Still Waters Run Deep

Maui 2010

So there we were, having an innocent Saturday afternoon after a  morning of shopping and weekend chores.   We were just canoodling and enjoying each other's company.   RJ had just gotten to second base, when a fierce pounding on the door disturbed the moment.  We elected to ignore it, given the circumstances, but when it came again a scant 5 minutes later, we figured we should answer the door.

Turns out it was a neighbour, who pointed wordlessly to the hall behind him, which seemed to be under water.  You know that sound that wet carpet makes when you step on it?  Slushh, squish, squash...  

The Mister hastily donned his superman cape and his baggiest sweatpants and surfed down the hall and up the stairs, searching for the source of the flood waters, which were now rising everywhere.   It didn't take long to find the culprit, a neighbour who had filled her kitchen sink with heads of lettuce,  and then turned on the tap to give them a good cleaning.  And then went shopping for a couple of hours.

We checked on our next-door neighbour, a delightful elderly lady who has a little dementia, and found her sitting in her chair, entranced at the water pouring from the light fixtures over her television.  I grabbed a bucket and a couple of towels and managed to take care of the worst of it, while Dorothy rocked and cackled with lively interest.  In the meantime, on the third floor the bucket brigade (everyone in our building who was sober enough) arrived in short order, and with mops, towels and fans, rolled up their pants to tackle the astonishing sight of a 2-inch deep swimming pool in the middle of a living room. 

Ralbernia - our cherished abode - has escaped from the tsunami (at least so far).  My heart goes out to my guilt-ridden neighbour - a responsible, smart and focused woman, who became distracted for just a second, and set off a virtual calamity.   It could have so easily been me and my forgetful, careless, bitchy buddy Tammy Ox.   Phew.

It's Called Mnemodermia

Athens, September 2011

Mnemodermia, believe it or not,  is a prolonged state of hypersensitivity in a particular area of skin long after an initial reaction has disappeared.

In essence, the skin “remembers” past sufferings and physically replays them later on in life.  Which explains, after consulting with the gurus at BCCA,  how I got disqualified from my hot lavender body wrap on Sunday, and why I am now registered for an "invigorating, exfoliating body scrub."  I'm guessing that attacking the skin with loofah, pumice and Black & Decker belt sanders will effectively erase skin memory, and somehow avoid reactivating Lefty's pickled beet appearance.    I wonder how many parts of me will just drop off?  And, will I be really sorry to see them go?

So I'm thinking, how interesting is this?   Skin remembers stuff, then replays it!  I have personally witnessed sympathetic skin response, although it was many years ago when I took my son Dave to the lab for a blood test.  Bee (then about 3 years old) watched carefully as they did the venipuncture on her brother, and as we turned to leave, I noted a brilliant red streak flaming up her forearm, precisely following the same brachial highway.  We also discovered early in her life that it was great fun to practice dermographism on her, i.e., writing a little note on her arm or leg with a fingernail, and then wait for the prominently raised, red sentence to reveal itself.  Think how handy that was!  Even now -  you know those thoughts that disappear within 30 seconds?  You can just jot them down on her calf or forearm,  knowing that you can reference them later on. No pen and paper required. The possibilities are endless.

Tomorrow morning, my eyes will open on my 57th year.  I share this very special day with my  very special husband, who lags behind me by a full 365 days, and stubbornly refuses to catch up.   Happy Birthday, Honey - here's to knocking the socks off this last year - parts of which, as Elizabeth II would say, were truly an annus horribilus.  And since we're orating in the language of creationism, here's your quote for the day:    

                                                 TUA TOGA SUSPINA EST
                                            (Dude!  Your toga is on backwards.)

Of Kevin Costner and Really Good Cookies

For those of us whose minds are stuck on permanent rewind on the scene in Dances With Wolves when Kevin Costner gets surprised by Indians while he is bathing at the watering hole, naked, and belly-crawls his way up the hill (naked) to peer through the waving grasses at them, then determines they are rifling through his possessions, so stands (naked) and indignantly yells at them ----- I have important news to share.

