Miss Limpalotamus update

X-rays show that she's blown her knee, although that is not the name of the official diagnosis. We have an appointment with the surgeon on Monday morning. It's a consultation but her vet explained to me that, in her opinion, she will need surgery. I'm to bring her to the surgeon's on Monday prepared for that, meaning that she is to have nothing by mouth after midnight on Sunday, and that I should plan on leaving her at the surgeon's office. Her surgery will be Monday, and I can pick her up on Wednesday. Well, hold on a minute. When are visiting hours? And are they prepared for the cot I'm going to bring in so that I can spend the night there?

In flight

• While you don’t have to dress up for flights, it would be nice if people at least wore clothes they would wear to, say, a restaurant that is a step above fast food. Seriously, when did sleeveless tank tops on men (or women) become appropriate? Mister, I do NOT want to see all your body hair. No one does. That’s not travel wear, it’s beachwear.
• Let’s get something clear, okay? Just because you are able to carry something onto a plane, does not mean that you should. What happened to the area by the check-in that you had to (or could) drop your carry-on bag into to see if it would fit into the overhead bins? Seriously, an over-stuffed hanging bag is not a carry-on just because you are able to drag it onto the plane. And the flight attendant? She's got your game.
• When you're boarding a plane and you bump into somebody, it is polite to say “Excuse me.” When you bump into them so hard that you almost knock them over and you don’t stop or even pause, well, the people around the person you bumped into (me), they’re going to talk about you. And what they're saying, it’s not nice. Not nice at all.
• Note to the man across the aisle from me: We backed away from our gate five minutes early. The Pilot told us that we would arrive in Philadelphia 23 minutes early. When he then announced that we were eighth in line for take-off, I'm curious what made you throw a fit a two-year old would be proud of and say in a voice loud enough for three rows up and back to hear, “This is ridiculous.”
• Question: Why is it that some people think that the "all cell phones must be turned off" or "portable electronic equipment must be turned off" announcements do not apply to them? Because it makes me really nervous when you're in the seat next to me and playing with your Blackberry while we're going down the runway, AND THEN YOUR CELL PHONE RINGS. You don't know me but I'm a nervous flyer and if I weren't so sad today, that little bit of rule-breaking would have sent me over the edge.
• All of this is to say that when flying, it would be nice if we could all agree to abide by the rules and exhibit a set of basic manners. I for one would really appreciate it.
• This has nothing to do with anything, but I bought a People Magazine to read on the flight, and I have to say that Mary Kate and Ashley Olson always holding hands or with their arms all over each other, it just gives me the creeps.

May 10, 2005

Turning the calendar page from yesterday to today was not without some pain, some sweet melancholy memories, some layers of emotion involving the appreciation of a life. Today would have been my father's 81st birthday. Is it still his birthday even when he is no longer here? I suppose so, yes. It was his day, his date. I feel such a loss that I am not seeing him today, that I am not making my plans around him today, that I have not shopped for something to please him, or for a card to make him smile, on which I'd write a note and sign "I love you Dad" at the bottom.

These days, these "firsts" after losing him, they are raw. I awake having no idea what to expect and am more or less carried through the day rather than leading myself through it. This is similar to how I felt on Easter and my parent's anniversary. And yet, today is really all about him, not missing him on a holiday or event we shared. There's nothing to work though, no trouble to resolve. I think that I'm feeling exactly what could be called normal. It's sad and longing but it's not desperate. It's tearful but not weepy. It's all about missing someone I love. And the impossible distance of death. It's about wanting to celebrate the day that brought the entrance of someone into this world, knowing he's no longer here, and getting caught in the riptide of that emotion. It's about missing him more today than any day that's passed since losing him.

I'm traveling today. Opening the day in Houston and closing it in Philadelphia. I'm comforted by that. Comforted by spending the day with strangers who know not who I am or what this day is or what I'm feeling. It allows me to be invisible. And for today I like that.

