Yeah, this deviates from my usual fare ...

... but I couldn't resist sharing this StumbleUpon'ed funny!

http://www.boingboing.net/2010/12/28/people-who-touch-you.html

Have a happy, healthy and safe New Year's -- I'll be in-front-of-the-computer-type-stumbling!

It Was Bittersweet

It was bittersweet.

Today Agent 98 had a bowling tournament in Lowell and the Garmin sent me up on 95 to 495 which is my preferred route to points north.  But it brought me home via Rte 3, a route I always detested because before it was rebuilt many years ago it was narrow, curvy, slow, and crowded -- and all speedtrappy whenever it wasn't slow and crowded. I have never have gotten into the habit of using it, and almost didn't today, but it was a Sunday afternoon, so I went along with the instructions.


It was bitter, because for the first time since May 10, 1994, when we crossed 110, I didn't hear how Mr. An Wang had bought the land and built the Wang Labs building (which is shaped like a "W" you know) for something like $60m in the 70's and sold it for something like $100k in the 90's. It was sweet because, well, for the first time since May 10, 1994, I didn't hear how Mr. Wang had bought the land and built the building for something like $60m in the 70's and sold it for something like $100k in the 90's. I mean, really, Tom? You've told me that story before. Like. Every. Single. Time.

So what did I do? When we crossed 110 I pointed out the building and told 98 the story of how Mr. An Wang had bought the land and built the building (which is shaped like a "W" you know) for something like $60m in the 70's and sold it for something like $100k in the 90's.

It wasn't quite the same, but family traditions have to start somewhere, right?

Lap Cat Seeking Lap

From a friend-of-a-friend at the Dana ... her young son is allergic, so she needs to find a new home for her sweet kitty, Anne.

Hard working lap cat seeks new lap to nap on. Also excels at purring, playing with toy mice and generally being cute. Anne needs a new lap as Alec, the 3 year old human child in her family, has been hospitalized twice this year with severe asthma complicated by cat allergies. Anne is an affectionate, sweet 5 year old torti. She has been an inside cat, but would enjoy some outside time in a safe environment. She enjoys the company of other cats. If you or someone you know needs an accomplished lap warmer and all around companion, leave Anne’s mom, Lorri, a message in the comments section, and I'll make sure she gets them. Also feel free to check out more details on Anne’s facebook page: “Lap cat seeking lap”.

Oh, such good news, which my humble blog helped facilitate! Thank you, all!!

Not My Typical Friday Afternoon

I volunteer at the Dana-Farber Cancer Institute in Boston a day or so a week, usually Fridays. I work at the front desk, and spend a lot of time pointing people to the elevators and the bathrooms. I really love it, and love being a smiling face when patients walk in the front door. Tom was treated there for over a year, and believe me when I tell you that a smiling face could define a day.

Anyway, what with it only being one day a week, and usually a half-day at that, the learning curve has been pretty steep. But the feedback I get from the volunteer supervisor has been generally positive. And they keep inviting me back.

Okay, so now the story of my hopefully atypical Friday begins: A young man walked in and approached the front desk and asked to speak with a woman in the bone marrow transplantation department. He only knew her first name, and it was not an unusual first name, so it took a bit of research to find the right person, but eventually I connected the two of them up. No joke, an hour later a different person calls on the phone and says, "Hello, I'm Joe Goodsamaritan (name changed) and I just got a phone call that I'm a donor match for a transplant, and I need to speak to  ..."  someone with the same first name - and he also did not know her last name. But because it was a such common name, I did not immediately make the connection "Oh, he's looking for that same person from an hour ago" so I put him on hold while I tracked down how I should handle the call. (In the online directory there are five pages of people with her first name!) I then realized who he needed to talk to, and was about to transfer Mr. G (Are you still with me? Good for you! Z-z-z-z-z...) when I realized I had disconnected him!

Let's make sure I have this right, Linda: You have a cancer patient's lifesaving marrow donor on the phone, and he doesn't know who he's supposed to be talking to ... and you disconnect him. WTG.

