A World of Woe

For many, many years now – really since Saddam Hussein’s invasion of Kuwait in August of 1990 – I’ve associated the end of summer (through Labor Day) as a time when bad stuff happens.  So far, this year, my theory about summer disasters (real ones, not just crappy movies for overgrown boys) seems to be holding firm.  Let’s see now….

n   Ebola.  Steven Soderbergh’s film “Contagion” isn't theoretical; Ebola is on the move and the question is whether or not it can be largely contained to West Africa or, because of the miracle of air travel and our truly global society, become more geographically dispersed.  Scary stuff…and for those students of scary stuff, you might want to read The Hot Zone¸  a true story about some monkeys in Reston, VA and the danger posed by this deadly virus.

n  Russia.  Putin’s past and present seem to be catching up with him:  A European Court has found in favor of Yukos, the former oil company that he destroyed because it’s founder called him out as the neo-Stalinist he is (and ordered Russia to pay $50B in damages). Even energy-dependent Europe can’t deny that Putin’s Russia is a pretty rogue state.  But punishment and its resulting disruption (Russia is on verge of a major recession) often encourage dangerous people to do even more dangerous things (remember Hitler?) so here’s hoping Putin “blinks” and soon.

n  Gaza.  This is a tragedy that never seems to come to any kind of conclusion.  It would seem so again.  Israel, beware:  Hard to believe when your enemy is Hamas, but you seem very, very close to losing the PR war.

n  Southern California water.  Shades of things to come. Everything you need to know about our country’s aging infrastructure was on view the other day in L.A.  Tens of millions of gallons of water went down the drain in a very thirsty part of our country.  Not good.

n  The U.S. economy and our stock market.  Roaring in the 2^nd Quarter.  But will our troubled world thrown “cold water” on us in Q3?

n  Former Virginia Governor Bob McDonnell and his wife.  Looks like staying in a bad marriage constitutes a felony, among other things.  Oy.

Let’s just say that things this summer are proceeding down the same perilous path as in summers past. 

Time for a vacation, people.

 

July

It will be August in 9 days.  I find that hard to believe because our Washington, D.C. summer weather has been so temperate.  Additionally, I haven’t yet had a real vacation because my daughter has been away from home more than she’s been here, requiring her father and I to work rather than loaf around the house or on a beach.  

Boy, the house has been quiet. 

Due to the fact we’re not navigating the omnipresent needs of our 13-year-old “queen,” my husband and I have time on our hands to:

·         See a lot of doctors

·         Go for regular physical therapy treatments for various aches and pains on the recommendation of those doctors

·         Sleep until 6:30 in the morning

·         Stay up until 11 at night (whoopee!)

·         Watch whatever we want, including some really bad old movies with great actors – like Tommy Lee Jones in a terrible (but compelling) disaster film about a volcano in LA

·         Eat what our daughter would find unacceptable as dinner fare, like a really yummy chicken salad or omelet

·         Practice guitar (me) and complete crossword puzzles (him) without interruption

·         Go to the neighborhood pool (but not enough to justify our membership this summer)

·         Solicit bids on a bathroom remodel (which we’ve scaled back to basically re-tiling the shower)

·         Eat all the delicious Cadbury chocolate-covered vanilla ice cream bars in the freezer (and not have to negotiate the next evening over who get the last one…because there isn't one)

When our daughter returns from her latest jaunt – her trip with friends to Niagara Falls – she’ll have a week home to focus on summer school work that she’s behind on because she’s been doing important things like growing up and just having some fun.  And then she’ll go off to camp again for a week in August.

In the meantime, my better half and I will cycle through the tasks of life listed above (in addition to going to work, of course) and enjoy this sneak preview of what our empty nest will look like 5 years from now.

I definitely think we need to cultivate a few hobbies.

