The tale of two pink nightstands

For a long time Lillian has been looking for an old bar-cart or AV stand to use as a bedside table. Her IKEA bed frame is a little higher off the floor than is standard, which is great for stowing suitcases full of sweaters and shoes, but means that the usual nightstand is lower than the edge of the bed, which decorators frown upon.  It also makes Lillian feel like the Princess And The Pea atop a stack of twenty mattresses, unable to reach her lamp, her book, or her tea without tumbling head first out of bed.

Mom!  Mom?  Mom! Mom!  Will you bring me a drink of water?  Mom? Mom!  Mom!

Then I remembered that Grandma Ruth (my mother), who lives nearby, had this old metal utility cart in her garage.

When I was growing up it lived in our kitchen, but it got evicted when Mom finally agreed to replace her forty year old, "coppertone" (sixties-speak for dark brown with darker brown ombre edges--so fine!)  refrigerator.  I don't remember where it came from originally, but I do recall Mom spray painting the cart brown.  (Everything old is new again: brown!) I also remember that our previous, very old, refrigerator expired one summer when we were out of state and we came home to find a big white coffin full of warm food which had thawed and leaked out all over the kitchen floor.  Mom used to be a fearless DIYer back in the day,  and also spray painted the original turquoise range hood and oven door.  For decades the stovetop (not a good candidate for spray paint) remained turquoise as a reminder of a more colorful era.  It recently got the heave-ho when she bought all new appliances (almond, which, although already out of date and which had to be special ordered, was as modern as she was willing to go.)

Anyway, I crammed the cart into my trunk and brought it home, and today I cleaned it up with sandpaper and denatured alcohol, and spray painted it with Rustoleum Ultra Cover in Gloss Berry Pink.

Orchard Supply Hardware sent me a $5 off coupon for my birthday this month, making Lillian's new nightstand free, which is my favorite price.

Of course I ran out of paint before I was entirely done with the last coat. Back to OSH!

Lottie is fearlessly watching for lizards and rats.
She fools them into thinking she is asleep and the coast is clear.  So sneaky.

Chase  is not interested in DIY projects, unless it involves turning on the bathroom faucet (not that much!--just a dribble--there now leave it for ten minutes while I drink), which he would like me to do about twenty nine times a day.
And also at night.

And there it is!

Yes, we do both have [slightly different] pink night stands, but it really was the right color in both rooms. If Lillian ever gets her room clean enough to show this little table neatly arranged beside her bed, I will take a picture and post it.  That, however, could take a long long long time.

Chasing the clouds away

How to have a really fine weekend: Get some very positive news, take a few deep breaths, and smile.  We received an update from my friend J's wife, B:

. . .Four days into his gene therapy and he is feeling much, much better! A huge difference. His appetite is getting better with each day (need to make up the 20 pounds he has lost). We were told that these new drugs have very fast and robust responses, and it is true. He will eventually develop tolerance (6 months to a year) and then he will have to be in a drug trial at MD Anderson for the 2nd generation drug which is currently in phase 3 trials. But, we are all set up to go there. We changed local oncologists to a Dr. who has a bedside manner more suited to J's personality and who is willing to coordinate care with MD Anderson in Houston. We are feeling much more hopeful and encouraged! J was even doing his Susan Hayward impression when asking me to get his "dolls" (pain pills). He is actually cutting back on the "dolls" because his pain is not as great. So three cheers for medical science, thanks to all those praying, and Praise to our merciful God. 

Hope is a waking dream

-Aristotle

Against all odds and the Sunset Garden Book, those plumeria are thriving in Austin

For the last few nights I've sat on my porch in the cool, quiet, early fall evening, and looked at the moon and thought about life.  Or more specifically, death.  The terrible specter of death has crept into my life. My beloved friend J is gravely ill.  Maybe.  Of course not.  I don't know.

Just two months ago, we all spent a wonderful weekend laughing and cooking and eating and feeling immortal, or as immortal as middle-aged people have any right to feel.  If you had asked us to vote on who seemed the healthiest, ate the best, exercised the most, and led the godliest life, J would probably win.  He was coughing a little, perhaps, but this has been a harsh year for allergies, and the smoke has been constant.