If a heart can sink to the ground and jump into my throat at the same time, that's what happened to me at that moment.

So I called Bone-Marrow-Lady-With-The-Common-First-Name and explained what happened. She told me not to worry about it, and that she thought she knew who it probably was and that in any event, if he was contacted today, he'll be contacted again tomorrow, so she told me that the situation is no big deal.

I can't help but think one extra day without treatment is the definition of a big deal for a cancer patient waiting for a bone marrow match. I promised BMLWTCFN I wouldn't obsess about it all weekend, but I told her I was surely going to worry about it nonetheless.

All I know is it's never good when that darn phone rings. It's never a question about elevators or bathrooms!

Buried Deep in the Back of my Already Overpacked Linen Closet ...

About a week before Tom started his first drug clinical trial (mid-2009) we spent an afternoon and a fair pile of cash in our local Vitamin Shoppe, GNC and CVS on vitamins, supplements and whatnot. Of course, one of the caveats of clinical trialdom is "no non-prescribed drugs or supplements". So while he had consumed a few pills from some of the bottles, some of the bottles are still factory sealed.

Here's what I have. If I note that the bottle is open, then only a few days' worth are gone.

• American Health Chewable Super Papaya Enzyme Plus 360 tablets - open - exp 6/11
• MushroomScience Certified Organic Coriolus Super Strength 90 tablets 600 mg  - exp 1/12 (I have five of these factory sealed and one open)
• Osteo Bi-Flex 120 tablets - open - exp 2/11
• Vitamin Shoppe Selenium 300 tablets 200 mcg - open - exp 10/10
• CVS Glucosamine Chondroitin Double Strength 120 caplets - exp 9/10 (I have one of these opened and one factory sealed)
• Nature's Way Reservatol Synergistic Formula 60  Vcaps 37.5 mcg - open - exp 2/10
• GNC L-Glutamine Powder 8 oz -  factory sealed - exp 5/11
• Vitamin Shoppe Borage Oil  300 softgel capsules 1000 mg -open -  exp 10/09
• Vitamin Shoppe Soy Isoflavones 120 tablets  - open - exp 1/11
• Vitamin Shoppe Turmeric Extract 95% curcumin  300 capsules - open - exp 11/11
• Vitamin Shoppe Green Tea Extract 75% Polyphenols 300 Capsules 250 mg - open - exp 8/10
• CVS Natural Fish Oil 198  Softgels 1200 mg - factory sealed - exp 7/11
• CVS Spectravite multivitamin 250 tablets - factory sealed - exp 1/10

If you are interested in any or all of these dietary supplements, drop me a comment or send me an email and we'll work something out. I don't want to sell them; I want to give them to you. I'll even pay postage. I just don't want these to go to waste.

You will see that some have passed their expiration date. Keep in mind that I have codeine in my medicine cabinet that was prescribed in 1998 after my son was born (in case you didn't notice, their blog nicknames are their birth years - Agents 96 and 98) by a doctor in Medford. Then we moved to Kwaj for nearly 5 years, and we've been back in Medford for 8 more years. And I took one a couple of weeks ago when I had that sinus headache. So no, we're not so much into expiration dates around here. I won't side-eye you if you respect them.  Just don't lecture me that I don't.

Welcome to My World

"Mom, do you think the cider will be warm enough if I zap it for 15 seconds?"

"No, 98, I'd zap it for a minute."

"Do you think 30 seconds would work?"

"No, I think a minute would be enough."

"Okay, I'll try 30 seconds."

True Story

You May Want to Come Back Later if You're Having Lunch Now

I've had some pretty disgusting moments in my history of marriage and parenting. I was with my husband for sixteen years, and I have two boys, now teenagers, and we've had more than ten pets, if you count all the cats, frogs, turtles, snakes and the dog. And during this time, I have had some pretty disgusting moments. I'm not sure I've ever told my most disgusting moment story from beginning to end.

