female did that."

But Delta sent me flowers. There's something so exhilerating about having flowers delivered to the door. Ten years and four kids later, that and never saying "Why yes, as a matter of fact you are fat," is the glue of marriage.

So, now the kids are home. Ya-Ya has a raging fever and an ear infection. Must go shovel out and bring her to the doctor. It's a good thing there's no school. Today was supposed to be her first violin concert. She's have been crushed to miss that.

What's Grosser than Gross?

Your dog eating a squirrel.

What's even grosser than that?

Your dog getting carsick and vomiting furry squirrel chunks all over the rug of the passenger side floorboard.

And the cruel irony of it all? Said dog had just left the groomer where she was meticulously de-squirreled, inside and out. Excepting, of course, the contents of her stomach.

Yuck. FYI, squirrel meat smells like turkey. Sorry again, Squirrel Lady.

It's a Sad Night in Newton.

On the one hand, LOST IS BACK!!!! Hooray! sixteen beautiful Wednesday nights, no repeats. Aaah.

But, just to maintain the balance, there's some bad news too. I came home from jujitsu tonight to find my darling dog, Bambi, sweetfaced little angel, in the side yard eating a squirrel. I don't know what else to say about that. Delta was happy because they finally have something in common. Sorry squirrellady.

Dreams

My mom gave me a huge, gigantic dream dictionary. Normally, I'm a bit of a cynic about dream symbolism. Well, maybe cynic isn't the right word. I believe so many different theories that I don't really believe any of them. But the other morning, after 48 hours of Oskar being terribly ill, I stayed in bed and analyzed a particularly strange dream. And guess what? It was all on the money. By the time I'd finished reading, it made perfect sense for a two headed woman to be driving my car while I sat in the back seat. I totally understood going to stay at a Black Forest inn with my brother-in-law, said two headed woman and this guy Delta works with. The fact that I left the phone in the car and couldn't call Delta to ask him why I was in a German inn with the aforementioned smorgasbord of characters was explained. The innkeeper's phone call - insisting I get rid of my snake-stick - revealed something so profound that I've actually been relieved since learning it. But I can't explain any of it to you. That would be excess information. Over-share, if you catch my drift.

Finding out your husband loves IKEA is like finding out your 1970 Bronco comes with a built in GPS, heated seats and self-park feature after you bought it.

Finding out your husband does not like to assemble all the things he buys you at IKEA is a little less exciting. But fun in a rolling snowball sort of way. (kitchen snowball leads to playroom leads to office leads to bedroom leads to bathroom, you get the idea)

Building things - things someone else cut out and measured and counted screws for - is a wonderful way to cope with grief. That and running. When I got out of the Corps, I vowed never to run again. There could be a field of burning Napalm around me, and still my feet would not move faster than a leisurely shuffle. But now I've discovered this passion for running I never had before. I'm out three or four times a week, two or three miles at a time, dog or no dog, kids or no kids...

and speaking of dogs my poor beautiful Cassius had to go to that great big "farm in Montana". Our vet said he was "deranged" a "victim of bad breeding". I think my father's death was the catalyst for his psychosis. He went nuts. Very sad. I guess now that he's gone I can show you a picture of him....

So a lot has changed here. I wrote an essay about grief being like an earthquake. Everything in my life is different. I'm starting all over, a different person.

We got the kids a new dog, her name is Bambi and she's the sweetest thing that ever lived. Her name, first and last combined, make her sound a bit like a streetwalker. She comes from VA and is the 5 month old illegitimate daughter of a couple of hunting hounds. I love her.

I'm no Scientist

I don't know why it's ranging between 40 and 70 degrees in the middle of January, but I've heard every reason. Some of my friends say it's global warming, some say it's cow farts. One weatherman said it's El Nino, the other a reciprocal weather pattern with Alaska. This morning, the milkman told me it's because the sun is burning several degrees hotter than normal, just as it did 400 odd years ago before the plague.

I don't know who's right. What I do know is, the temperature got hotter when I started running consistantly. Probably, I did it. Thank me or crucify me, it is what it is.