Category: Uncategorized

Hockeying

fcb96-verb

As my social media cohort was preparing it’s post-holiday back to work hustle, there was much bemoaning the required wearing of garments that were not pajamas. This was often punctuated by a wail against “adulting.”

adulting (v): to do grown up things and hold responsibilities such as, a 9-5 job, a mortgage/rent, a car payment, or anything else that makes one think of grown ups.–Urban Dictionary

To be or not to be, an adult. Hmmm. When did being an adult become a verb about acting in the manner of an adult?

Is this part of the ever expanding adolescence wherein adolescence is the time between childhood and adulthood? Does it not end? Or is the current fashion for folks to just play like they are adults without accepting that they, indeed, have crossed that threshold.

I remember when I knew I was an adult. It was the day me and my friend went into Brookstone. We sat on the massage chairs then gravitated to the air hockey table. The table was powered up. There were pucks and strikers. We looked at each other and grabbed the strikers and went about playing air hockey in the store. We were quite raucous. The puck went airborne, flying across the store.

Air hockey table. A good one.Nobody stopped us. We kept playing. I kept waiting. But nobody stopped us, because maybe we might buy that $800 table. Because we were adults.

No way were we going to buy that thing. I loved being an adult. Not acting like one, though.

I’m keeping adult as a noun. Perhaps, though, there are other worlds that I would be happy to verb.

Posted on by docthink 0

What Are the Limits?

It’s been said that this is a different presidential cycle. In addition to the way the politics are playing out, there’s a shift in what candidates talk about–and what is off limits. For example:

On Limits

  • The color orange of a candidate’s face, usually regarding fake tannng.
  • The hair-do of a candidate. This could include comb-overs, fright wig looks or hairbands.
  • The apparent sleepiness of a candidate.
  • The amount of “energy” a candidate emits.
  • How much a candidate spends on stuff for themselves and their families.
  • How often a candidate goes to church and how they worship their gods.
  • The weight of a candidate.
  • The wrinkles a candidate has.
  • What a candidate wears, especially if it’s a pantsuit.
  • How long a candidate takes to pee.
  • What a candidate remembers about something they did in high school.
  • A candidate’s “talent” as a politician.
  • The sexcapades of a candidate’s spouse.

Off Limits

What seems to be off-limits? Sadly, we seem to be avoiding substantive coverage in the media of policy differences.

I mean, really. C’mon.

Posted on by docthink 0

Dog Parks

A dog train of butt sniffing. At the dog park.

Not all dog parks are the same.

Well, they have some things in common. Like they are fenced. And you can let your dog loose.

They also have lots of differences. Some are big. Some are small. Some have trees. Some have grass. Some gravel. Some have water, others are BYOB. Some have separate areas for small and large dogs. Some have canvas hung for shade. Some have agility toys. Some are barren. One sits on top of a subway grate–freaks the pups out until they get used to the random swoosh from underground.

And they each have their own society.

There is one that there are never any dogs at. Seriously. Never. It’s huge. And empty. Like post-Chernobyl empty. Not much fun.

There is the dog park with a bunch of young women who pay no attention to their dogs while engrossed in their phones. They are especially not paying attention when their dogs are being aggressive. Swipe left.

There is a park where the old lady comes in with her standard poodle who is totally out of control. As she enters, there is an exodus of other dog owners because her dog has a tendency to try and bite the other dogs. She doesn’t recognize this tendency herself.

There is the park where folks are very snooty about their animals. They look down on the mutts and are disturbed by the sweet pittie mixes. They have that standoffish saluki or that jumping clicking Basenji or other rare dogs that cost many dollars. They saw these dogs in a movie or a magazine. Or they had one growing up. At this park it’s always your fault–even when nothing happened.

There is the park where the dog owners bring brownies. You come in and people smile and say, “hi,” as their dog sniffs your dogs hindquarters. Everybody knows everybody else’s dogs’ names and how old they are and which dogs are buds. The people, though, are unnamed. Nobody asks what you do for a living. Nobody. This might be the only place in Washington, D.C. that you are not asked what you do.

There aren’t always brownies, or maybe there never were brownies, but it sure feels like brownies.

[made it. day2]

Posted on by docthink 0

First of The Year

me, my mom and sibs before we were orphans

Frankly last year was much less a trial than 2014. Not that I’m complaining. Overall healthy and happy and–after upping my craft beer consumption in Traverse City–fat.