 

 

My Left Foot

After nearly 2 months of moaning about how it hurts to walk on my left heel, I finally limped to an orthopedist yesterday.  Nearly $300  later, I learned from an x-ray that my heel bone (a.k.a. the calcaneous) looks like a sharp-angled ski-jump instead of a smooth slope – forcing my Achilles tendon and plantar fascia, the ligament that runs along the bottom of the foot, to react rather negatively to the stress of walking. 

Isn’t it nice when you can learn something new?

But back to me:  Long ago I gave up wearing anything with a significant heel, and in recent years have migrated completely to flats.  In the summer I am especially fond of wearing Tom’s brand shoes – flat-as-a pancake, slipper-like nothings.  They are pretty comfortable until something like this heel pain happens, and then they are not. 

So off I go tomorrow to begin 6 weeks of twice-weekly physical therapy.  And for the next 6 days, I’ll be taking a lot of steroids to calm my inflamed fascia. Steroids usually make me pretty crabby and borderline paranoid so it should be good times around my house in the coming week.

But the truth is that I will likely have this for the rest of my life because my heel bone is what it is; my feet are flat-as-a-pancake, too – another chronic condition contributor! 

Thank god it’s worse in the morning, and actually gets better the more walking you do during the day.  That said, the late middle-aged onset of this condition does mean:

1.       I will likely have to give up passion for Tom’s flats -- at minimum; I won’t be wearing them on the treadmill anymore!  And in one unintended consequence, some child in the third world won’t be getting a free pair of shoes from Tom as I will no longer be a customer.  Sigh.  (For those of you unfamiliar with this wonderful brand, Tom’s gives away a pair of shoes for every pair purchased -- which makes one feel better for paying a little too much for shoes that actually, on the face of it, aren’t really that special but are trendy).

2.       Dr. Scholl’s heel jellies will become an annoying necessity for cushioning my heel, but they aren’t super comfortable either as they shift around in your shoe when you walk.

3.       Hello, old grandma cushiony sneakers -- I’ll have to start wearing you with some frequency. Ugh.

4.       I will have to spend money on physical therapy when I’d rather spend it on some expensive shoes.

In any event, feet are a highly desirable attribute of most Homo sapiens so I will do what I am told in an effort to reclaim a tiny bit of quality of life for my aging body.

Foot, don’t fail me now.

The Death of Archie

Say goodbye to another totem of 1950’s boomer kid-dom:  Archie Andrews, the carrot-top cutie who won the adoration of both Betty and Veronica, is being terminated literally and figuratively in what is touted to be the final installment of “Life with Archie.”

In the last issue, published tomorrow, Archie dies selflessly as he protects his gay best friend, a newly elected U.S. Senator and gun-control advocate, from an assassination attempt.

Puh-leeese.

This is a far cry from participating in goofy escapades with Jughead and the girls in the fictional, All-American Riverdale, USA  – adventures that often ended with raccoon  eyes and a cartoon bubble filled with stars, exclamation points, squiggles and hash marks hanging over Archie’s head.

In an Associated Press story published today, Archie’s publisher says that the comic-book-boy-next-door dies “in the manner that epitomizes not only the best of Riverdale but the best of all of us.”

Ok, the news about Archie got my attention and probably yours, too.  PR is a wonderful thing.
But Archie killed protecting a U.S. Senator?  Really?

Archie has been a comic right-of-passage for generations of American kids who spent hours reading and laughing along with him and his buddies.  Boys, girls, young, old – everyone “got” Archie.  He courted trouble.  He made people laugh.  He pissed off Betty and Veronica.  He was wholesome and freckled, an Andy Hardy for his times. (For those of you who don’t understand my Andy Hardy reference, I recommend  spending a little time watching Turner Classic Movies on a Saturday or Sunday afternoon.) 

The ‘50s is a distant but cherished memory to those of us who survived them.  Even though we lived through the omnipresent fear of nuclear annilation, the injustice of segregation, sexual repression, and lots of other stuff too, life was simpler and seemingly safer – for Archie and for most of his fans.  What suburban kid didn't feel it was safe to hop on a bike, ride a mile to a neighborhood candy store to pick up the latest Archie comic, and know that they wouldn't wind up being featured on a milk carton?

