A Bit of A Catchup

It’s been a while since I’ve felt like writing.  August – September were stressful months and shame on my muse for abandoning me the way she has.  Started before then, I know – I only wrote twice in August and only once in July. 

So Buddy, the Dog Immortal, passed on; though Meghann and I refuse to believe he has really passed.  We are convinced that once we left the vet’s office, Buddy confronted the Animal Hospital staff, exited the premises and had a little vacation in the wild.  This is evidenced by the road kill on upstate New York highways and byways that we spied on our last trip up.  We are now certain that he has moved on to the next family that needs him since his work with us is finished. 

My friend Bess also moved on to better things; as I mentioned before, she’s hanging out with her adored Reuben in heaven.  I miss my little pen pal.  Her daughters have taken up her standard and are writing to me on occasion, something that makes me smile to no end.  Bess would be tickled with that.

I don’t have arthritis as it happens.  You may remember I had been self-medicating with Glucosamine Chondroitin with mild success.  I had a check up with my doctor two weeks ago, and he explained that it was more likely to be tendonitis, or tennis elbow.  Suggested aspirin for ten days and to use the arm more gently. 

It’s working.  Who knew?

I made two trips to New York in September, will be driving up this month for my niece’s confirmation and then driving down to South Carolina to see my Navy Son in the middle of October.  My poor Honda.  The exciting news there is I will be bringing back Gunner, my son’s beagle to stay with us while Navy Man goes on a sub.  I’m looking forward to that. 

Meg is adjusting to college, has applied for a second job, is researching Improv Schools in New York, DC, California and Chicago and is going out with her friends often.  We are riveted watching past seasons of “America’s Next Top Model”.

I read Snow Flower and the Secret Fan by Lisa See.  Fascinating information on foot binding in Chinese culture with an overall message, I thought, on what we as women do to ourselves physically and emotionally to be loved and accepted. 

I also read A Walk in the Woods by Bill Bryson.  Really enjoyed that as well – took me a day to read.  Funny!  The ending disappointed a little, but it was real and it was entertaining.  I read two more of the JD Robb …in Death series and I started on the Harry Potter series of books and am on #4 – Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire.  They certainly are page turners, though they have not inspired in me the same affection for the characters or the story that The Lord of the Rings series had.  The last movie I saw was the sixth Harry Potter movie.  I think it will all make a little more sense once I have read all the books. 

As a comparison, the Harry Potter books, similarly marketed toward a young audience, are much more interesting, far and away more well written than any of the Twilight series of books.  Blech and shudder.

I am still without an active source of Korean drama – the sound drivers on my computer don’t work anymore and Comcast continues to refuse my request to include Korean programming in their line up.  I can watch all the Al Jazeera, Chinese, Indian, and Russian television I can stomach, but I can’t watch any Korean stuff.  I’ll get back to it soon.  Promise.  I’m planning on watching the first season of “Dexter”.  I may start that this week.  Anything with serial killers and I’m in.

So there you have it.  It’s like I never went away, isn’t it? 

The Immortal

We had to put Buddy down last month.  Like a phantom limb, it feels like he’s still here. 

 

 

 

August 18, 1991 – September 11, 2009

So long Budman. 

Even now, it’s difficult to write about it.

I’ve never had to put an animal down before so I had no idea how it worked.  Got some wonderful advice and support from my sister-in-law Char, then I called a few vet offices so I could get a sense – glad I did, since some places put animals down differently. 

We chose to take him in and the nurse anesthetized him.  He fell asleep while we pet him so he wasn’t too scared.  Meg and I were allowed to stay as long as we liked – which was about 10 minutes after he fell asleep.  We left and the doctor’s office took care of the rest.  We chose not to keep his ashes, though we could have.

The vet sent us an impression of his paw.  Meg and I cried.  The last little dirt that was on his little paw is in that impression.  We cried over that too. 

I’m still afraid to leave the door outside open, for fear that he will run out.  When I wake up in the morning, I can still feel him by my bedside.  I still look for him to be under my feet in the kitchen. 

So much for not being a dog person.

Friends

Funny how you meet people, isn’t it sometimes?  Sometimes you just grow up with your friends.  You know who they are and where they came from.  You know their quirks, and the quirks of their family, and it’s ok, because you still love them. 

