May 10, 2008

Random Question of the Day

So, as I might have mentioned once or twice, I'm an auntie twenty-some-odd times over. I've lost count, completely, particularly since my brother re-married last year and gained four step-kids. I think that puts me at twenty-seven nieces and nephews, and one grandniece, but I might be doing the math wrong. Yes, we are your typical Catholic family: everyone has gone forth and started with the "begat" business. While it's nice to have a variety of nieces and nephews, with their various personalities and interests to keep things lively, it presents something of a problem having this many. I can't send everyone a birthday card, otherwise our household GDP would fund Hallmark exclusively, and dammit, if I'm going to give that much money to a company, I'd just as soon have stock, ya dig? There are just too many of them.

But special occasions are another story, and this year we have four---count 'em---grandkids graduating from various institutions. (Perhaps it might be five, but I'm not sure if one nephew is receiving his joint MBA/MS in Mechanical Engineering this semester or not.) As such, I have received three graduation announcements in the mail, and I'm sure the final one will be winging its way here once that particular nephew puts down his pipe long enough to listen to his parents' nagging to send them out. (Sigh. But if you knew this particular nephew, you'd know he's a good kid at heart, but is going through his rebellious phase.) The thing that's killing me, however, is that only one of these kids has actually addressed his announcement. The other two have their mothers' handwriting on the envelopes. They're the ones who have, undoubtedly, ordered the announcements, have put the various pieces of the puzzle into the envelopes, addressed them, and mailed them off---not the children who are graduating, and who, it must be said, are soliciting graduation presents/cash donations with said announcements. I know the kids are all busy, but that's no excuse. It's their event; their achievement;their announcement. And I am proud of them and their achievements, and want to reward them, even if I'm limited by budget constraints to doing it in a smallish-way, but, damnit, it just seems like laziness in the extreme that they would foist this job on their parents. And that is something I won't reward, particularly when I know how hard my sibs work to get their kids through school, and, in one instance, how much they pay to put one daughter through my old high school, where tuition, it must be said, ain't on the cheaper side of things.

So, the random question of the day is this: do I send the kids the cash I would normally send them, or do I send it to their mothers, to go out and buy themselves a round of drinks, because they did the hard work of sending out the announcements?

After all, if the kids can't be bothered to send out the stupid things, how do I know they actually should be congratulated for graduating? While I know their parents didn't do their coursework for them, this act kind of screams that they did. Perhaps I'm congratulating the wrong people?

I'm not even going to go into the fact that I KNOW several of them won't bother sending out a 'thank you' note. That's another story entirely.

Posted by: Kathy at 10:06 AM | Comments (1) | Add Comment
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May 09, 2008

Presented With Minimal Commentary

Because If I actually vent my spleen on this one, I'll wind up in a hospital bed in a catatonic state for a good long while.

You'll understand after you watch it.

{ht: WWTDD}

Posted by: Kathy at 04:10 PM | Comments (1) | Add Comment
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Spare Me

Hey Jerkweed, weren't you supposed to leave the country in 2000 if Bush was elected?

According to many travel sites, there are still loads of flights available. Why don't you GET ON ONE and spare us your sanctimonious bullshit, eh?

The fat head you save could be your own.

Posted by: Kathy at 08:40 AM | Comments (2) | Add Comment
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May 07, 2008

I Kinda Feel Like I Should Update the Hair Story

So, one year ago today, I went bald.

On said night, after we'd finished dinner, the husband made me undress and took me into the bathtub. While I sat there, on the edge of the tub, naked as a jaybird, he buzzed me with the clippers, taking any and all excess length off my head, of which, it must be said, there wasn't much. After a quickie shower, which washed my hair down the drain and off my neck, I got dressed again, and he then sat me down, on one of the dining room chairs he'd placed in front of the kitchen sink, lathered up my head with shaving cream and took a razor to whatever was left.

When he was finished (it took a while, because my scalp had never been shaved before and it proved somewhat reticent. Also, the husband, new to the task of shaving heads, didn't want to cut me, as well), we went into the bathroom to take a peek in the mirror, and that's when I started to cry in the husband's arms. I felt like Samson---completely vulnerable to attack. After a while, I wiped my eyes, put on the hat my sister had knit for me, and went out to the living room to be distracted by the tee vee. The husband, upset because I was upset, again made the offer to cut all of his hair off, so I wouldn't feel alone. I refused, mainly because I wanted to be able to play with his hair whenever I wanted to, and extracted that promise from him. (Bless him, he kept that promise, too.) While I was entirely horrified that I'd lost my crowning glory, I couldn't stop myself from feeling up my smooth head. It was weird, and it wasn't something I ever got over doing the five months I was without hair. If I was just sitting around, watching tee vee, it was guaranteed that that's where my hand was, feeling up my skull. It was normal for me to do this, I suppose, considering how much I played with my hair, when I had hair. I'd just substituted running my hand along my scalp, feeling the bone, trying to memorize all the bumps and curves, for making braids and twirling the locks.