Miss Limpalotamus

I wake up every morning with her and, unless she’s moved to the floor or downstairs to the couch during the night, she’s awake and eagerly awaiting my first stir. When I open my eyes, she greets me with perky ears, nose in my face, and tail thumping like a drumstick keeping time on the mattress. She's been waiting for me. I smile. I can’t help myself. Sometimes I gently put my hand on her head and firmly say “ssshhhh, go back to sleep” and she sighs and reluctantly flops back on her side and puts her head atop my leg. Sometimes I tackle her and throw the covers over her. That gets her pretty worked up and ready to play. And sometimes, I pat my chest and say “come here,” and she scoots toward me an inch. And I pat again and say, “come here” and she scoots another inch or so closer, and waits for me to say it again. We play this little game until her big brown head is on my chest and her gold eyes are looking at me, and her tail is drum beating. Then she’ll flip over on her back, turn her head toward me and look at me and say, Please rub my tummy. And then we start our day.

This morning was not the usual though. I had to give her a pain pill last night and she was still fairly groggy from it. If she had a snooze button, she would have pushed it more than once, I’m sure. She didn’t run and play too hard at the cabin this past weekend but the real limping started on Saturday. She's been favoring her back legs lately but it's more pronounced now. She can barely make it up the stairs. She can’t get into the car by herself, or the couch, or the bed. I’ve been calling her Limpalotamus, and I’ve been calling myself Nervous. We have an appointment at the vet tomorrow morning.

The weekend

I hope he chalks it up to friendly Texans

My inner Pollyanna has returned! You want evidence? I just sent an email to a colleague in Australia. I've never met him, and worked about six hours today fulfilling a request of his, and closed the email with my usual "If you need anything else, just let me know and I'll be happy to take care of it for you." And followed that with my not so usual "Love, Alison"

Carry on

Okay, I admit it. I have been one overwhelmed, stressed, emotional excuse of a person lately. Where did my inner Pollyanna go? Who kicked her out when I wasn't looking? [Note to her: I'd like you to come back, okay? And soon.] I am very good at seeing the positive, at recognizing and accepting challenges. Honestly, although you'd be pressed to find it around here, I'm a silver-lining kind of gal. To a fault. Normally, it's not me who collapses beneath the load, throws in the towel, cries in her pillow, whines about the burden. I'm the one who more than one friend starts their opposing position sentence with, "I know that you like to see the good in things, but..." or, "I know you like to see the good in people, but..." And then they'll load up their argument but I typically don't buy it. So, how then, did I manage to buy it all on my very own? Not sure. But I went on my walk this morning and looked around me at all the ever-present things I so love, breathed the air and stretched my arms before the rising sun, and I saw good again. And I had hope again. And it felt great to have this reunion with who I am. All the problems and worries and what-to-dos are still there, no magic eraser swooped down and cleared that mess up, but I threw desperation down the gutter, and invited inspiration back in. The room is the same, but the company is much much better.

My garden, my life

My yard is about the only thing that is keeping my feet on the ground, so to speak. I've found that gardening, or any type of yard work really, helps keep my mind balanced by keeping me close to the earth. It gets me out of my head and connects me with life outside of my own, and it's good for me because I can successfully take care of my yard, whereas there is much in my life that I am struggling with taking care of. In my yard, I can see the results of my work (presently blooming and doing well). Life, on the otherhand, moves a bit slower. In my yard, weeds, antbeds, etc., while mentally symbolic of life's problems, are much easier to address and resolve. Still, working in my yard reminds me that I have some power over my troubles.

It's an obvious connection: gardens / life. What am I planting in my life? What am I planting in the lives of my loved ones? I know that my words will either plant flowers or weeds in our lives. I am trying to plant flowers, not weeds. I'm fairly good at that. I know that my actions are for the most part planting positive. What of my decisions though? Some decisions we cannot know for a long time into the future whether or not they are the right ones. Decisions like that faced me today.

We've made the decisions and while I believe they are the right ones, I do not have that accompanying feeling of, well, feeling good about it. Perhaps because even though we had to make decisions today, we really had no choice. We've been backed into a corner and that's why I don't feel good about the decisions. I don't feel good about being forced into the position of having to make them. In fact, I feel pretty sick to my stomach about that. I've had to realize that no matter how much good I've tried to plant, there are internal and external circumstances beyond my control, and also much larger and more powerful than my influence. And yet, what to do has fallen squarely in our hands because something has to be done while something can be done. And something will be done - we've made sure of that. I'm left now to hope and pray that like my little yard, the results will be positive.