Folks would likely say that it was good to take it easy after that roller coaster, but I think that I was a bit too easy. Does lazy rhyme with easy? I think so. While I don’t want to be that person who jumps over social media, I did realize that I was spending too much of my down time with where child stars are now, seventeen celebrity plastic surgery botches (number 9 will surprise you!), and way too much time on the escapades of a rich man who wants to be king. So I started with a Trump-diet and now am more mindful on taking the click bait.

I started thinking about all the posts that I start in my head and don’t write and therefore never publish. Seems to be less lazy to create than simply consume. So I’m publicly challenging myself to post every day for the next year.

Yes, Loyal Reader. Every. Stinking. Day. For. The. Entire. Year.

So today I am posting a musing on becoming the old people. Because I became that last January when my mom died. There are a few flung of my Aunts/Uncles left, there’s really only two that I know. And none that my kids know.

So now that the Spouse and I are orphans, we have become the old people. The elders. Maybe a little earlier than we should have, but that’s who we are. There is a turnover at the old people’s table, and I found myself there.

And, I wonder if the elders before me had a mental image of themselves of being 28–or some such age. I don’t see myself as one of those old hippie baby-boomers, but I think others just might. It’s my personal cognitive dissonance. Am I inside out? Or outside in?

Until tomorrow, Loyal Reader.

Posted on by docthink 2

What Does the Pope Eat?

Walking up to the small shrine in the hill at Kylemore Abbey, County Galway.

I grew up in a Catholic church filled with banners of doves and peace signs draping the altar and hanging behind the choir of earnest guitarists singing folk versions of psalms. And, once, even bongo drums.

My favorite priest was Father Mike. The other priests were Father LastNames. Mike had a beard and longish hair. He was Jesus-esque. Jesus was a carnie in a play, and his disciples were nice carnie hippies.

This was working class Detroit.

Parishioners were UAW members, many were immigrants from Italy, and most everyone’s last name ended in a vowel. Ventimiglia. Bornkowski. Buscemi. Kozlowski. Lucido.

We went to public school and were threatened occasionally with Catholic school if we didn’t straighten up.

To relieve boredom at a time when you didn’t bring activities for kids to Mass, I poured through my misselette reading next week’s gospel–or The Adventures of Jesus as I thought of them. My favorite stories told of houses built on sand, or the hero saving a woman from a crazed crowd, or the magic feeding of a mountain with a few fish. The ones I that bored me started off, “Beloved…”

I didn’t like confession in a dark phone booth, but we did it as a group and that was easy. I received Confirmation–also known as the sacrament of exit. And I, too, mostly left.

I was indoctrinated, though. I knew the secret handshakes. And I knew that Jesus was love.

I got married in Church and, in the sacrament of re-entering, I had kids. We could afford the parish school and the city schools were mostly sketchy.

My son was an altar server. He wanted me to be a lay minister of communion. The choir director would see me singing and asked me to join the music ministry. I served on the school committee to help in technology, but refused Parish Council. Because I’m a really bad Catholic. If I served during Mass I’m sure that the bigger than life size crucifix would crash onto the altar and it’d be my fault.

I am a cafeteria Catholic. I take what I want and maybe need, but when the Church veers from the Jesus-of-my-youth’s message of love, tolerance, compassion and forgiveness, I leave my tray at the cash register. Even if that means I leave behind community, spirituality and faith.

I really don’t believe in God. Not some old white guy who directs our lives. Really, if you were the Maker of the Universe, would you meddle in the individual heartbreaks of the human-ants? Really?

But we meddle in each other’s lives. And we sometimes do it with love, tolerance, compassion and forgiveness. And we make God when we do that.

And that’s what I placed on my battered cafeteria tray this week as I rapturously followed Pope Francis storming my city.

And he’s right. The Pope that is. God is love. That’s it. All the rest is decoration.

So today, and tomorrow and every day, I’m gonna make me some God.

Amen.

Posted on by docthink 2

Parchment

College paper. Printed out.

My son wrote a very good, very smart paper.

It was all the more remarkable by the restraint. His argument was tight. His passion was clear. He made his points with clarity and only a hint of his impressive vocabulary that he wields as a poet.

And I couldn’t throw it out.