Also, as it turns out, going bald brought back a second grade memory that I'd completely forgotten: one day, in the middle of winter, coming home from school, I decided to take a "shortcut" between two garages and sliced open the top of my head on a low hanging gutter. At the time, I hadn't realized that I'd done anything to myself, but by the time I'd reached home, I realized there was all this red stuff on my hooded green ski jacket. I couldn't figure out what it was. My memories of the event are foggy, but I must have freaked the ever living hell out of my mother when I walked in the back door. As it turns out, I'd cut open my scalp, through the hood of my coat, and had bled like a stuck pig from the inch-long gash. After a phone call to the doctor, the decision to not get stitches was cemented, because it wasn't bad enough to merit them, I was cleaned up and I went into the family room to watch cartoons. I remember eating an awful lot for dinner that evening, but I was fine overall, and the incident was soon forgotten.

Until I went bald, that is. While he was shaving my head, the husband wanted to know why I had a small scar on my scalp, and I was puzzled for a few moments until I remembered this incident. I was amazed and had to tell my mother and sister all about it. Ironically, a few weeks later, my niece, Maggie, cut open her head while she was horsing around at one of her brothers' baseball games, and despite all the blood (because, as I found out from a nurse friend that scalp wounds bleed like crazy) everyone comforted my sister, saying at least it was under her hair, so no one would notice. Christi told me she'd laughed and said, "Well, you never know about that. My sister just lost her hair from chemo, and she found..."

About every week and a half, the husband would get to shave me again, because white fuzz grew in small amounts on my head and, when it got to a certain length, it would start to catch on the scarves I wore. He got pretty good at this, and had it down to a routine before long. Every time a chair from the dining room would make it's way in front of the kitchen sink, where the husband would lather me up and would go to town, while I tried to watch the little tee vee we have installed in there without the benefit of my glasses. As you might have guessed, I wound up listening more than watching.

Fortunately, in the middle of August, one month after my last Taxol treatment, the hair started to grow back. It was earlier than I'd thought it would be, but it was just fine with me.

One year later, here's the progress report:

nowwithhair!.jpg

Yeah, I fully realize I look like a complete and utter spaz in this picture. All I can say is you try to take a decent picture of yourself, by yourself and see what you can come up with.

But, let's face it, I'm a complete and utter spaz...with hair. Which is good.

Yes, it came back in curly. That's par for the course, but it's not any curlier than what it was beforehand. Thank Goodness it didn't come back in as a fro. What I wasn't expecting is that the texture is now completely different. My hair used to be somewhat coarse, now it's fine. Unfortunately, that doesn't help in the frizz department, because it still erupts whenever it's wet. Sigh. I was hoping God was going to throw me a bone on this one, alas, however, He apparently has better things to do with his time than focus on my battle with frizz.

I hope I never have to go bald again because of chemo, because that would mean baaaaaad things regarding my future, but if it happens, I know I'll live. I won't be happy about it, but I doubt I'd be as traumatized as I was last time. And, if it happens, well, I won't have to spend a load of money on scarves and hats because I have a whole drawer full of them. If I had one thing to do over, I would get a wig. Not for vanity purposes, but simply because there were days when I would have enjoyed some privacy regarding my condition. That's all. A wig will only do so much to make you look normal if you already look ill. I just would have appreciated a few days where everyone wasn't privy to my business and a wig would have enabled that.

So, that's the hair update. I suspect that this might be the last one, my devoted Cake Eater readers. For which, I'm sure, more than a few of you might be grateful beyond all belief.

Posted by: Kathy at 01:13 PM | Comments (8) | Add Comment
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Damn Steve McQueen to Hell (Redux)

Per rabid commenter, Russ from Winterset's, recommendation we watched The Great Escape last night. Again. For, like, the fiftieth time.

All I can say really is, again, damn Steve McQueen to hell for making me CONSTANTLY believe he's going to make it over the fence. Grrrrrrr. I'm really getting tired of being suckered by him.

Oh, and another thing I noticed last night: whomever was in charge of continuity on that film really needed to pay more attention to Donald Pleasence's (Colin, the Forger, and the character who strikes a blow for blind guys everywhere to escape from Nazi POW camps) socks. They're white when he gets on the trolley to go down the tunnel, then they're gray when he's helped off the trolley by Richard Attenborough's Roger, then they're white again as he's getting into the plane with Hendley. Someone wasn't paying attention, ya dig?