Sometimes if you are lucky, your friends are in your own family.  You grow up with them too.  Sometimes you hate them, you torment them and vice versa, but in the end, you always love them.

Sometimes you meet them at work.  Those are a little harder to capture, I think.  We move from employment to employment and the daily things you have in common fade, so it’s harder to keep up.  But there are those who become special to you and you stay in touch.  As the years pass, they become dear and you love them too.

I met a friend a few years ago.  And funny as it sounds, it was through my obsession with Korean drama that I met many enduring friends; one of whom in particular was a wonderful woman named Bess.  We both liked Song Il Guk and were entranced with him from his series Jumong.  We struck up something of a friendship.  She admitted that the tune “With a Song In My Heart” made her think of SIG. 

As time went on, Bess and I started to write rather frequently; often once a week.  I’d talk about my children, she’d talk about hers.  It took Bess nearly a year to admit to me that she was in her 80s.  As if that would bother me.

Bess would tell me about her beloved Reub, the love of her life, who passed away not so long ago and how she missed him.  I found out she had twins, and grandchildren, and that she lived on the West Coast. 

And she didn’t just prattle on about herself.  She’d read what I’d write back to her.  She’d ask questions and she’d remember.  She’d laugh at my jokes, she shared in my triumphs, she read all my blogs.  She worried about my friend Lacie, she crossed fingers for Meg when she was nominated for her Cappie, and she called me to see if Meg won.  She told me all about Newport, Rhode Island when Adam was there for Officer Candidate School and she loved to hear about Josh and  his wife Stephanie.  She delighted in the pictures I would send.

We decided she was my adopted Jewish mother and we both had a bent for Korean Drama.  We adored Jang Hyuk and we couldn’t stand little Cardboard Face from “Kingdom of the Winds”.  She loved “The Ghost and Mrs. Muir” and she loved her best friend Bev.  She ached still for her children and their struggles, asking me for prayers and I did the same with her. 

Bess passed away unexpectedly this week.  I had thought about her a few times – I hadn’t heard from her since July 24th and wondered how she was doing.  Her daughter was thoughtful enough to let me know. 

I’m terribly sad that my friend is gone.  But I’m overjoyed as I’m sure she is that she is now reunited with her dear Reuben.  And I’m happy to have made friends with and known this dear woman, out of the strangest of circumstances.  But sometimes, that’s how you meet friends.  And sometimes you keep them, even when it’s just in your heart. 

With A Song In My Heart - Jane Froman

Accomplished Something

I finally accomplished something today. 

Can you recite all the Presidents of the  United States?  I can.  Now.  From Washington to Obama.  I’m pretty impressed with myself.

Not such a grand accomplishment.  I imagine 5th Graders the length and breadth of the land can recite the same list.  Maybe with first names and dates of term. 

Why?  Because I was ashamed I couldn’t name all the Presidents of the United States – there haven’t been that many, and I WAS born and raised here, so you’d think I’d have them all committed to memory. 

But no.

I think part of it started when I was trying to grasp ancient Asian civilizations and their rulers.  Way too much.  Thousands of years of history, conquests, coups, incest, and murder and all I have is 200+ years, and 40 something leaders to remember. 

Oh, and I have a bathroom book that lists them and easy ways to help remember them.  “i before e (except after c)” by Judy Parkinson.  I came up with my own way to remember them.  The problem now, is that I’ve been working this for so long, that now whenever I go into the bathroom to take care of business, I start to recite the list of presidents to make sure I have them down cold.  Even at work. 

I imagine there is a diagnosis in there somewhere.

I’ve said before I’m pretty simple.  Still holds.

Next…memorize the Greek Alphabet.

I Am At A Loss

Something strange happened to me yesterday and I haven’t been able to wrap my arms around it.

Last year, my little Brain Tail friend and I met in Pennsylvania to watch the new X-Files movie together. We don’t get to see each other very often, since eight hours separates us, and Brain Tail suggested we meet in the middle this past Sunday to catch up. We found a picnic table, and set to have a very enjoyable 2.5 hours chatting. It was a gorgeous day in PA ~ the sun was bright but not overwarm, the birds were trilling, the scenery spectacular, and the company was as enjoyable as ever without a hitch in the conversation. We had a lovely time. We’ve decided to try to make this an annual event.