It was the print copy that I proofed for him. I was clearing the table for dinner, and had to move the pile of pages, unnumbered and with only a very few specs of my penciled carats in the margin. It interrupted the laying out of pork loin chops, Swiss chard and a very, very good warm potato salad with Dijon and capers.

And I couldn’t throw it out.

As if it was an original. Irreplaceable.

I know that the bits and bytes, the zeroes and ones, the binary form of this paper that are these smart words are in the computer. I know they are also accessible via The Cloud. And they can be reproduced easily via .

And, still, I couldn’t throw away these sheets that made the words real. Because if they are not held in my hand, can the thoughts disappear? Forever? Unretrievable?

I can’t throw it away. I want it.  For real.

Posted on by docthink 0

Mother’s Day Anew

Estee Lauder Modern Muse gift with purchase

I got one of those gifts with purchase. That special bag filled with makeup goodies from the department store that makes you feel like you got something all the while pretending you didn’t get taken by them because you spent $17 on mascara and had to find something else to bring you up to the minimum purchase requirement. As an aside, the good news is, when you get old and are trying to hold visible age at bay, the products are much more expensive so you only need to buy one item. And you feel like you BETTER get something with that purchase.

The bag is pretty and a good size. The lipstick is in a shade I can wear (the only thing slightly worse than getting a shade that is hideous is getting a perfect shade that becomes your favorite and when you run out you don’t want to spend $22 on a tube of lipstick that they gave you for free). The eyeshadow kit is always the most fun. I play with the different combos of colors. I do one eye using a light hand and then do the other eye super dramatic. Then I usually wash it off and put the kit away and later wonder why I have so much junk.

I put the bag, eyeshadow, lipstick, cleanser and moisturizer in the bathroom. It will be out on the counter for a few weeks and then I’ll hide it.

I was clearing off the table to set it for dinner and found the fragrance that came in the kit. I didn’t put it in the bag. I’m weird about scent. I’ve been wearing the same fragrance for pretty much my entire adult life. And when I tried other perfumes, I’d go mad smelling myself all day. So back to the familiar.

I picked up the pretty, miniature bottle and thought that I’d bring it to my mother. I have been bringing her these “foo-foo” samples–especially on her too many trips to the hospital or rehab. Fancy eau de toilette is always a lift and a laugh.

As I fingered the bottle and briefly traversed that thought, I remembered that Mom is gone. Just like that. Boom. Jarred into reality.

I heard an ad on the radio about getting a gift for Mothers’ Day, and felt another tug. I don’t have a mom to give anything to anymore. Not since January.

Ugh. Ugh. Ugh. I didn’t know Mothers’ Day was a holiday of pain. I guess that’s what happens. Crappy circle of life.

And Happy Mothers’ day, Mom. Miss you.

Posted on by docthink 0

Adieu 2014

adieu: old french TO GOD

It’s the end of the year, and many have told me to quickly close the door on 2014.

But this has been an extraordinary year. One that is a marker for me. Not because I had a ton of punches on my healthcare loyalty card.

No, extraordinary because I spent a little time in the darkest space I’ve ever been, and a lot of time squinting in the absurd brightness of the lightest spaces.

I dodged the bullets–not through anything but serendipity.

I know that I am lucky, fortunate, blessed, charmed, or whatever you call what happens when you are right on the edge of everything going to hell but then it turns out okay.

I know that it’s not because I am good or that I am bad or that God is taking care of me or that God is rejecting me. I don’t think that you only get what you can handle or that there is a greater purpose.

I also know that I am not in control of what I am dealt. Last, I do know that “it is what it is.” And acknowledging that helps me to mine my experiences for lessons (maybe that is “purpose?”).

Major lessons? The only thing that I can control is how I process and react. The fountain of kindness of my family, friends, neighbors and colleagues is infinite. Asking for and accepting help is more than necessary, it makes me both more humble and more human. Yes, giving is important, but so is being receptive. I learned the real reason why people pray–sometimes it’s the only thing you can do. And, you can’t go wrong if you do things out of love. It won’t guarantee you are right, but motives frame impact.

You know how at the end of the book, the character collapses after bruising battles and wakes up days later asking “how long have I been asleep?” This end of the year has been like that, but without the sleeping part.

Yeah, this has been a bruising year. But it is a year that has been full of amazing–and maybe some unspeakable–lessons.

I am not sorry to see the year end. So, I send you, my friend 2014, with fondness to God. Adieu, 2014.