Who knew  that the delicious Mr. C. was also an accomplished musician and writer?  Not me.  So yesterday when I was browsing the aisles at the ITunes Store (naked) (not really), and came across his new album "Famous for Killing Each Other", I gave it a spin and, lo and behold, this guy is a lot more than just a pretty, er, face.  I wound up downloading the entire album.  This music was inspired by the Hatfields & McCoys movie soundtrack; Costner weaves Appalachian bluegrass and homespun folk with a touch of haunting Celtic lilt into a compelling, mellow showpiece.   It was a perfect choice to wrap around me on this stormy day, while the newly-planted seedlings tumbleweeds blew past my window down the golf course wide-open prairie and the chickens scratched in the dusty yard and my prissy papillon old yeller dog lay at my feet.   I baked batches of chocolate chip oatmeal and peanut butter cookies and really, really wished I had a gingham apron.

Take a step back in time and have a listen:

http://www.youtube.com/embed/kPefF85cjWY

It has been a good week, and it's about to get even better with the arrival of my Bee and Piper for a weekend visit.  Life is settling around me in proper order and my biggest concern right now is to find out whether I am allowed to have a full body lavender wrap next weekend at the spa, a generous birthday gift from Texas Toppy, known to you all as "Barney Trouble."  I have Googled "lavender and radiation" and plan on heeding their warnings not to eat any.  However, there is some kind of obscure study tying lavender oils to breast enlargement in boys (I am not kidding about this - who performed this study and how can I get some funding for my study, which involves Mediterranean cruises and recovery from radiation?), so there might be some sort of an estrogen effect.  I think I'll call my Playboy bunny oncologist and run it by her, if for no other reason to give her a chance to say in wonderment "Just when you think you've been asked everything..."

Oh, and those cookies?  I didn't (and won't) eat a single one.  Not that are baked, anyway.   Because there's no calories in the dough, everyone knows it takes a thermal process (called an oven) to make calories bloom.  These are made with the real McCoy - butter, never margarine, and they are hitting the road with my sweetheart on Monday as he heads north for the boy's annual fishing trip. Good luck, Honey - you can always use these for bait!

One Week In




Rain!  Enough already!

  
Regular life rolls along and takes one with it, and for the most part, I've managed to maintain stable vital signs.   In Knockersville, my post-radiation rash continues to bloom as enthusiastically as a spring weed, but I believe it has now peaked out and hopefully will begin to recede.  I am becoming quite practiced at scratching old Lefty while maintaining my dignity, even though it makes my back leg want to shake uncontrollably and my right eye roll around in bliss.

I am back on duty at the Good Ship Orthopod, and work is going well.   To my great relief, the dreaded post-radiation exhaustion has not been a big issue for me during the day.   However, once home, I have found  that I have new skills that kick in whenever I settle into my chair and have a warm dog on my lap.  I am now proficient at catatonia, astral traveling and drooling, pretty much instantaneously and lasting for a generous hour.   I have not been capable of reaching this depth of alpha waving since pregnancy, and it's so sweetly sopophoric that it's a huge job to claw my way back to consciousness, mop up my chin and chest and then turn my attention to dinner.

I am targeting replenishing my resources this summer, and to that end I have begun a self-designed mental and physical program designed to refill the larders.   I think that the stress connected with an adventure such as this is quite insidious, and can leave one with kind of a negative balance.  This is a kind of bewildering state, an unfamiliar landscape of profound relief and trepidation, assimilating old and new philosophies, tolerating both indulgence and discipline.  Kind of like mincing ahead with tentative authority.  Sort of.

I have always felt that the basics in life - good sleep, food, exercise, laughter, the company of family and fine friends, are bankable entities and become the antithesis to a tsunami.  They fill the void and re-arm the defenses.  Really savoring all this good stuff adds flavor and substance to the soul, doesn't it?  

In the meantime, I have declared war against the dozen pounds that have appeared in the last three months, entirely and completely due to my pal Tammy Oxifen.  They have absolutely nothing to do with self-medication with tubs of Qoola frozen yoghurt, chocolate-covered ju jubes and jeroboams of champs.  Which leads me to the quote of the day:

"I drink my champagne when I am happy and when

 I'm sad. Sometimes I drink it when I'm alone.  When I have company, I consider it obligatory to trifle with it if I'm not hungry and drink it when I am.  Otherwise, I never touch it unless I'm thirsty."

Madame Lily Bollinger, prominent champagne-house owner.

Cheers, everyone!