Fighting Urges

It's Tuesday. I'm at work. My sister left the office to pick up Hannah so things may improve even more for today once I see Hannah's sweet, little nearly 5-year old face.

Last I saw of Hannah was the week I arrived home from hospital. She came over to my house to visit which also included a chance to see my creepy toes. I asked her if she wanted to see them and she said "Yes." She seemed pretty excited at the opportunity. Who wouldn't be?! Then together we lifted the blanket and Hannah fainted said "that's enough" as she lowered the bedding in horror. She refused to look at both feet. Da noive!

This creepy toe thing cracks me up. If Hannah thinks my creepy toes are scary to look at she's in for a world of hurt growing up in this world. There are millions of creepier things like a million of my chin hairs in a 5x mirror. That's why I had to come back to work. I was looking in that mirror daily, sometimes several times a day with tweezers in hand, waiting for my eyebrows to grow. Then one would appear and I'd pluck it, or get the scissors out and trim them nicely again and again. My perfectly coiffed eyebrows became an unhealthy obsession. I think in weight loss surgery lingo this unhealthy obsession is called addiction transference.

I'm fighting my new addiction to excessive eyebrow plucking with all the verve I can muster. (Who talks like that?)

I'm down 21 lbs today. I can't remember if that is more or less than last time.

Also some little mouthy girl at pre-school, Sophia called Hannah chubby. I'm peeved. Makes me want to go pluck Sophia's pointy little eyebrows. Instead Hannah and I are going on a walk.

Que Sera Sera

This photo is great. Don't you think?  My sister, the budding photog took the photo a few days after I came home. I had just eaten a sugar-free popsicle. Yum!


It is what it is.
I dislike that saying. It's similar to the phrase shit happens.


Also similar to "what will be, will be, though you never hear anyone saying "what will be, will be" anymore. 
I vote for the return of the phrase "what will be, will be." We can all go around pretending we are Doris Day.


Comme ci, comme ça.


We must have worn out "whatever," a useless, dismissive saying. I didn't like that one either. I think the problem with these phrases is they are so dismissive,  there's no chance of continuing a conversation after being dismissed that doesn't start with the words, "Fuck you..."


My surgery was a week ago this past Tuesday. June 15th. Today -- I'm sitting at my work desk, talking with my sister and feeling PDG. 


Dr. J passed me a very interesting article entitled Obesity Surgery Should be a Family Affair.  I sent it out to all my skinny family members and one chubby one. I hope he doesn't take offense.


As for my WLS experience this past week, I'm just about ready to go back to work. Still a bit tired; get winded easily. I had to take my garbage can, plus green recycle and regular recycle up to the top of the driveway last night.  I'm not supposed to life over 25 lbs for a month but I figure I keep lifting myself so...That bit of exercise probably helped me lose two more pounds. I'm down 20 lbs total this morning. I really feel the loss around the top of my legs (water) (lymphedema be reduced!), plus there's more room in my neck, something I've always wanted.


Last night at the local store, the owner came up to me and said, "You look thinner!" I told her I had WLS on the 15th. She said "Now you''ll have to save for plastic surgery!" Oh, yeah, I want more surgery (biaaach). I wanted to tell her that when the skin on my butt hits the floor in a year, she can kiss my ass if her knees still function though instead I think I muttered "What will be, will be." 


The changes I've experienced so far: stopped asthma medication. I took Singulair™ nightly. I stopped taking Claritan D (from behind the pharmacy counter) at a dollar a pill, twice daily for post nasal drip. I've pretty much stopped eating. I discovered that the whey protein drinks for WLS are repulsive. Water is glorious, glorious, glorious! I don't sit around thinking about food because it's pointless. (they have to invent a pill for this *thinking* thing). Occasionally I want to eat something savory and the only savory that comes in whey protein drinks that I'm willing to take a chance on are tomato and/or chicken "soup." You'll not find this "soup" on Foodporndaily ever. I find I'm rarely hungry. 


WLS is like induced hunger evaluation, intuitive eating etc. Surgery may be a drastic step though so far, I'm 100% behind my decision.