Like the typical kid's life in the 50s, Archie's humor was simple, silly and rather sweet in its naivete.  Too bad he had to grow up and become self-aware and political.

Marvel, with its genius for reinvention of comic book brands, should snap up the rights, and turn Archie and the Gang into 21st Century superheros -- or billionaire geeks in the making. Silicon Valley Archie -- a Zuckerberg-like hero for our times.  Veronica, "leaning in" like Sheryl.  Betty, a Marissa Mayer wannabe.  And Jughead as...Jughead, of course.  Cool.

Better yet, RIP Archie -- we hardly knew ya. And those of us who did, won't remember you for much longer. 

 

 

Dream House

My husband and I decided to indulge our real estate fantasies yesterday by attending a few open houses in our neighborhood.  As it happens, we found our dream house.  The only problem is there are 3 of us in our family, and it probably is only big enough for 2.

For starters, all the positives:  It’s a midcentury modern ranch house in Arlington that has been completely renovated – from top to toe, stem to stern.  The renovation is utterly beautiful – top of the line materials, appliances, lighting fixtures, flooring, etc., etc.  It’s swoon-worthy.

And it’s only slightly over $1M for about 1300 square feet of living space.

Say whaaaaat?

Yup, that’s our neighborhood right now – houses flying off the market for $1M plus. For those who think real estate is still struggling to make a comeback after the Great Real Estate Bubble of 2007, they clearly haven’t visited Arlington, Virginia.  Our area is on fire right now.  And with everyone around me moving, I want to, as well….

When we got home after our Sunday afternoon excursion, I gave my husband my sulkiest, big eyed look for approval to consider buying this wonderful old rambler, not that we can afford it, we can’t – and he did agree it was just beautiful and perfect.  No stairs to speak of (a good thing, given our aging knees), a real garage, all new everything – we could die in that house and everything would still be new! Of course, that implies an earlier than desirable passing on our part; worst case, everything in the house would be middle-aged and only in need of a facelift when our estate got settled to pay off Medicaid in 2035.

In any event, David gave me his “my god, I am a patient soul” look and, nodding his head, stated the obvious (to him):  the house was “the right house at the wrong time.” 

Blast.  Once again, that man is trying to save me from myself!

Here’s the thing, though:  I am getting restless. There are things in our house right now that I just don’t like – some of my own making – like the scratches on the stainless steel door of the refrigerator that I put there(by accident) when I removed my daughter's pre-school artwork 5 years ago with a knife (the old tape was like glue on that door).

For example, I want to renovate our original-to-the-house (1964)  ensuite bathroom if only so that the shower head stops dripping and I can sleep through the night again.  And I want new sparkling, unscratched kitchen appliances, specifically a refrigerator without big scratch marks and an oven that doesn’t have grease build-up impossible to “self clean.” 

I also want new granite counters and a new tile backsplash, just because there are prettier ones out there.

No, I don’t do DIY.

As my wonderful husband well knows, when I whip myself into a fever-state like this, it takes something serious to snap me out of it – like a tuition bill, or the risk of unemployment, or a notice letter from the IRS.  So my husband threatened to retire this morning.

Oh, hell, a girl can dream, can’t she?

 

 

 

The Beautiful Mind

My husband absolutely hates it when I wake up in the morning and want to discuss my dreams.  It’s almost as if the B movies of my subconscious will lure him into some altered state of reality that is either a) too boring or b) too scary…so he politely declines my offer to repeat, to the extent I ever can, the blow by blow of a particular dreamscape.

As I’ve gotten older, however, my dreams have become more “vivid” and, sometimes, I vocalize or act out the dream, which awakens me immediately.  I’ve been known to talk in my sleep (a lot) and occasionally, hit something, like my husband or the headboard.  The headboard usually leaves a bruise; David, not so much.