My most disgusting moment was not the very early on poopy diaper contest, which I won by default when my newborn son turned up on the changing table with poop on the top of his head, and the soles of he feet, and most spots in between. It was also not the time an out-of-town friend so admired some cardinal feathers she found that she displayed them for the rest of her visit on the edge of my upstairs bathroom sink. Unfortunately for us, those feather were still attached to a wing, and the wing had been recently ripped from the shoulder socket of poor Mr. Cardinal, which I knew because flesh still hung from the bones. The bones which rested so artfully next to our toothpaste and soap.


It was also not the great fly debacle, which was not so much a disgusting moment as a disgusting and very long month-and-a-half. Our cat, Alpha, had found an already-dead (read: maggot-infested) frog, which he brought into the house before I could stop him. He ran  into the cellar with it, and I ran after him, but I never found the frog. Days later, flies started showing up in the house; first in ones and twos; eventually we had scores, and probably hundreds of flies, mostly in the dining room and kitchen. So at least our tv watching wasn't too impacted. Only our food prep and consumption. I would herd flies into the area between window and screen and then quickly close the window, cross my fingers and then just wait patiently for all the flies to die. I hoped they wouldn't reproduce in there, envisioning my brand new windows closed and permanently nailed shut as generation after generation grew and thrived: our own miniature entomological Great Barrier Reef, Medford-style, in the making.

And over the years I have simply gotten used to picking up every sort of dead animal, or remaining parts thereof, with the longest-handled shovel I own, and flinging it across the fence into the Fells, or into the creek behind the house for burial, eventually, at sea. So dead rodents aren't involved in my most disgusting moment, either.

Agent 98 is.

He was 8 or 9, and came to me with a hangnail. I kept an eye on it, because there's really nothing but time that can heal a hangnail. A day or so later, a soothing soak in epsom salts. A day or so after that he showed me the finger again, but by now it was swollen and red, and really quite infected.

Look away now if you're still eating.

I did the only thing I could think of: I squeezed it to get rid of the infection.  I heard an audible "pop", and 98 felt instant relief. I found a tiny speck on the kitchen floor, and cleaned it up with a wet paper towel. I recall being a bit surprised that his giant swollen finger didn't leave more ... ahem, sorry ... evidence. But I cleaned up, and went on with my life. Ah, not so disgusting, you say?

Weeks later, Tom was in the kitchen, glanced up at the ceiling, and spied what he immediately recognized ... again, ahem, sorry ... as the missing piece of the puzzle.

Yup, I took a picture.

Nine Months ...

Waking early today, what with it being "fall back" and all, and with more Tom on my mind than usual.  I've already mentioned so many things I miss about Tom: the snoring, the bickering, his CQ (carguy quotient), which I will really miss later today.  My check engine light came on yesterday, but today we drive to Lowell for a bowling tournament. I cross-my-fingers and hope it's just because I'm late for my oil change.  Until a couple of years ago, the light would not have come on, because Tom would have changed the oil weeks ago, before the light, and before the ground got too cold.  And if the light had come on anyway?  I would have received the usual stern lecture about how this wouldn't be an issue if I'd just learn to drive a standard, and then he'd have driven to Lowell.  He'd be bellyaching the whole way, of course, but with no check engine light blinding my vision, I'd be okay with that.

In my own self interest, these days I'm also missing his awesome headache massage skills.  I'm working on day 16 of a sinus headache.  Yes, I've tried the netti pot, and nasal sprays, and warm compresses, and the decongestant that you can get on the shelf and the good stuff you ask the pharmacist for.  I even went to the doctor and got an antibiotic, which is finally working, but that headache is just not altogether gone yet.  So I tried to massage it away myself, but, alas, to no avail.  I think headache massages must be like tickling:   it's just not the same if you try it on yourself.  I enlisted poor Agent 98 for a headrub, but I could hear the ca-ching of future therapist bills ringing in my ears, and put an end to that idea pronto. "My memory's fuzzy, doc, but she was making funny moaning noises."

So today, I'll clip coupons in Tom's honor, and then, for old time's sake, forget to bring the coupon wallet with me to the grocery store.

They Did Their Bit to Restore Sanity and/or Fear

Jack and Agent 96 had a blast in DC. 