Cold Turkey

"In truth, always needing to stay immediate by removing what is no longer real is the working inner definition of sacrifice -- giving up with reverence and compassion what no longer works in order to stay close to what is sacred."

Mark Nepo

One thing about WLS that I don't remember reading about or maybe I ignored it because at my weight, ten more pounds didn't seem to matter (it does - just ask your knees) is the part about gaining weight from fluids during surgery. When I first arrived home, I didn't weigh though in the next few days I found that regardless of my lack of food or liquid intake since arriving home, I had blossomed an additional ten pounds. I was annoyed.

Today I'm down 14 pounds and I'll take it!

From witnessing my sister since her WLS in November right before Thanksgiving (2008)  the weight fluctuates from day to day. Since WLS I've weighed more when I first get out of bed than I do at noon now. That never happened in the past, not even during chemo and all those Dove bars that helped me live. I knew my sister was choosing that time of year to have her surgery because everything we did as a family pretty much involved food. She had grown sick and tired of being sick and tired (and *she* wasn't even sick - yet). We'd shared so many discussions on the subject of food, weight, food, donuts, See's Candy, weight, what was for dinner, margaritas etc. Once more we were headed into the deep season starting late October with raided trick & treat bags, and pumpkin lattes, soon to flow into eggnog lattes or who-cares-what's-in-em-by-end-of-December lattes.

Coming of the heels of my own WLS I've gained even more insight into my sister's post-surgical despair that Thanksgiving. Her husband did not understand her suffering (I mean -- do they ever?) and had declared if she did not come to dinner, then he would not come to dinner so she felt like she was making him sit out a big Thanksgiving meal by being selfish when all she wanted to do was stay home, let her husband go to dinner, and with fresh WLS under her belt, she'd not have to be bothered by the tradition, the smells, the goodies and the camaraderie around the table, including most likely having to clean up after a bunch of ne'er do wells.

In light of her recent surgery and our many discussions of why food was such a big deal to us, I made a very light meal, with few extras. Her suffering sort of made it so I could hardly eat without feeling guilty. I cooked a turkey, some sort of vegetable; nothing fantastic. We even purchased a store-made pumpkin pie which if you're a member of my religion pretty much assures you a front row seat in hell.

My sister walked into the house and almost as quickly resigned herself to my bedroom where I could hear muffled cries throughout dinner which if I recall correctly lasted all of about 15 minutes because I was so tuned into my projections onto the horror that she must be experiencing due to WLS; the inability to consume massive quantities of whocares on Thanksgiving, that I couldn't eat much -- which was pretty much my reasoning behind buying a store-made pie. If I can't enjoy a pie, you aren't going to either! When I *can* eat, I'm going to eat well; certainty not that crap. Your pet rat could have used that pie for a trampoline and to this day *still* be bouncing to Jesus.

That night my sister was in full, sudden retreat from years of patterning, family tradition, and instinct. She was breaking up with her best friend. (Don't *even* get me started!) It's grief no amount of stuffing and gravy can erase and my sister (who I always thought was *my* best friend but that's another blog) had gone cold turkey on turkey day.

Withdrawal from years of eating and dieting and eating and dieting is similar to watching an alcoholic endure the DTs (I witnessed this as a child -- it was my good friend's mother) or a heroin addict needing that fix (if you need proof --  Pacific Avenue downtown Santa Cruz). It's painful. It's suffering. But you either do the withdrawal anyway you can because what you've done to date isn't working for you, and lord knows, talking and writing about it don't change anything. Somehow you must exorcise those demons or you continue eating every time you experience a feeling and even when you are too numb to feel, and hope the weight comes off through repeats of every diet known to mankind, repeated exercise attempts, more money spent on weight loss books, plans, counselors, pounds gained and lost, year after year, and centuries of discussions over lattes as they change with each passing season.

When I was making plans for WLS, my plan for the timing was "I can't wait!" It didn't matter to me *when* -- what mattered was how soon? So father's day was my first (media-promoted) "holiday" post WL surgery. My dad has been dead since 1991, my husband in 2001. No barbecues here. It's not a balloon or pie buying occasion around here.