A letter

Father,

Funny to be writing you. Desperate, actually. I'm just not sure what else to do. I know without a doubt that you would be appalled by what is going on now. It's not what you wanted and I'm pretty darn sure that it's not what you ever imagined. But it's happening. And I do not know what to do. Funny, that. I've never felt that before. I thought I had, and that's amazing and shocking because when I realize that I am actually without a recourse, actually desperate, it's terrifying and I know that you could and would tell me what to do. You were here. You were. I saw it, I heard it. I listened to you and I watched you put your head in your hands without a single idea left, with only an eye to us for ideas, any ideas. Come to find out, we don't have them. And there was nothing but quiet. That's desperate. I understand that now.

You know that when we tell her she's being unreasonable, she doesn't hear us, won't listen to us. She gives us the same threats she gave you. Well, she can't divorce us but she's all piss and vinegar just the same. And she uses the same cruel words. Did you wonder if she meant it all? I wonder that. I wonder if she knows what she's doing and saying - it's so clear and so powerful it seems real. But is it? Did you wonder? Did she defeat you as she's defeating us? When you slept on the chair or in the guest room, was it about that defeat? Nevermind, I know that it was.

I can't believe that I've lived through two months without you. Two whole calendar pages without my father. I can't believe the ground I walk on is so raw and unfamiliar. I can't believe that I watch the news and think I need to call Dad so that I can understand it. How am I going to understand the world without you? How? How do I handle Mom without you? My goodness, all the times you told me that you didn't know what to do and I thought I understood. I had no idea.

I walk through your house, I look at your pictures, I smell your cologne and I hold your toothbrush. I do everything I can to put myself as close to you as possible. I look in the mirror and try to see what you saw in me. I am beautiful. I am smart. I am independent. I am clever. I am your daughter. I am so many things that I am because you saw them in me. But am I capable of taking care of what is left behind? I want to be your miracle. I'm just not sure how. I am closer to knowing you than I ever have been - and it's because I'm tasting the same pain and desperation that you did. I don't like that, but I'll take it. And I'll take it because of you, because of what you taught and lived and practiced. Watch over me, will you?

I miss you,
Fink

Just a bagel shop, nothing more

There is a bagel shop in my neighborhood, simply named Hot Bagel Shop. It's been there for years, twenty-three to be exact. Over those years, it has gone through two expansions and can still be considered a tiny place. Although there are two or three tables and one bar along the length of the window, most people go there for their bagels and take them elsewhere to eat. In one Houston publication after another, it's consistently voted as the best bagel shop in town and therefore has quite a loyal customer base. I've never been there when it wasn't packed with a long line and the three people behind the counter working at rapid pace and with good system to get the orders, get the money, and get on to the next in line. As far as I can tell, the shop has been owned and operated by one family. It's currently managed by the son, and the mother still works there. She's an older woman, I'd guess in her 70s, and a slight woman but I would never mistake her for frail. She doesn't look like she'd take crap from anyone.

This morning there was a young guy in line before me. A bit trendy, a bit full of himself. He gets the Mom. He asks if they have prosciutto. No. He asks if they have capers. No. He orders a sandwich and steps back while she goes to prepare it.

While my order is being filled, the guy asks the young girl waiting on me, "Do you take requests?"

She asks if she can help him and he says, "I'd like for you to ask the manager to get prosciutto and capers."

Mom overhears this and returns to the counter. "We are a bagel shop, not a deli. You want prosciutto or capers or chocolate chip bagels, you go uptown to one of those fancy bagel shops or you go to a deli. We're just a bagel shop here."

To which he replies, "I understand you're a traditional business but you also should keep up with the times. It's good business."

"We've been in business twenty-three years and we're doing just fine without prosciutto and capers."

"Well, maybe you can just tell the manager that I've made the request."

"I am the manager and I don't have time for you, I'm busy."

He pays for his sandwich, takes the bag, and that's it. Normally, I'd think the whole exchange to be poor business on their end. But I like her kiss-my-ass attitude. And I know this much: prosciutto and capers will never be on the menu. And the guy will be back. It is what it is.