We didn't know.  

He is so clever, so funny, and so dear.

J and his sweet wife went home to Texas and he drove his daughter back to college.  Then he  went on a cross-country road trip, relocating his Navy son from San Diego to Maine.  But when he got back, he suddenly started to feel awful.  So he went to the doctor for a check-up.

He got the news nobody wants.  He has a very rare, aggressive lung cancer.  It has already spread to his liver and bones, although not his brain.  His pain is unbearable.  Life is suddenly very different, precious, and frightening.

J and B--two halves of a perfect whole

In  truth, this is not my story to tell.  I feel greedy claiming pain and fear because his family has cornered the market on pain and fear.  I have no right to expect constant updates or medical information.  Would I feel better if I had that?   Does carrying some of the anxiety help to bear it, or just duplicate it? Am I exploiting them by posting about it?

I feel compelled to be brave and optimistic, but it's hard.  I suppose the correct path is to presume that medical science will throw everything they have at this and J will rally.  That he'll recover.  That this will be a dark chapter in their fine, long marriage, but he will see his grandchildren, yet unborn, grow up.  I made a little bracelet with his initial, which we share, to wear every day until he is well again, because I can't keep my fingers crossed that long.  There is literally nothing else for me to do.

My tears won't help at all.  If they did, he'd be better already.

Everyone he knows wants him to get well, not just me.  J is my old friend--not my husband, my dad, or my son.  I don't presume to want it more than they do because that's impossible.

But make no mistake:  I want it so much.  So much.

 J was a snappy dresser even  in 1975, and he made sure I had a proper white orchid for our senior prom.
He wore his cool Johnny Carson suit, and I wore a black tee and a long black silk skirt, which I made.
He was not responsible for my matching black eye.

If I knew then

Today is Lillian's birthday.  She is twenty three.

She is the baby I didn't think I'd ever have.  My surprise third child; born a month too soon into a sad and crumbling marriage, just one year after I was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis.  Her dad left soon after she was born.  I was lost: I hadn't quite graduated from college, I had three little children, an uncertain medical future, and was alone in a city hours from family and friends.

But I had a funny little baby to hold onto when I cried, and she was with me while I threw all my husband's things into the street and packed up and moved into a smaller house.  I found a job, and together we drove around the city delivering medical transcripts to doctors' offices so we could all eat. She was in my arms while I made the decision that if I was going to be poor, I might as well be poor surrounded by people who loved me, and the four of us moved back to my hometown.

We all went to school--I went back to community college to learn a marketable skill, Sam and Annie went to first and third grade at my old elementary school, and Lillie went to preschool.  Things went from really grim to just difficult, but we scrimped and thrift-shopped and eight years later, we bought a little house for all of us to live in.  One by one my kids grew up and moved away, as it should be.

When the going got tough in Chicago, Lillian did what I did twenty years before--she moved home.  And as it was for me, I know she'll get back on her pegs and fly away again.

But at least for now, she's once again my partner in crime, driving around with me just like we did all those years ago in Sacramento, singing along to the radio.

Oh, rats

I have long been aware that Prince Charming isn't coming to my house anytime soon.

But imagine my horror when I glanced up at the porch light this afternoon to see what Lottie was hollering about.  I am so naive, I thought I'd see one of her idiot lizards.

It was definitely not Prince Charming.

It was not a lizard.  

It was a mouse.

 Lottie had apparently chased it up the wall onto the light fixture, and from there it tried (and failed, thank my stars) to squeeze into my attic.  Nightmare alert: mice can climb stucco walls, did you know that?  Lillie and I brought the cat inside and jumped up and down and screamed tried to decide what to do.  I posted its creepy crawly picture on Facebook and asked the team for their best advice.

Among the comments was this unpleasant news.  My furry intruder is not a mouse.  

It is a rat.  

A baby rat.

Baby rats most definitely have parents, siblings and cousins.  

