Pants!

"I need these pants!"

It's not uncommon for siblings to have similar personality traits.  It's spooky when the similarities are twin-like in sibs who are raised essentially separately due to a large age difference.  My brother is eight years younger than I; not an impossible gap, but I barely knew he existed until he hit his teens and I'd long since moved out.  I'm sure he didn't notice me either, except for that unfortunate 3 months when we were 16 and 8, and had to share a room.  Then I was constantly yelling, "David Dammit!" as I stumbled over his Legos and Hot Wheels in my bare feet.

It was maybe during his junior year that I moved back to my parent's house briefly. Why?  Ummm.  Mumble, mumble, umm, psychiatrist, mumble, sensitive, ummm, depression, mumble, don't want to wake up, mumble, meds, etc.  As I recovered, David was always there to make sure I stayed right there on the edge. The phone receiver conveniently had shaving cream on it when I went to answer it.   My shoes were often filled with dry cereal and cat food.  More than once, the kitchen faucet was set to hose me directly in the face. I can't tell you the number of times per day he startled me coming around a corner, and then giggled as I collapsed to the floor like a fainting goat. 

However, it wasn't all practical jokes. This little brother whom I barely knew, surprised me with the depth of his knowledge on both trivial and existential matters.  We wandered the city together, exploring obscure landmarks and art, gardens and science exhibits, and shops with all manner of gadgets. We discovered Pong! together. We infuriated and amused our parents with the cross-fire of sarcasm, sophomoric humor, and mumbled dinner conversation.  We worked together at a coffee house.  We were, in short, thick as thieves. I know he's a big part of what saved me that year.  Over the 25 or so years since then, we've been able to shift effortlessly from serious, often technical conversations to doing art projects together to being able to make each other laugh.  As an example of the latter:

Yesterday, he sent me an email, with the leading picture attached and “I need these pants!” in  the subject field. I think I failed to respond.

Today, I got a text from him:  Went to my shrink wearing those pants.  I said,  Doc, I think I’m going crazy.”  He said, “I can clearly see your nuts.”

David:  (long pause, then text):  Hmmm. That joke works best when told orally.

Me:  ROFLMAO. Followed by an emoji of an eggplant. 

David: God.

David: I hope that emoticon is an eggplant.

This is a fairly normal interaction with him. Lately, he's taken to sending me "interesting" gifts in the mail.  In the past several months I’ve received from him:

• Fake poop - Millions of uses, especially with grand kids.  The most memorable is the time I put it in my grandson's dump truck.  He's four and didn't exactly see the humor in it, instead reproaching me with, "That poop is really making me feel mad, Grammie."
• A yodeling pickle - One night after I received this one, David called me from his cell and whispered rather urgently, "Call Tracy (his wife) on the home phone and just do the yodeling pickle." When I called, she answered on the first ring, alarmed at seeing my caller ID calling at all, much less late in the evening (I avoid the phone whenever possible.)  I think I heard her mutter "David Dammit" under her breath right before she hung up on me.
•  A horse head mask - I wrapped this up and gave it to my dad for his 80^th birthday this year.  He didn't really want to try it on in the restaurant, but otherwise I could tell that he loved it.

David wearing horse mask.

• Squirrel underpants - I'm still trying to catch a squirrel so I can quit averting my eyes at the nudity.

Then I sent him a nose shower gel dispenser.

He responded with a stuffed Murloc which emits a horrible  Aaaaaughibbrgubugbugrguburgle! aka RwlRwlRwlRw when his jaw is squeezed.

I'm pretty sure that when he least expects it, those green hot-pants are going to arrive on his front doorstep, along with an eggplant.

It's Friday: Grace and Redemption

 

It's Friday!

Reservations confirmed for a trip that's just a beginning.