My sister came by late that day bringing Hannah for a visit. Seeing both of them was holiday enough. I asked if they were having a dinner to celebrate and my sister briefly mentioned "just the 3 of them." Though she graciously didn't elaborate. She understood my surgical-self-imposed suffering.

Each evening I get a twinge and I think "Ah ha (moment) good thing I can't eat crackers." I know I'm sacrificing but that's cuz I ate enough in 54 years, my rear end getting a great start. I need to sacrifice. Yes, my dear sister, I was finally willing to give up the food and now I'm fighting the what-do-I-do-in-those-moments conundrum. I don't know if I am down for the count or ready to do battle. Though I'll take whatever comes and spin it! Like the media...

And I think one thing I'll do in those moments is write and sometimes cry, and hopefully laugh.

My sister and Hannah left for home and their celebration while I watched an episode of The Next Food Network Star and quite frankly I didn't think much about the food those contestants cooked either. Maybe they need another judge?  I notices the judges taste only the tiniest of nibbles.

The Last Supper

We need 4 hugs a day for survival. We need 8 hugs a day for maintenance. We need 12 hugs a day for growth

—Virginia Satir, family therapist

The mole was huge! It was more like I had a hiatal hernia than a mole, and then while the surgeon was in there fixing the hernia, I said, "sure go ahead with that drastic guypass thing. I've had enough of this eating stuff for one life time. Enough talking and writing about how food is my bugaboo, my drug of choice, yet not finding a permanent fix other than death. Find me a tool; bypass is a tool, not a cure. I'm bored with it all. It's like writing about a break-up that happened almost a year ago. It's writing a story that never changes. I'm fat, I eat when I'm bored, and you can see how bored I am! I get bored a lot! Bored and boring. See, it's sort of a vicious circle. I get bored, I eat, I chastise myself for eating. I feel like crap because I chastise and berate myself for being less than human so I eat more, I get bored of feeling bad so I eat. Then sometimes I'll write about eating or write about boredom or think about what I can eat next. Though for this moment in time I'm writing about a mole.


A "mole" that turned into a hiatal hernia where nearly "half your stomach was in your chest cavity!" and me admitting I need the guypass. But really, the truth is, I did the research and chose to have gastric bypass surgery, and while I had the bypass, the surgeon found and fixed a hiatal hernia and he never paid the first bit of attention to any mole. I'm still covered in moles. 


At first I didn't think any doc in his right mind would think I was heavy enough for gastric bypass or had a high enough BMI for my insurance to pay. When the doctor first met with me and was reading my statistics, he said I didn't have the BMI. Dammit!  I told him to give me a few hours and I could correct that. He laughed. We remeasured my height and wouldn't you know, I turned out to be several inches shorter than I thought I was, and that shortness made me the perfect height for the surgery. So you see in my case, it was not that I was fat after all. It was really that I was too tall! If only I had admitted this years ago when I discovered I was at the wrong elevation for my weight. Time for gastric bypass surgery! Which btw, is not the easy way out so stop saying that! I've said that too, and it's b.s. because now I am unsaying it. I lost weight. Losing weight is the easy way out. Keeping weight off is the easy way out. Staying alive, in relationships that are loving are easy too. But staying alive in a relationship that's demented is not easy. My relationship with food is (ever so slightly) demented. (See the addiction rearing it's ugly head?)


With additional morbidities like increasing knee pain from arthritis which makes is difficult to want to walk to the end of the driveway hauling my rear-end with me, asthma, bursitis in my right hip, lymphedema, uterine cancer, well, it was either start investing in one of those ultra-size coffins and croak the boring way or as my sister phrased it, "some people aren't willing to give up the food" which translates to some people want to hang on to their addiction. That phrase was a turning point for me. I thought at my age 54, that I had eaten enough. I am ready to give up the food.