Granted, however, it took me fifty viewings to notice this, so, perhaps, I'm being a little too picky.

Posted by: Kathy at 09:36 AM | Comments (1) | Add Comment
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Lighten Up, Francis

Yes, my devoted Cake Eater readers, it's time to lighten things up a bit around here.

I present for your edification on this fine Wednesday morning....The Muppets.

If, perhaps, that was a bit too blowsy for you, well, then I shall give you a bit of depth. But the Muppet theme still rules, so it won't get too deep, hence negating the whole lightening of things.

Feel better? I do.

Posted by: Kathy at 09:23 AM | Comments (1) | Add Comment
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Ok, That's It

When the Minneapolis Police Department decides that it's time to bring out the freakin' chariots as a crime fighting initiative, it's time to move.

What I really want to know is where are the broom helmets? Eh? You know what I'm referring to, right? If you don't, let Marvin the Martian enter your mind and you'll know of what I speak. You can't drive a chariot without a freakin' broom helmet. There's some law that dates back to Roman times that decrees each and every chariot driver should have a big armored helmet with a broom on top. So they can sweep up after they rape and pillage the population. It's mandatory. And since the Mpls Police Department is all about following rules and regulations, they should get with the damn program already.

I can't wait to hear from the husband, who has to traverse through downtown daily, how these neo-chariots help the cops cut down on all the drug dealing at Block E. Or even the chronic spitters, who regularly drive the husband up the wall with their disgusting habit of hocking lugeys every five seconds, in competition with their fellow thugs. I suspect they'll be able to hop the curb from Hennepin Avenue in impressive fashion, but will the cops actually be able to hop down from their motorized chariots in time to, you know, actually arrest the drug dealers? I suspect not. I have a feeling that by the time they park the stupid things, the drug dealers will be long gone.

Because, after all, how are the cops going to haul someone in with one of those things?

Stick a fork in me. I'm so done with this place.

{ht: Lileks, without whom I'd have absolutely no idea of what was going on in this place I call home...for the time being.)

Posted by: Kathy at 08:41 AM | No Comments | Add Comment
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May 05, 2008

Street Sweeping Away the Winter Detritus of My Life

Spring, it appears, has finally arrived here in the Twin Cities. Lately, I've been wondering where this phenomenon has been, because it sure as hell hasn't been here. I've found myself fascinated by tee vee news reports coming out of Indiana, where it appears the entire media has decamped for tomorrow's primary, and wondering at all the luscious green I see in the background behind the talking head of the moment. Why do they have leaves on their trees? How'd they get so lucky? Wait a sec...it actually looks like that lawn needs to be mowed! Fuckers! It's not fair! I haven't given a rat's ass about what the reporter was actually reporting on. Who cares about Obama or Clinton or McCain. I want to know why there's this inequity in the arrival of spring. That's the real injustice going on here, not sky high gas prices! Why, there ought to be an investigation!

But, as I wrote up there, it appears spring has finally arrived here in the Cities, and I've got the sunburn to prove it. Yesterday, I had coffee with Mr. H., per usual, and instead of sitting inside our usual haunt, we moved to our summer location, on the other side of the building, where the sun shines most brightly at that stage of the day. Even though we were stretched out on hard concrete, and had to keep shifting every few moments to remain comfortable, the sun felt so good we didn't even contemplate a move to more dignified seating arrangements, which would have better suited our aging bones. We looked like a pair of college students, flopped out wherever we could find the space, rather than a pair of people in their mid-thirties. We didn't care. We loved it.

After I left Mr. H., the husband and I decided a walk around the lake was in order. The husband raided his humidor and snagged one of the largest Churchills he had in residence, to complete the maximum pissing-off-of-overly-healthy-runners effect, and set off for Lake Harriet. It was nice to be over there, because the last time I was over there, the lake was still covered with ice. Fortunately, all the ice had indeed melted and the water looked dark, clear and cold. We made our way around, and while it was lovely, I became a. very sunburned and b. exhausted. It appears I have very little stamina going on. All these infections (and, yes, there's a new infection that I'm not going to talk about, but which I shall simply say is a result of the antibiotics and certain members of the female Cake Eater readership will say, "Ohhhhh," in an understanding way, while the men shall remain clueless.) have robbed me of my energy. I've been fighting crap off for so long that I'm expending all my energy on that, it seems, and there's not much left over for other things. By the time we got back to the Cake Eater pad, I was pooped. I put on my nightshirt, crawled into bed, and promptly fell asleep for a few hours. That's not really all that great, in the scheme of things. Yes, I should feel some mild exertion after walking five miles. No, I should not collapse into bed, utterly exhausted, after walking five miles. Neither should the husband have had to gently encourage me to keep pushing on until we reached home. It was pathetic.