They brought a sign with an obscure literary reference. And wore costumes to coordinate with the sign, what with it being Halloween weekend and all.


They jumped when the Mythbusters said, "Jump", and waved when the Mythbusters said, "Wave."

They had a Five Guys burger.

They nudged Sen. John Cornyn (R, TX) after his appearance on This Week. I think he thought he had a fan in Jack, what with the enthusiasm and all. Umm ... not so much. (FTR, I did not mean to imply they "assaulted/nudged" the Senator. I meant to say they irritated/noodged him, but I don't know how to spell that word and spellcheck isn't helping ...)

And they ordered room service.

They did their part; now let's all go out Tuesday and vote.

I thought this was too cool not to share ...

 ... guess who's Google's number two result on the search term "factory sealed pork past expiration date".  What did YOU accomplish today?

Please don't ask how I know this.

Happy Birthday Agent 96

Agent 96 turned 14 the other day. I guess I've been watching too many of those cake shows. I used a timer to keep track of how long it took to carve and decorate this cake: I would have made it well within their usual timeframe, with time to spare. But I don't think in actual competitions they allow competitors an hour break in the middle to watch The View and take a nap.

I wish I had a picture of Tom with this guitar. This is was his when he was in college, and the guitar that 96 started with, Tom was so proud when he became interested in playing.  This was Christmas at Madeline's house, 2007 I think.

I Think I'll Wait 'Til It's Over to Put This Up

Part 1

I learned quickly after Tom's diagnosis mostly to trust (dot)gov, edu, and org websites when looking for educational information about cancer.  While lots of (dot)coms are there to sell stuff, some will provide helpful anecdotal information, which is valuable if you're looking for anecdotes.  When I was searching for information, information that I literally was going to bet my husband's life on, I only trusted (dot)gov's and org's and edu's.  And not just any (dot)gov or (dot)edu.  Along with  Harvard Medical School and its affiliated institutions, my top go-to sites included the NIH (National Institutes of Health), Johns Hopkins and Memorial Sloan-Kettering. They served me well and are eminently readable. The Mayo Clinic was the major exception to my "no-dot-coms" rule.

I have a little time on my hands today to blog, because I need to stay close to home. At home, actually. At home near the bathroom.

I'm prepping for my colonoscopy tomorrow and have started the - ahem - clear liquid part of the process. So here are some sites I'd recommend for information about colonoscopies, and colorectal cancer prevention and treatment:

No offense, Dr. Gastroenterology, but for those of us being so conscientious and getting our colonoscopies starting at age 50, and then following up the recommended every 10 years unless abnormal results are found, when can we STOP getting screened for this type of cancer?

And here's everything you ever wanted to know about polyps but were afraid to ask.

I'm not exactly clear on the benefits of a virtual colonoscopy. You have to go through the same prep process, the verb "insert" is still a major player. But if anything out of the ordinary is found, the doctor cannot take a sample (for a biopsy) or remove it (in the case of polyps). In that case (remember, I'm no doctor), wouldn't you have to have an old-fashioned colonoscopy anyway?

One question I haven't been able to find an answer to online is why this electrolyte solution has to taste so freaking bad. If we can put a man on the moon, can't we at least make this stuff taste like Moxie? I don't think I'm asking too much.

I don't know if it's just because my grandfather died of colon cancer when I was very young and he seemed very old (he was probably in his sixties), but I think of it as an old man disease; certainly it's not front-and-center on my radar. But these famous non-old-men have all been diagnosed with or died of colorectal cancer.

I'm just sayin' ...

—————————————

Part 2

I can't not have pictures, can I?

Everything's fine. Back again in 2015.

—————————————

Part 3

And I thought this was just too funny not to include.  So during the prep I had a question, and called the doctor's office, and spoke with someone on his staff.  She mentioned in passing, "Oh, I'm late for mine; I need to schedule it for myself."   I made a comment about cobbler's children, and then asked what was probably wildly inappropriate, but I know for a fact I've done worse: "So", I asked, "when you need a colonoscopy do you go to this Dr. Gastroenterology, or do you have your own?" I could hear her shaking her head, responding that she does, indeed, have her boss perform her colonoscopy.  Just think about that the next time you think your boss is way too far up your a$$.