I want more mobility for the future I have, the ability to breathe with ease, and less chance of cancer recurrence plus the benefit of repairing the hiatal hernia will make what little food I can eat go down easier -- no coughing and choking in restaurants. So although I was too tall for the surgery, I had valid reasons to get the surgery (valid whether you think they are or not). Plus my food addiction (that so many people can't seem to relate to just like a heroin or alcohol addiction. "Why don't use just stop drinking?" "Why don't you just put down that half of a pie?" Many times someone else has to be one to see one on this issue. Although, I don't have to be a heroin addict to see one. I'll take her nervous, ratchety, jittery word for it as I busy myself crossing the street to get away from her cardboard begging sign.


Though I've loved food forever, I loved gardening since I was a young child. I remember pulling weeds in the backyard by choice. What kind of kid does that?! Yet I don't feel a compulsion to weed pull. With food it's another story though I'd say my food addiction sort of ebbs and flows, this past year has been a struggle with loneliness, grief, unexpected transition where food would help me numb the pain where as pulling a weed just made a mess in the driveway. I don't know if I became a foodie because I was fat, because I loved food, because I was an addict or if starting out a foodie created an addict or whether it all started when I was a child and instead of one day not getting that much needed hug, I was handed a cracker instead. Voila!


I read somewhere that for a healthy person, you need to get 4 hugs a day minimum. For the past year, there are a lot more crackers than hugs around here. It came down to crackers or prostitution. And crackers are cheap (I was used to cheap with my x). Crackers are there when you need them. Crackers don't dump you for a trashy-looking brunette who works on cars, has occasional sex with you (when you actually can) (until she finds one of those sores), and moved her wet-bar into your living room to replace your family. I chose crackers (metaphorically speaking) Crackers = all foods.


Going forward with this new "tool" that I'll be forced to make healthier choices. Through the use of this tool, I'll be forced to eat smaller amounts of healthier choices. I'll be forced to deal with my addiction with a different method. No booze because it's too chemo-like. No over-spending because I have no money. And no gambling because I really don't like Vegas baby! (No offense, Tricia). 


During my recuperation from "mole" surgery I watched a documentary entitled The Last Supper about foods that criminals chose to eat before being put to death. The idea is that these food choices take us to a kinder, gentler time in our lives though there is also a double-sword because the condemned can eat but he doesn't really enjoy the food. He hardly has time to digest. Since this documetary is mostly about Texas, most of the guys chose country fried chicken, country fried gravy, country biscuits & country gravy, and fried peach cobbler with country gravy and a pack a smokes.


My sister, my photographer. 

In the movie they explained other instances of last suppers. A common method of punishment during the Middle Ages was to bury the condemned man alive with a straw in his mouth. Milk was poured through the straw keeping him alive as long as possible (that must be big fun!) This "last supper" served two functions. One, the "sin" had more time to leave the body, and "finally" it was the condemned man who "chose" to die. I feel I've been suckin this straw a mighty long time.

Who's Next?

I'm going to be brief. I'm on vacation this week. I'm having surgery Tuesday (today!) in fact, it's probably over with by now (send flowers!) since I had to be at the hospital at the crack of crack aka 5:30 am. I'll tell you about the surgery later if/when I survive it. If I croak, my sister gets first pick. After my sister is Libby- though my son was not too keen on Libby having her pick before him. I've known Lib longer than I've known my son. Since I've known Libby she begins sentences with "When you die, can I have..." (though it was always a joke, I hope.)

Who wants my Tempur-Pedic™? (You haul!) The bed is not that old, and has one of those bed frames that adjusts. Great fun (for old people)! Whoever takes the bed, has to take the cat too. Don't worry, she will only live a few more years. Her name is Luka. She lives on the 2nd floor. (food is in the bottom cupboard).

This morning I was outside watering my lovely flowers, sweetpea, pincushion, columbine. I had my cell phone with me. It's been ringing off the bloody hook all damn day. Doctor offices, anesthesiolistamentarians, the nurse from the hospital, admitting (they call them admitting because they admit you owe them money), Libby reminding me I said she had second pick (of my stuff), my sister, my mom, my friend Pk (did you do anything weird with that old man??), the dummy at the doc office who forgot to contact me about surgery though today she lost some paperwork so at least that's a change. I'll be refilling that paperwork out at 5:30 am tomorrow. How much you wanna bet that it costs me more money? Admitting...???