This morning, it appears that it will be yet another nice day, and the street sweepers are out and about, taking advantage of it. It's time to wash the streets clear of all the sand and salt they used to keep people from careering off the roads during the winter storms. It's time for all that nasty, icky, wintry stuff to go down the sewers, to wind up God only knows where. I wish there was such a thing as personal street sweepers, which could come into your life and wash away the nasty winterized streets of your life. My streets could use a good wash. There's too much detritus left over from the winter. I need to get the left over salt off my roads before they start deteriorating.

Add to this that I don't think the next week or so is going to be much fun in that Mother's Day is this coming Sunday. Sigh. Now, to be clear, I don't begrudge the mothers of the world a day to celebrate the fact they've brought offspring into the world. I really don't. Motherhood is a hard job; the moms of the world deserve a day to sleep in and have breakfast in bed. I'm not knocking anyone. It's just a very hard day for us infertile myrtles, and I really don't think that people who have kids get that. Mother's day is not designed to remind us of what we don't have, but desperately want, but that's what it turns out to be. Every sappy commercial for reasonably priced jewelry bought by toddlers "who took out their mom's car without permission to go to the mall" turns me to mush...and reminds me of what I don't have. These commercials instantly bring to mind the horrible price I've had to pay to be cancer-free; of the price I've had to pay to survive. I can live with the grand bargain I've made, but only if it's not shoved in my face every three minutes. I don't want to think about it. That's the way I deal with it. It's there, yes, but if I can avoid thinking about it, all the better. This time of year, however, with the incessant ad bombardment, it's hard to avoid thinking about it. Last year, I finally broke down in tears after viewing, of all things, a Lowe's commercial, advertising, of all things, paint, that was tailored around Mother's Day. I wonder what's going to make the dam burst this year? Ads for reasonably priced jewelry? Will Hallmark send the flood flowing? Or will it be an ad for Teleflora? We'll just have to see, I suppose, because something will start it off. I just know it. I've got an uncomfortable lump in my throat as I write this screed, so God only knows what kind of run on the kleenex box will occur when I really decide to let loose.

Even if the weather's nice, I will avoid the lake next Sunday, because it will be chock-a-block full of families, celebrating Mother's Day with a nice walk around the lake on a sunny spring Sunday. Walking around the lake is a family friendly activity, after all; a picture-perfect example of what families should do on Sundays, if only there was enough time every Sunday, between soccer and baseball practices to accomplish such a thing. There will be loads of kiddies in wagons, on scooters, bikes, and their number will undoubtedly include some overly-padded kids who desperately wanted to rollerblade around the lake, the little plastic wheels on their faux-skates deteriorating with every push, but who are having trouble making it. The trails will be clogged with such people, and it will be intolerable to me, who would like nothing more than to be carting my own child around in a stroller or a wagon, enjoying the day like everyone else. We will also avoid any restaurant in town, the mall, movie theaters, etc. Everyone will be out celebrating Mother's Day, in all these locations. Of course, this means our Sunday will probably be spent at home, but by then, at least, the airwaves will be free of Mother's Day ads by that point so I should be able to watch tee vee without being reminded of what I don't have.

Hope will only get you so far in a situation like this. I can hope that one day we'll be able to adopt a baby, but that is so far off in the future, and such a crapshoot in the first place, that I can't really think about it right now. I can't delude myself with the hope that it might happen. It feels like when you're dead broke and you wish on a star to win the lottery. Sure, it might happen. But will it? Probably not. You can't organize your life around a wish that might never be granted. If it's not, then I'll forever be destined to be everyone's favorite auntie. The cool aunt who they can relate to. But will those nieces and nephews who love me so much now bury me when I die if the husband's not around? Would I have made enough of an impact in their lives to even warrant them showing up for my funeral? Or would they skip it, because they have something going on in their lives that prevents them from dropping all and attending, working on the assumption that, "Aunt Kathy would understand." This is the kind of crap you're forced to think about when you don't have kids. The childless of the world do not have the same givens in solving life's theorems that those with children do. Is it fair? No, but when is life ever fair? This is the bargain I've made, and I'll have to live with it. This week, however, it's on my mind a little more than most.

Forgive all the maudlin Monday morning ramblings, my devoted Cake Eater readers. Suffice it to say, I'll just be happy when Mother's Day is over with, and I can get back to comfortably ignoring all of this stuff.

Posted by: Kathy at 09:54 AM | No Comments | Add Comment
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