Last night, I had a very complicated dream about which, for the life of me, I am unable to reconstruct the narrative.  This is not unusual.  Feelings stay with me – or particular “scenes” -- but rarely the whole dream-state story, unfortunately. 

I do remember this:  I was with old and new friends and my husband, of course, and my daughter, who was very little in the dream, maybe 6.  We were staying someplace – on vacation? – in a warren of serially-connected rooms, like a railroad apartment.  One room featured a fireplace, with a golden glow from the fire.  Another room had people and lots of pillows.  In the dream, my daughter and I walked away from the pillow room and laughing people and down a hallway toward our room, and I saw the face of a thirtyish man with sandy hair, a thin face and dead eyes staring at me through a window or reflected in a mirror.  He had a gun.  He pointed it.  A warning.  I looked away, took my daughter’s hand and walked quickly away into our room, locking the door.

We fell asleep.  Suddenly, I woke up and the stranger with the dead eyes was in the room.

I screamed.  Loudly.  Twice.

This got my husband’s attention.  Even though startled, he still had the composure to say my name soothingly, grabbing my hand and calming me into consciousness.  For a few minutes, I didn’t say anything but just held his hand.  I closed my eyes and dared myself to remember the terrifying face.  I couldn’t.  And then suddenly, all I could think of was the Woody Allen movie where he plays tennis with the Grim Reaper – that’s sort of how silly I felt, and how disturbed. 

After about 5 minutes or so, my husband pulled his hand away from mine, eager to return to sleep.  I pet my dog, Shasha, and within a few more minutes, I too fell unconscious.

This morning, I read a story in the New York Times about the deep brain research called direct brain recording which “listens to the brain’s internal dialogue in real time.”  Researchers hope this will ultimately lead them to better understand and treat traumatic brain injury, epilepsy and other chronic brain conditions that affect memory and reasoning.  One doctor acknowledges in the article that researchers “know so little” about the brain.

The brain is the greatest mystery of all, the key to our spiritual being and the navigator of the pragmatic self.  It fascinates me, and if I could do it all again and spend time getting a serious STEM education, I’d love to be a brain specialist.  And when I have weirdo dreams that cause me to punch my husband or talk loudly or scream, I’m grateful.  It reminds me how miraculous our challenging and beautiful mind truly is.

Ok, enough of that.  Didn’t have the best sleep last night.  Think it’s time for a nap.

Too Damn Quiet

My wonderful husband and I spent the 4^th of July weekend at our small cabin in the woods.  The first two days were cool, breezy and mosquito free.  We sat on our deck; he smoked his cigars, I read a book or magazine.  We didn’t talk much—didn’t need to, I guess – and even Shasha, our typically barky little Shit-Zhu, was relatively relaxed.

Then it hit us.  It was too damn quiet.

You never really think about how noisy kids are even when they are subdued.  But they are:  it’s like their force field vibrates with the unbridled energy of youth, constantly producing a soft hummmmmm that is always, always part of the surface of things.  Add to that loud laughter, sulky complaints or the occasional shouting match common to kids of all ages, and you realize how mighty their maelstrom of sound truly is.

When that sound reaches a roar, adults close their eyes, sigh and hunger for what they’ve lost:  Peace.  Silence.  QUIET.

Until they find it again, when the kids are gone…for days…and that silence starts to feel…edgy.

Now my husband might disagree with me about this:  he craves and, in fact, needs periods of quiet; really noisy noise makes him borderline uncomfortable, which is why I’ve not always understood his affinity for Jimi Hendrix, for example.  Not a complaint about Hendrix – I like much of his stuff – but some of his music is really, really noisy.  (Which I think was the effect he was going for, of course).

As for me, I like “loud” and always have – loud music, loud TV, loud laughter, loud talking.  This is, in part, because my hearing isn’t what it used to be.  Loud gets my attention and keeps me moving.  And then, of course, I'm also from New York originally (which explains a lot, my husband would say).