Posted on by docthink 0

Annonymous

Such a cute mottled working dog.
Cute on the dog, dumb on the girl.

My eyelashes are filling back in. I never lost them all. There were a few that stubbornly stood by and supported me as I vainly (both in conceit and in futility) worked the mascara wand. Now those soldiers have fresh recruits.

I ran in the local market because I needed peppercorns for a recipe and saw a friend picking up a last minute corn-bread mix. She said she didn’t recognize me in my red-head hat, which I pulled off showing my ‘do to her widening-eyes. She remembers me with long blonde locks.

My hair is coming in, too. It’s thick and soft like moss, and dark and light in patches that look really cool close-cropped but may make me look like a crazed Australian shepherd as it grows out.

A colleague walked by me without recognition–three times. Even after I tapped his arm.

I am seeing the world the same as it ever was, but others are not seeing me in the same world.

Am I moving on too fast? Are the people around me trying to tell me something? Am I missing some important meaning?

My hair is showing itself to be curly–and unruly at that. I see some of it sticking up and out. I don’t think that I have any product that can tame it.

Spring has finally broken through. After three miserable weeks of Sunday-Monday snow in a row, it looks like the bad weather is behind us. Today was glorious. Stuff all a-bloom, the sunshine warm and welcome. I decided to go to the driving range rather than watch golf on TV.

ugly golf shoes, crazy shadow and 9 iron

I had a new obnoxiously aqua/turquoise golf-skirt to wear with my bright lime shirt and joker shoes to satisfy my personal rule that golf clothes must be ugly. I went to my urban golf hideout with my 9-iron.

I’m always a lousy golfer, but I wasn’t even sure that I could swing my club. I got a little bucket of balls.

I stood on my little square of green carpet. It was crowded so I had to take the stall without a tee. That seemed good. Less pressure. I just had the one club with me, and I took it in two hands and stretched it over my head and behind my back. Rolled a ball onto my plot and set my feet. Placed the club across my left palm and met it with my right hand. Looked at that white dimpled ball and wondered if everyone was looking at me.

Seriously. I did. Like everyone knew my secret–as if I had a secret.

Why would anyone look? They had their own balls to hit. Their own grips to adjust. Their own club to blame for that slice. What was curbing me?

I thought the strangers could see me and knew that this was my first swing since my treatment.

But they weren’t looking. They didn’t see me either, but they didn’t know who I was before.

People ask me what I am going to do with my hair. Keep it short? Grow it out? I don’t know. I don’t know what it will be like. I don’t need to decide today.

I do know that I am grateful that it is coming back. And for alot of other things, too.

Posted on by docthink 0

Hating Waiting

my wedding and engagement rings

A friend asked me if I saw things differently since I found out that I had stupid cancer. I said that it doesn’t make sense to wait. Do things now. Remodel the kitchen? Cool trip? Just do it. My friend called it the tyranny of now.

But that really isn’t true. I’ve been waiting.

Time is suspended during treatment. There’s a treatment plan, but you have to wait to see if it’s working. You need to see if it knocks you out. Or not.

Do I start something that I might not be able to finish? Do I end up either having to push too much–setting myself back–or throw in the towel because I can’t do something?

So, I kind of hang back. Suspended in time. Waiting for this to be done.

I’m not tyrannized by any “now.” My tyranny is this stupid illness. It’s stopping me. But, I always knew there was an end, and, right now, I think I can see it.

One of the first parts of my treatment was to have the stupid tumor tattooed. I had to go to the hospital and have it done under general anesthesia.

When you go under general you can’t wear makeup or nail polish. And you can’t wear any jewelry. Not earrings. And not rings. Not a wedding ring.

My wedding ring is a small, simple gold band. I never took it off. And it was very comfortable on my finger. Very comfortable–in like it didn’t want to come off. The pre-op nurse and I bonded over the fight we had getting the ring off my finger. After we wrestled it off, she put it in a small bag. It was marked bio-hazard. She handed it to my spouse for safekeeping.

The next part of my treatment was the chemo, but I knew that surgery would follow. Since I had such grief getting the ring off, I decided to wait to put it back on until I was done.

A few weeks ago I had surgery to remove the tumor. Tomorrow I have another surgery to remove some lymph nodes. Then this stupid cancer should be gone.

I am bringing my wedding ring to the hospital. And I am putting it back on. Then I will be done waiting.

Posted on by docthink 1