Anyway, long story short, my cell phone is with me, and the Verizon robot-lady starts her harping "Please say a command." And even though the Verizon robot-lady will be with me till the end, she's my "help I've fallen and I can't get up" buddy, my one and only - pride and joy, I ignored her steely, cold feelings and said "how 'bout shut the fuck up?" I am all alone in a forest talking to a bossy phone biaach who keeps saying the same thing over and over again. Talk about nagging. I don't know what got into me though whatever it was got out in that instant. At least the surgeon won't have to remove anything extra.

Speaking of breakups, I had lunch with my x's (smaller x, notice?) son who had been phoning and texting on and off to meet for dinner, lunch -- whatever I was willing to pay for. Kidding! I love this young man. He is on his way to Greece for the summer and had something he had to tell me in person. Had. To. Tell. Me. In. Person. He's going into his 3rd year at Boston. I was putting off lunch/dinner because I figured I'd need a dictionary to understand him at this point in his education. But we had a great time! Loved seeing him. The thing he just had to tell me in person is that he's graduating with two B.A.s in something or other. One of the degrees is in Ancient Grecian Formula (I think that's what he said), and the other one is something big and important, and he will graduate a year early and go study in Edinburgh with Snodgrass. (TMI you say?) I spent years with this child. I get dibs on part of that learnin, educatin and brain-age. And then, boy howdy -- did that young man fill my ears with some (not quite gossip since he lived part of it, slightly here-say in a court of law I'd imagine) content that I can't even bring myself to blog about. Let's just say, and you all knew this and tried to tell me, and let's be clear about it, I dodged a freakin crazyass bullet (even if I admit my lunatic friendship with that phone robot woman). I just wanted to bring up the fact that I love my x's kids (in spite of all the damage that occurred by the father) and they both love me and that is all I ever really wanted. To be loved.

Every time I read that sentence tears come to my eyes.

I think it's because I just got that new, used vertical hot-rod car and someone worthy gets dibs on it - only if I croak. Admitting?

Talk to you later this week from here and beyond.

Kitchen Disasters

Hannah came to my house (I know this because we danced (and drove) to music the entire 15 minute trip while Hannah was in the back seat of the "vertical hotrod.") When we arrived at my place, she quickly became annoyed upon discovery that her outdoor "kitchen" had been replaced with a garden space instead of the pond that had been there previously; her main source of "soup."

Hannah had to use her imagination for her "kitchen" (don't we all?) Her kitchen was made up of a couple of weird garden pots, some random utensils out of my kitchen, the requisite hand towel she'd hang off a branch of a fuchsia and plenty of fantasy. (She may as well start now!) Then she'd mix pond water soup (my fave!) using an oversized wooden spoon that one of my kids made in high school wood-shop inside an aged, rusty cast-iron dutch oven that was sitting outside in all kinds of weather long before I was born. She'd insist I sit while she served the soup in a wooden bowl, saying "pretend I'm the mommy, okay?" asking me repeatedly "do you like your soup, baby?"

It was just recently that I made the decision to give the dutch oven away using freecycle. I was torn. I figured it was worth something but who would know if it was just sitting in my yard? Donating the dutch oven upset Hannah though lucky for me she did not remember exactly what items had gone missing, she only knew things had a disappeared. I single-handedly destroyed her outdoor kitchen. The nerve! I kinda thought she'd not notice the disappearance - similar to the  way I'd not notice my kitchen were gone if someone took everything. I told Hannah I'd work on getting her another kitchen (maybe requesting something on freecycle again.) She said, "Can you get me a pink one?" *eyeball roll*

Then we argued about the number 3 and if the number 3 was the 3 middle fingers on a person's hand or if it could be any 3 fingers. We walked downstairs to see the cleaned, freshly painted apartment. We looked through the redwood trees at the ocean. We yelled at a mama deer by calling out her name "deerie." (too bad she doesn't understand the English language!) We poked sticks inside of gopher holes to see if we could get to the end of the tunnel (while I secretly hoped we'd poke a gopher in the nose but thought as long as I kept my thoughts secret, I'd not create still more bad karma). Then we saw the mailbox with the leprechaun party inside where the leprechauns can only come out by using magic or wait for the mailman. Then we drove to see the cross in the tree. Then we argued about the other cross in the tree, the cross in the tree of which I was unaware, and the cross in the tree with which Hannah got really peeved that I was unaware.