At 2:30 pm, we cleaned up our picnic and parted ways; Lacie to attempt to mow her lawn, and I to have dinner with family. I plunged back into the gaping maw of perpetual construction that IS I-81.

A moment: one of these days, I need to write solely on I-81 and the construction it has undergone in the state of Pennsylvania for the last 235 years. Seriously, I remember my Aunt bemoaning Pennsylvania road construction 40 years ago. I’ve been driving I-81 to visit family for 25 years, and there has always been construction in this state. I DO NOT UNDERSTAND. I’m convinced that Organized Crime must be lining their pockets SOMEHOW and I’m bitter. One lane back ups for no apparent reason other than to give the United Orange Cone Makers of America extra coin to put bling on the necks of their trophy wives.

Thank you for the indulgence. I continue.

A mere half hour into my trip home, I noted a green van on the side of the road under a shade of trees. As I sped by at 65 mph, I saw the hood was open and a white man, slightly balding, wearing a blue short sleeved shirt and brown pants, standing in front of the vehicle with his hands gripping the open hood. His body language conveyed gloom, like “How am I going to get home now?”

My heart went out to him; I’ve had my share of breakdowns on the road. Not being a manly man with a tool kit in my trunk, but a single woman with few automotive resources, I did not stop. I wondered if he had a cell phone, and then spent some time pondering on the plight of today’s drivers versus vehicular predicaments in days past. What did we do before cell phones? I continued on that line of thinking for a bit before I RAN INTO STUPID ONE LANE TRAFFIC FOR AN HOUR.

As I said, I’m still bitter.

After breaking free from the bondage of that particular corridor of construction, I drove on listening to Christmas in July on Radio Classics. Jack Benny’s “A Christmas Tree Cactus” was great fun. Traffic had picked up to a normal pace. The trip was going well and I had no need to stop to use any of the rest area facilities or to get gasoline.

Two and a half hours into my trip home, I noted another green van on the side of the road under another shade of trees. As I sped by, I saw the hood was open and standing in front of the car was THE SAME WHITE MAN, SLIGHTLY BALDING, WEARING A BLUE SHORT SLEEVED SHIRT AND BROWN PANTS, WITH HIS HANDS GRIPPING THE OPEN HOOD. HIS BODY AGAIN CONVEYED GLOOM, LIKE “HOW AM I GOING TO GET HOME NOW?”.

Now, please understand. I am not given to visual hysterics of this nature. I’ve never seen a Cheetoh shaped like the Blessed Virgin, I’ve never seen a ghost and I have never met a psychic I considered really worth her $75 an hour fee. I love to hear the stories and I’m completely open to paranormal oddities, but I do not receive them. My kids do, a couple of my sisters do, some cousins, and even tiny little Brain Tail gets them. Not me. Though I get the occasional tingle when I need to pray for someone, I am mostly bereft of psychic ability. I’ve accepted this with equanimity.

For a second I was messed up. Had I somehow gotten turned around and was back in the same location? That couldn’t be right. I bounced back into character and said a “Hail Mary”, quickly and with fervor. I called Lacie. Surely, the brain tail would tingle if there was a psychic disturbance. There was apparently no hint of anything pawing at the cosmic continuum. I called Guest Blogger Who Hasn’t Blogged since 2007. Other than asking me if I was compelled to help him (which I was not), and considering a variety of urban legends, nothing solid was postulated.

I said a few more prayers but continued to feel a sort of unreality settle on me. An hour and a half later I picked up my daughter, went to Guest Blogger’s house, enjoyed a wonderful meal and put forth the mystery to my friends gathered around the table. All agreed the incident was creepy, and their responses were indicative of their personal character:

Guest Blogger – (curious, open to phenomena but not a medium to same, highly analytical with a psychological bent) - “I have no idea, but I immediately googled blue shirted, brown panted men on I-81. I found nothing. It’s strange.”

Starbuck - (a child of the universe, willing to believe the fantastic) - “You need to be more open to possibilities.”

Pamplona - (a devout Catholic Naval Officer) - “Did you pray? I’d have prayed.”

My Daughter - (scarred by years of my rigorous attempts to keep her from being victimized by teaching self sufficient situational awareness) - “Obviously, he wasn’t able to net any victims at his first location so he got back in his vehicle, sped ahead of you, pulled over to the side again hoping to lure someone into his green van of death and dismemberment.”