Grandpa's Hat

Birds Courting on Nearby Rooftop

Half

Food for the Soul ~ photo by Brady Turner

Not That We're Counting

Happy anniversary to my daughter, Celeste!  It’s been 12 years today that she’s been in remission from Nodular Sclerosing Hodgkin's Lymphoma (NSHL), Stage IIA, favorable.  In her honor, I hereby present some fun facts and anecdotes from her (mis-)diagnosis period:

Sometime during the summer of 1998, when Celeste was 16, a golf-ball sized lump appeared on her clavicle. One day, a friend jokingly told her to quit messing around with it (she’s a little obsessive-compulsive; no idea who she gets that from) because it was going to turn into cancer.  My daughter’s sense of humor is warped enough that even when she was finally diagnosed in December that year, she remembered the comment and has never let that friend live it down. 

The pediatrician, upon seeing the lump, referred us to a surgeon who took a needle biopsy of the swollen lymph node and pronounced it benign.  He said that it was probably cat-scratch fever, that, in fact, if it wasn’t, he’d eat his hat… and that the node should reduce in size over several weeks.  By late November, it was still enlarged and we returned for a follow-up.  The surgeon said that he could remove the gland, but it wasn’t necessary and besides, she didn’t want a scar that would show when she wore bathing suits and strapless prom gowns, did she?  Dude! This was the wrong thing to say to my daughter.  Yes, as a matter of fact she’d take that scar, with a side of feminism, please. She might have flipped him off.   The biopsy showed cancer and the doctor ate his hat. 

Actually, I don’t think he had a hat and if he did, I’m positive he didn’t eat it. Coward!  Instead, he had his receptionist call me at home and tell me that my daughter had cancer.  I stupidly (blindly, naively?) asked her what I was supposed do.  When she told me to call an oncologist, I had to ask what that was.  Maybe I was in shock?  (Okay, you have no idea how much I wanted to type that whole paragraph in ALL CAPS with a million exclamation marks punctuated with question marks.)

When I went to her bedroom to tell Celeste, who was still home from school recovering from the surgery, she met me at the doorway.  I cried and held her and said the “C” word and swore that if I could, I would make it so that I was the one with the diagnosis.  She hugged me and said, “Mom, that’s stupid; it’s not possible, and you always tell me that I can make a situation a good thing or a bad thing, that it’s my choice.  I’m going to make this a good thing.”  

I found a pediatric oncologist who had made his career on the study and treatment of Hodgkin’s.   We (Celeste's entourage parents, step-parents, grandparents, boyfriends, cats) met with him for the first time on the 4^th of December. One of the first things he said was, “If you’re going to get cancer, this is the kind to get.”  I pondered this for a moment, and then I punched him in the nuts.  Afterwards, I asked politely when "we" could get started on treatment. He suggested that because it was a slow moving cancer that we could wait until after the holidays.  Then Celeste head-butted him and said no, we'll take that opening on the 11^th and sure, we'd be happy to be in his guinea pig in a clinical trial for a “kinder, gentler” treatment.  Could she get a note so she’d get extra credit in AP Bio?

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Okay, I’m going to pause here:  I’m thinking that I could devote several months to fun cancer stories, and it might actually be cathartic for me.  Or else it would cause me to spin in circles, crying and laughing simultaneously, which could be amusing.  Theoretically, I’m writing this for myself, but I’m assuming someone out there is reading this too.  Does anyone have a strong opinion about where I should go with this?  (Teaser:  One story involves stealing radioactive material from a major teaching hospital. Another conjures images of a laboratory-crucifixion.  There's boobs and day-glo orange pee, too.)

P.S.  I started to write this in the form of the five small graces, with numbers and everything, but this post (and actually, the last) wouldn’t be contained that way.  Pretend this is Highlights Magazine and see if you can find the five hidden graces.  Don’t make me number them!

Enlightenment, The Hard Way

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Today I spend some time with my daughter selecting photos for Snake & Butterfly's new chocolate wrappers.  I love collaborating with her artistically (we share an appreciation of photography and literature, in particular). I'm constantly amazed that my baby, this young woman is in my life, that she's someone I'd choose to be a part of my life even if I didn't birth her, that since the day she was born she's challenged me to open and grow and be more of who I am (often whether I liked it or not).