After all the number 3 arguing, deer-screaming and gopher-hole poking, we drove back to Grandma's house. We put the fuzzy blanket around Hannah while she sat in her car seat in the back of the hotrod, where Hannah fell asleep wrapped up in fuzzy and dreaming of perfect pink kitchens just as we pulled up the road.

Donations

I signed up to give a whole 10 bucks per month to the ACLU, and even that amount in this financial climate seemed like a lot to me. And now two months in a row since signing that piece of paper, I've received material mailed to my house pleading for more money. It really bugs me when I give money to an organization that turns around and spends my money trying to get me to donate more money.

It's insane and it's insane to donate money to these organizations.

I want to be removed the money-pleading paper mailer or I'm going to stop my tiny little donation. In this day and age, you'd think email would be the only option (and then I can forward your email to the trash rather than add more junk to a landfill.)

When your folks are in the parking lot at Trader Joe's looking all forlorn, pleading for money for the cause, you need to tell them to let us know before hand that our donations will be spent annoying us, asking for more money because had I known that's what my money would be spent on, I'd not have signed up. Either that, or I would have given $20.00 bucks to pay for postage.

Ten bucks could go to my local homeless shelter and be used more wisely. Ten bucks could buy a tree to replace the ones you're killing. Ten bucks could go to a really cheap hit-man.

This goes for you too, SF AIDS Foundation. I told you no matter how much you beg me for money, and even telephoned (!!) to beg me for money, I will only donate in December when I receive my holiday bonus and can afford to donate. I've kept my word. Now please keep your word.  Stop harassing me before I get an ACLU lawyer to look into this matter. I have rights too!

Love,

Trust Me

I went out this past Saturday with a couple of women friends. Two of us had one alcoholic beverage each while the third woman, who's name escapes me because she's from Ireland, and we cannot keep her good ole Irish (stew) name straight. You know how those Irish are? They have unique names like D'arcy or Fionna or Finnoula. This woman's name is Catherine but we cannot seem to remember something that simple. Catherine is a water drinker which actually isn't very Irish, an automatic DD. How I envy her restraint, her ability to just say no - on top of a very cool Irish accent and she's a published author, not some dingy blogger. In fact, she says she doesn't quite get the blogging thing (yet) though I'm trying to get her to come 'round. I come from a long line of Irish relatives who spent my childhood in a bar downtown. I tried not to take their absence personally though I'll spend my life trying to blame them for any addictions.

Back to the future - we had an excellent time. I love meeting with these women for meaningful discussions, and yes, in case you were wondering, we still discuss important subjects while drinking booze - though not too much (booze, I mean). This night we discussed God, dieting, food, (cheesecake and/or coconut cream pie), Jesus (honorable mention!), reverence for life, prayer, (FUN!) among other subjects, and not one of us is particularly religious.

One of the women spent a year at a contemplative center in Albuquerque -- The Center for Action and Contemplation. Now she is writing a book about her studies (guess that is the action part). You mean to tell me that there are people who are willing to spend a year on something? What's up with that? Persistence. How I admire people with persistence and drive. A cool accent, a water drinker and a persistent contemplative. (I once talked with a friend about how I  had a desire to be a contemplative though he reminded me that couldn't keep my mouth shut long enough to contemplate.)

Then I asked Catherine how a person can be contemplative and active at the same time? I'm sometimes good with one or the other or maybe just a part of one. (I certainly seem to have contempt down.) (And I kinda think I'm okay at acting.) Try as I might though, I was less able to integrate these two concepts because action seems the opposite of being contemplative, so contrary to each other. I won't be able to get the scoop prior to the book's publication. I'll have to read the book once it's published. I sure hope she doesn't use big words. I already told her that if she'd blogged while at the center, she'd be working with the publisher by now.