Way to Play to the Masses, Boston Globe G Section

The October 13 Boston Globe G section contained an article about where to get a great burger in greater Boston.  With two teenage boys, I have a bit of experience with burger joints, and I have my favorite spots already.  But I'm always open to a great new burger place.  Imagine my disappointment when the article turned out to be about great burgers under $20.

Twenty dollars, Boston Globe?  Have you read a newspaper recently?

I'll stick with some of my reliable favorites, thank you very much.

In no particular order, we have Five Guys burgers, which Tom introduced us to during a visit to DC, where the Alexandria, VA location was a regular destination for us.  The one in Dedham, MA is a bit too fast-food-restauranty for me, but you can get a  four burgers there for under $20. Total.

If you're in Harvard Square and want a burger, and don't mind if your burger comes with a side of political cooties, there's Mr. Bartley's Burgers on Mass Ave.  You might want to head there during off-peak hours, but you can get a burger there named after, among others, Scott Brown, Teddy Kennedy, Deval Patrick or Mitt Romney.  Don't forget the sweet potato fries. You can also get a Viagra there, without a prescription.

Tied with me for burger quality and menu variety, but with maybe a little more ambiance, check out the Boston Burger Company in Davis Square.  The boys' favorite there is the Artery Clogger, a chicken-fried hamburger.  You could get two Artery Cloggers, with beverages, for that same $20.

For my money the only burger worth $20 is one that comes with a side of prime rib.  And I haven't found that one on a menu yet.

I don't drink

I don't drink.

When I gave up alcohol nearly six years (really, Linda, it's been that long?) ago it was a simple experiment to see how long I'd go with out a drink. Well, it's been 2141 days and counting.And I'm actually pretty proud of myself that I made it through these last two years without caving.  I won't lie: I wanted more than one, more than once. I breathed through it, and made it home again.

Until just a couple of weeks ago we had a very fully stocked liquor cabinet: Tom's Bushmills, of course, and a very special bottle of Chivas. Then the usual rum, vodka, gin, etc., and some less common but still useful ouzo, port, sherry, sundry liquers.And we had on hand whatever it takes for strawberry daiquaris, including strawberries in the freezer. And if you knew Tom, you know that many of these bottles were gallons or at least liters. No pints for him: even liquor has to be cost effective.

I know what the law in Massachusetts is regarding open liquor containers in cars: It's against the law to drive with open containers in the passenger section of a vehicle. Having them in the trunk is okay. I drive a minivan, though, so the entire car is "passenger section". So I put all the liquor (except the amaretto and kahlua [cheesecakes] and sherry [for marinades] and the two buck Chucks I keep in the cellar for tomato sauce),  into heavy brown paper bags, placed the bags behind the driver's seat, and brought them to a friend who had just moved to a rather distant Boston suburb, where I'm sure she'll find a good home for all of these treasures.

I drove very carefully: I stayed in my own lane, stopped at every yellow light, yielded at every intersection, and flicked the blinker on well before each necessary turn.

Over the summer I was driving with my brother Jack who is now a college professor, but formerly was a Boston cab driver. He commented while driving with me once that I could be a Boston cabbie if I ever wanted to. I took that as a high compliment.

Until then, if you see me stopping at yellow lights, using my blinker to change lanes, or yielding at a yield sign, I probably just have booze in the back seat.

No Longer Applicable

Recently, our new dog got up onto the kitchen table and scarfed down a good portion of a very nice steak that I had planned serve for dinner that evening. I had been marinating it in the fridge, but pulled it out early to take the chill off before grilling it.

I told a friend about it, and she empathized. I started to reply. “Oh, thanks. It was a beautiful steak, and big enough to feed all  of us”  &mdash but my reply got stuck in my throat.

Really, Linda, all three of us? We are not a family of three. We are a family of four, and “all of us” no longer applies.