My photos** are my other babies, along with the navel-gazing words I write and the iPhone cozies I knit and the myriad other crafts I dip my fingers into.  My heart and my soul are contained within, and I do not share these lightly. I recognize that I'm just one of a quadrillion photographer wanna-be's, but I also know that if I stop creating, I stop being who I am. So now these works of mine are going to wrap the delectable food that my daughter creates with her hands, and dear god, that is grace.

I spent the better part of my life believing myself to be without an ounce of creativity or artistic talent. Turns out that being on the wrong end of domestic violence can knock that kind of thinking right out of you. I'm not recommending living with a sociopath as a path to enlightenment, but I do like to make sense out what is otherwise nonsense and this is one of the things I learned: Being creative is standard equipment.  We are born with it, we express it always, although we may not recognize it.  When I frame a shot, judge the light, steady my hand and squeeze the trigger, I am allowing myself to be who am, who I was born to be.

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*Note to self: Write these posts earlier in the day, so that you have some time to put three thoughts together cohesively and maybe, even do some cursory editing. Also, get to bed before 5am.  Blogging is not for sissies.

**Those iPhone pitchures from the other day are not my children; they are just some street urchins I picked up back in the '30's when they were a dime-a-dozen.

Summer Solstice

I am so grateful that summer is here at last.  Even on days when the air is so thick with heat that I'm immobilized with lethargy, I am alive, and free from the tulle fog that inhabits my psyche on shorter days.  I can see in color again. This solstice, I have the added blessing of having found my home again, that place where everything feels right with the universe.  

Today my graces take the form of summer fare (shot over the last several days with my iPhone):

1. Miso and sunomono.

2. Cold caffeine, four-legged friend.

3. Cherry Popsicle, blue skies, three palms.

4. A sorbet of a different color.

5. Sprinkles, jimmies, assorted candy.

Curiouser and Curiouser

Photo by Brady Turner, "Subtlety is My Middle Name"

1. Travel plans.  New Orleans, maybe; if not this weekend, then soon.  Alaska.  Hawaii. Italy and Greece. Australia.
2. Going with the flow. Even if it kills me.
3. Hilarious long-distance conversations, several times a day.
4. Face-time, which will have to do for now.
5. Thanks to the universe for getting curiouser and curiouser.  

Forgotten Salad, Take Two

I neglected to relay the best part of the Great Salami Text Incident (see #5).

First, a little background to put this thing into context:  (Not that you asked, but that's okay; I'm used to talking to myself.  I'm not bitter.)  There's this really cool iPhone app called Glympse that allows you to share your live location with anyone you choose, for a given amount of time.  One of the options when you send the Glympse is to attach one of several pre-written messages. I thought it would be fun to share a recent road trip with Brady (that's "first love" from previous post), and hoped he'd do the same on his outrageous 3,300 mile commute. Nothing quite compares to legally stalking an ex-boyfriend.

So, as I mentioned before, it's as if no time whatsoever has passed since we last saw each other.  Our sophomoric humor and love for gadgets knows not the bounds of time. He jumped all over the opportunity to download a new app, and planned a creative, if not romantic use for it.  On the second layover of his trip, he prepared and sent a Glympse, which included the canned message:  "I forgot the salad, but I am bringing the salami." Subtle, right?

The thing is, I didn't receive that Glympse.  Instead, I received a phone call from an airport in the Midwest and all I heard when I picked up was uncontrollable giggling. Turns out that in his haste to hit "send", he pulled up the name in his address book that was closest to mine alphabetically.  Male name.  I'm guessing Del had a giggle of his own.  Or else he blocked Brady on his phone.Fortunately for me and my reader(s?), he managed to send the message to me on his second try. 

If you think that story is hilarious (and really, who wouldn't), remind me to tell you about the Not Quite as Funny, but Pretty Cute Emoji HD App Incident.