Sometimes, though, silence is important too – particularly when I’m feeling angry or frustrated and need to think things through.  Generally speaking, though, the noisier a household is, the better – it feels alive.

Back to our cabin weekend:  it was much too quiet without our daughter’s ambient sound shaking us out of our semi-stupor.  When it was time for us to go home, I was ready. 

So home we are now, and settled back into our routines.  As I sit today writing this, I realize that I need some joyful noise in my life while my daughter is away at camp.  My husband must need some too, as he’s just suggested we go to a neighborhood pool for a swim after work.

Splish, splash.  The slap of David’s hand hitting the water hard so that it squirts into my face. Intentionally.

Kids squealing in the background.  A mother telling her son to “knock it off.”  Yes!!   

That will do nicely…for now.

 

Growing Pains

This morning I did something that I shouldn’t probably have done.  I called my daughter at camp.

As I explained in my post yesterday, my daughter’s summer camp is about building independence, self-reliance AND team-building/leadership skills in teenagers through non-academic learning, like cooking breakfast for 60 people, let’s say.  When we dropped Jinny off at the camp on Sunday afternoon, she looked…well, frankly, uncertain. So, even though the camp directors were pretty specific about giving kids – especially those who have never attended the camp – time to adjust before calling, I couldn’t help myself.
 

One of the camp’s directors answered the phone.  I introduced myself and asked for my daughter.

 “Hi there, nice to hear from you, Jan – but you have called on the emergency line.  Which we need to keep open for…emergencies,” he said.

I stammered and stuttered. “I’m sooo sorry.”

“No problem.” 

He gave me another number, asked me to wait a minute before calling it, then hung up.  I did as instructed.  The phone rang and was answered.  I paused and said, “Hello?”

“Hello.”

“Hi, this is Jinny’s mom.”  Pause, uncertainly, “Can I speak with her?”

“Yes, of course…I answered the phone a moment ago,” the director acknowledged as if I was a child who needed patience and repetition in order to “get it.”

“Yeah, that’s right,” I muttered. 

Suddenly, I heard my daughter’s sweet, melodic voice in the background as he explained that I was on the line.

“Hello.  Mom?” asked my daughter, sounding uncertain and a little concerned.

“Hi, sweetheart, how are you?”

“O-kaaaaay.”  Now she sounded impatient and a tad annoyed, like I was checking up on her (which, of course, I was).

“I won’t stay on the line because I know breakfast is almost over and you have stuff to do.  Is everything ok?  Are you sleeping ok?” I said, breathless after the rush of words.

“Yes, Mom.  Everything’s fine.  And yes, last night I slept ok.  Not so much the night before.”

“Oh….”

“But I’m fine, Mom.” She sounded like she wanted to get off the phone fast.

“Are you making new friends?” I asked, oblivious to her desire to hang up.

“Yes….”

“Great.”

“Yup.”

“Dad and I miss you and love you.”

“Yup.”

“I guess I better let you go?”

“Yup.”

“I’ll call again soon.”

“Ok.”

I didn’t have the heart to remind her about reading one of her summer school assignment books while she was there.  Or that I had written her a note for every day this week (at my friend’s suggestion) and wondered if she’d read one. (My daughter hates to read.  Anything.) 

“Ok, then,” I said, a little crestfallen.  “I guess it’s time to say bye, sweetheart.”

She clearly hadn’t read my Monday or my Tuesday notes. 

“Ok, bye.  Love you, mom.”

Click.

I immediately called my husband to give him a status report on our daughter, and he quickly suggested that I stay off the phone until this weekend.

So, on Thursday, I’ll FedEx a care package for Saturday delivery, filled with candy, seaweed snack, a digital camera and some more notes that likely won’t get read.  On Sunday, I’ll call again. 

The growing pains are mine.