Google agreed that I probably have entire families of rats running around my property.  There is a lot of that nasty ivy nearby, and rats LOVE ivy.  Google says it is only a matter of time before I have rats in my walls and attic.  I recently noticed what I thought were mole hills around my house but are, apparently, rat burrows.  Maybe I'll stuff snail bait down the busiest-looking holes--I recall, way back when I lived in an old house in San Jose, whenever I scattered Snarol there would always be a few dead roof rats lying around in a day or so.   I'll go to OSH and figure out which kind of actual rat poison seems the safest for every non-rat creature in the vicinity.

I would love to imagine that this little rodent lives alone and has no friends or relations. 

Well,  I wasn't born last night. 

 Looks like there's some pest control on my agenda.

Rats are sort of the herpes of home-ownership.  

You might control them; you might not see a rat for years; but they're never really gone forever.

Have you ever had rats?

I know something you don't know

Sunday night in the United Kingdom, people gathered around the telly and watched Season Three, Episode One of Downtown Abbey.   

Sunday night in my living room, Lillian and I gathered around her Mac and watched it, too.

And man, oh man, is it good.

I readily admit that if I lived here by myself, I would be just like you, writhing in agony because THEY have it and YOU DON'T.  But Lillian is a kid from this generation, and she knows what buttons to push.  In fact, someone at your house might figure it out, if you pester them relentlessly.  

But I like you so I won't spoil it for you, just in case you have to wait until January.
My dear sister in law   Someone I know asked me for a synopsis,
so I wrote it up and sent it to her, but you have an iron countenance and can wait, right? 

Rest assured, it's every bit as delicious as you hope.

  

Shirley McClaine is miraculous.  New plot lines burst forth at every turn.  Carson says "hobblety-hoy."  Edith finally wears flattering clothes.  Sybil gets a peculiar haircut.  Mary's wedding dress is incredible.  Disaster is imminent.  

You wish you were me.

Sam's mom messes with Texas

I'm back from a grand weekend in San Antonio with this cute little boy and plenty of delicious margaritas.

I am sorry to report that this a color photo of the first draft of my travel wardrobe.
I shook things up by adding in a pink scarf, a green cardigan and some  purple flats.  Snappy!

His company paid for every imaginable whim of several hundred employees and their guests, including round trip travel (involving six separate flights for me.)  I had a lovely massage at the hotel spa and we even had enough room credits left over to buy a few souvenirs for the home fries. I also passed around a few pictures of Sam before he was a a successful grownup, including this shot:

Sam was rocking that scruff at age seven, and yes,  Lillie's [unappreciated] costume is Amoxicillin 

Look kid, if you're going to invite YOUR MOM to this kind of event, you'd better reconcile yourself to a little humiliation in front of your bosses and coworkers who still see you as some upstart pup.  I was therefore obligated to prove them right.   I expect there will be a parental-exclusion policy in place next year.

I am kind enough not to show you the multi-colored fanny bruise under that hotel robe

The first afternoon, we played on the hotel's water slides and floated around the 'lazy [pretend] river' (me slathered in sunscreen to ward off my enemy, the too-friendly Texas sunshine).  Flailing and struggling  to climb out of an inflatable  plastic inner tube, I sat down way too hard on some concrete steps and am now nursing a rainbow-hued, fist-sized bruise on my can. Leisure time is fraught with danger.

When I was lamenting to the friendly hotel desk clerk that it would take three flights and all day to get back home, she laughed and said her hometown is an hour south of mine.  And the clerk in the gift shop asked where in Chicago Sam lives; turns out she grew up a few train stops away from his apartment in Bucktown.

airline travel is so glamorous

Too soon, I was back home again to find anxious cats, more political bad news, and smoky skies.  At least the badly needed rain in Texas held off until I left.  It was a wonderful trip.

 my poor kitties cried themselves to sleep every night

Keep on keepin' on

 

The national news is depressing.

Todd Akin makes me want to commit candidaticide, but I can't because that's not a valid solution, 

even in the case of asshat idiots.

And I'm trying to channel lovingkindess.

I'm crippled with anxiety about still being unemployed and knowing the only solution is to 

FIND A JOB.

It hurts to wake up in the morning.

I'm almost afraid to leave the house.