The woman who introduced Catherine (if that *is* her real name), I've known since I was very young. The photo was taken of us in 1965. We were both 9 years old that year. I recall receiving a copy of the Beatles' album, Rubber Soul for my birthday because I was young, care-free and ultra groovy (you can tell from my cardigan and the Davy Jones hairdo). Though even in this photo, I'm trying to cover my stomach with my arms. Turns out that this friend of mine that I've known since I was a young kid may be moving into my apartment downstairs that's for rent. I hope she doesn't color on the walls like we used to when we were younger.

At the onset of our evening, I warned my friends that I had nothing to write about lately except boredom, dull things and rocks so it was possible for them to become prime subject material for my blog. And now here I am writing about them. It just goes to show, I cannot be trusted yet at the same time I *can* be trusted which in a way are two concepts quite contrary to the other yet I don't seem to be having a tough time integrating them. Trust is a pretty meaningful subject to discuss with your friends too.

Remembrance of Memorial Days Past

In my past, Memorial Day weekend meant -- first of all recalling why Memorial Day is celebrated. It's really not what the media tells you it is; a mattress sale at Mattress Discounters, a sale with no interest for qualified buyers a your nearest  Honda dealership, central valley-grown corn, 4 for a buck at GroceryDiscountSuperCheapArama until 7am only.

Memorial Day is the quasi-beginning of the summer season with all the camping trips, family get-to-gethers, barbecues, eatin, drinkin and nod for some people, or from what we see of the media, for everyone but us. For me though, this weekend brought about a few tiny twinges of loneliness partially based on my not rushing out to buy a mattress and that, I admit is my fault. I found myself looking for a different kind of celebration. So I took the requisite flag photo and posted it.

I believe I am coming to a realization that holidays are mostly special if you believe they are special, (and if you have enough memory to recall why they were special). One would do well to keep in mind that most of the beliefs one has developed about a lot of traditional things like holidays arise from beliefs invented by other people years before one was on the planet -- "By people we wouldn't ask for street directions from today," as Geneen Roth so eloquently writes in her book, Women Food and God. (I finished reading the book over the weekend - another cause for celebration.)

When you believe in Santa Claus, Christmas is special. Though when you stop believing in Santa, Christmas becomes a chore. When your kids believe in the Easter bunny, Easter is chocolate and jelly beans, and See's Candies. When the kids dress for Halloween and carve pumpkins, a simple day of the month becomes transformed. When you believe in fireworks and fireworks are outlawed (only outlaws will have fireworks), then the 4th of July is not as exciting unless you believe in food because other than fireworks, what is there? Sure it's the birthday of our nation though what is a birthday without birthday cake and fireworks? What will we do to celebrate when cake is outlawed?

When people stop believing - holidays can be kind of lonely unless you live a media-free existence.

Having celebrations without food, well, just who's going to attend that loser function? What's your invitation going to read? Come over and talk! Or Hey, Let's celebrate by doing nothing! - woo hoo! I had this discussion just this morning with my mom via ichat who was feeling a bit of the slightly-lonely-and-it's-a-holiday-dammit twinge too and she struggled to come up with any ideas.

We switched things up in order to celebrate Memorial Day (mostly because no one bothered to plan anything, and if you're honoring the dead is food a requirement? Why should we get to eat if the dead cannot? ) by not eating (shocker #1) but still having a drink (not a shocker) while taking pictures.

Hannah danced as I was driving towards her in the vertical hotrod (her nickname for the convertible VW) while I documented the dance with the cramera (as she calls it). (Probably calls it a cramera cuz she wants me to cram it.)



Grandpa did his part by unfurling the tiny flag, hoisting it up the TV satellite pole thus rendering Cinemax temporarily unavailable and ruining his whole evening.

I offered to let Hannah pinch my nose with grandpa's deluxe dog-poo grabbers so Hannah would have cherished holiday memories for years to come.


The weekend ended with a luxurious swim in the hot tub, while Hannah and I discussed Justin "Beaver's" career as her boyfriend. Then the subject changed just as quickly when in a fit of patriotism, and the brief attention span of a 4 year old, Hannah decided to look for Russia by putting her head under water.