Guest Blogger’s Husband - (a solid thinking, no nonsense guy) - “Everyone in Pennsylvania looks the same.”

Additional theories:

It was the ghost of a soul trapped in purgatory who needed my prayers.

I was abducted by aliens, probed and didn’t notice I had a period of lost time.

It was a man driven insane by the never ending construction of Pennsylvania roadways who ended his misery by self-decapitating via his van hood. I was witnessing the paranormal re-enactment of the bloody event.

Now, in all seriousness, the only plausible explanation is that Creepy McBlueshirt got his van running after I first spied him, sped ahead of me and his engine broke down again. I simply happened upon him a second time as he peered curiously under his hood. It was all coincidence.

I’m not buying it. I don’t get it, I may never get it. I’ve looked on line for creepy stories, but none of these descriptions sound like my story.

You know what I’d love - I’d love to hear from someone who has seen “The Man in the Breakdown Lane”. And if you told me that I-81 is actually hell and Satan is the Head of the Pennsylvania DOT – I’d believe you.

More People to Hate

The glucosamine chondroitin is still working. In case you were wondering.

So, after the Cappie Awards (no more bitterness on that event shall be posted…whore), #2 son – the one who totaled his car – stopped by my house on his way back to his naval base. He purchased a BMW – yeah, I don’t know what number 355i4507q690f – I don’t know. It was silver and it was nice and it drove like a dream.

I am now praying he doesn’t smash this one up.

Went to dinner at Guest-Blogger-Who-Hasn’t-Blogged-Since-2007’s house and had a marvelous time. We were regaled with tales of South Carolina red-necks smashing Infinity #1, as well as the horrific tale of a representative slice of South Carolina law enforcement.

You see, my son witnessed an altercation between one of his friends and some other young men. My son was the shortest in his crowd (and he is well over 6 feet tall). During the shouting match, someone (whom I will call Ass Hat) bloodied my son’s eye and then punched him in the mouth. My son did not retaliate. The gendarmes were called and these pathetic excuses for police arrested my son (who LET ME REPEAT didn’t hit anyone – he was the only one bleeding), did NOT record his statement, did NOT tell him what he was being arrested for (“We can’t tell you that. Now just sit down and shut up.”), did NOT read him his rights, DID incarcerate him, DID take his bail money, and did NOT release him from jail for four hours after he posted his bond.

Don’t go to South Carolina and expect the police to know the definition of the phrase “due process”.

At the hearing two days later, my son and his friends appeared in dress whites, and the same slimy police officer that did NOT take my son’s statement approached and asked him to to drop the charges against Ass Hat. I guess Ass Hat was scared. See, Ass Hat was going to the Citadel and later realized he had punched an officer.

My son demanded that the charges against him be dismissed and he wanted to talk to the young man. Everything was straightened out in front of the judge, and charges were eventually dismissed in the civil court. However, I’m told that the military will continue to pursue action against the young Ass Hat. Good.

I just wish someone could do something about that backwards police department.

*Sigh. More people to hate.

Buck Toothed Hag

Ashamed of myself really for not having posted anything in forever. It’s another one of those times I figured I’d just jump on and see what plopped out.

Meggie did NOT win the Cappie for Best Featured Actress in a Play. If you will allow me a mom moment, some scag in a red dress with big teeth won. And I hate her.

Not hate. Not anymore. Not really. Disappointment there has almost faded. Mostly. Funny how as a parent you will hold a grudge against anyone who has hurt your child no matter how minutely. There are young men and women who have broken the hearts of my children. The offense is long forgotten in the minds of those same children. I still hate them. Hate them with the heat of a thousand burning suns.

Maybe not every parent holds that kind of bitterness. Maybe it’s just me. In 20 years Meg will mention the Cappie Awards and what a marvelous night it was, the fete at the Kennedy Center, a spectacular gala, a fabulous experience. And I’ll just mention the red-bedecked buck toothed whore who snatched the prize from Meg’s deserving fingers.

I’ll be 65 and I’ll still say whore.

My sweet daughter will roll her eyes and tell me to stop saying whore around the grandchildren. Then I will secretly teach them the phrase buck-toothed scag. It will amuse me.

The cast on stage at the Kennedy Center. Meggie is the one standing on the chair.