On the other hand,

Logan and Noah took after Great-Grandpa Hart, sort of,

 and Brody learned how to smile.

In the meantime, 

We manage to do it all for 78 cents on the dollar.

(Kicking aside misogynists the whole damn day.)

And I'll have "all the dates I want", too, [as long as all I want are no dates.]

In a couple of weeks I get to go spend a long weekend in San Antonio with this cute boy.
On his company's dime
because somehow he grew up to be a stellar employee.
And he invited old Mom to share his reward.

So, looks like all I need to do is:

And things will get better.

Anything for you, dear

 One of two female buddhas,  White Tara at the
Tashi Choling Center for Buddhist Studies, down the road a piece

"With mirth and laughter let old wrinkles come."  

- Shakespeare, The Merchant of Venice

The first official convention, minus one or two.  Event shirts and everything!

So the fifth Jenny Creek Cafe convention and dance-athon is now in the archives.  It was probably the most ambitious production yet, but at the same time simpler because we'd done it four times.  This is purely conjecture because I didn't really do any of the planning.  I was flattered because the location was chosen (in part) because it is near Ashland (Oregon, about 140 miles north of my town), where I traveled to absorb a little culture and gather with my siblings,  but I could still get there in time for a bedtime drink snack on the first day.

There's my mountain, looking south out our windows

"Heaven & Earth" is a beautiful, sprawling house in the rolling hills right on the California border with big bedrooms for almost everyone and a vast kitchen/dining space where we spent most of our time cooking and eating.  (If you decide to look, the "master bedroom" was mine, but only because one couple had to cancel.)  The single unpleasant surprise was an inadequate refrigerator which required daily additions of bagged ice to keep our food from going bad and poisoning us all.  I realize it's bougie to whine about no Wi-Fi, but there was also no air conditioning and the first two days were well over one hundred degrees outside, rendering us too sweaty and lethargic to dance much, but we compensated by enjoying our booze on-the-rocks instead of neat.  (Sadly, being sweaty and lethargic is almost a given in this, the happy hour of our lives...)  There was a walkout basement level with a family room (and most of the bedrooms) which was nice and cool and an excellent place to gather to watch  M and Dr L's African safari slideshow, judge the crusty heel contest, play a few hands of Name-That-Symptom,  or sing along to the Music Man.  (We are still perplexed by what appears to be at least a twenty-year age separation between Marian [Shirley Jones] and her little brother Winthrop [Ronny Howard], who was clearly Mrs Paroo's change-of-life baby.)

Yes, we are still hungry

The salmon cook and the pizza cook

There was plenty to eat, which is like saying there was plenty of air to breathe.  Despite each superb meal starting the instant the previous one ended, I brought home SIX bulging sacks of groceries as well as several bottles of wine, and only partly because the other Creekers either had to fly home or drive too far to make toting home leftovers impractical.  I won't have to shop for quite a while as long as I'm not too particular about the combinations on my plate, and so far I'm not.  However I really miss the coffee elf who not only brought along her own Santa Cruz blend, and who also drew the short straw and slept on the couch,  but got up before dawn to start the first pot of the morning.  I'm the elf at my house but I'm not nearly as doggone cheerful about it.

The under-functioning refrigerator photo-bombing the shot

From the Cafe's inception we've counted two spouses in our numbers--indeed they are charter members--but this year the circle expanded to welcome two more husbands (Neither of whom had avoided us on purpose, mysteriously, necessarily, it just seldom worked out that they could make the pilgrimage.)  Both of them had a great time or are skilled actors; either circumstance obviously makes for good husband material, in my somewhat impaired opinion.

  We might be Susan and Sharon, if Hayley Mills had actually been two people 

Once again I drove home with the sweet taste of bone-deep friendship on my tongue and the delicious warmth of laughter in my heart.  I guess one good thing about being this age is that the days will fly by and next year's reunion will be here in the blink of a presbyopic eye.

former-girl-child subcommittee meeting over cocktails

Sunday evening stragglers (me in a Kikoy channeling my inner  African queen) enjoying a thundershower

We're so dang real, we even have a logo.




~This one's for Thunder.  Sleep well, old man~