Breakfast of Champions ... If We're Talking About Junk Food Champions

I'm at the grocery store thinking maybe I should get some healthier snacks for the boys' lunches and whatnot. So I pick these up off the shelf: $2.99 on special this week,  2/$5. And I have a 50¢ coupon. Doubled. So I pick up two. I woke up a bit peckish this morning, and was inspired to have a healthy-ish breakfast. After all, it says right on the label:

• All Natural
• No Trans Fats
• Baked
• Pita Chips

I figure, good breakfast = good day. I even had orange juice instead of my usual beverage-not-to-be-named. Then I look at the nutrition facts panel on the back. Why, oh, why, do I do this to myself?


Are you kidding me? Eight, as in onetwothreefourfivesixseveneight servings per container?

Seven chips per serving? Oh, I'm sorry, it says "about 7 chips". Still, you're kidding me, right? Nobody counts their chips unless they're playing poker.









This ...







... is a recommended single serving.

By way of comparison, this ...

... was my breakfast.

And no, I don't normally eat junk food breakfast off of Aunt Lee's formal china. But I needed a good shot so I thought I'd brag on my china a bit. I love this pattern, and use the dishes far, far too infrequently. They were a wedding gift to Tom's Great-Aunt Lee  from her mother, and I was honored that she gave them to me when we came back from Kwajalein. She was married for 72 years when Uncle Johnny died in 1998. She was the youngest of her siblings: all 23 of them.

Feline Burglar Alarm (Patent Pending)

I'm cool with being old enough to be my sons’ grandmother, but not so much with being old enough for my friends’ babies to be having babies. Talking about baby showers got me remembering mine.

It was one of the most terrifying experiences in my life.

On a Saturday morning that September I was pregnant with Agent 96, we had planned a morning of apple picking with some friends. Neatnik Tom was more annoying than usual, making sure the house was picked up, the dishes done, and the rugs vacuumed All before 9am. Like I'm supposed to know all our knickknacks had to face forward before we leave to pick apples. I had one particular towel that I used in the downstairs bathroom (aka the downstairs bathroom towel, sheesh) and I was peeved that, with that towel in the laundry he made me, made me, put a random towel in the bathroom.

“The yellow towel? Are you effing kidding me? No, I don’t need to put the yellow towel in the bathroom. I’ll put the right one back when the laundry’s done. Jerkwad.” Forgive me. I had hormones. And a big honking watermelon pressing on my bladder.

“Humor me, Linda. I just want a towel in the bathroom, okay?”  Harumphing loudly enough that I was sure he'd know I was the better person, I hung up the towel, and we headed for the door. Leaving the house, I gathered up C and tossed him inside then closed the door behind me, checking, as always, that it had latched.

I’m sure I bellyached during the drive to the orchard about the foolishness of putting the yellow towel in the downstairs bathroom. I’m quite sure I complained to our apple picking companions, Eric and Barbara, about how unreasonable Tom had been over the great towel debacle. But I enjoyed the apple picking, and the fresh air, and the company of our friends. I can only assume they did not equally enjoy the company of my insufferable self.

I knew something was wrong when we returned and I saw C in the front yard waiting for us.

“What’s C doing out, Tom? I’m sure I left him inside.”

“I must have gone back in for something and let him out by mistake”, was Tom’s explanation.

Confused, I knew that Tom had been waiting for me in the car. That was the usual scenario; I invariably forget something, and never make it out the door on the first attempt. The only reasonable explanation for C's presence in the front yard was that the house had been broken into, and the burglars were unaware C had escaped. Was he trying to tell us something? (Like, “There’s a burglar in our house. Maybe two. Meow. And is there any food out here?”)

“No, Tom, really; C shouldn’t be outside. Something’s wrong.” 

Adding to my overall pissedness at Tom was that he was making me, his beloved and by now seventy-three-weeks-pregnant wife, go in first. I touched the doorlatch. My heart stopped,  my fears of an intruder confirmed. We have one of those old-style front doors with the button on the edge that locks and unlocks the mechanism, and we always have the button set so that the door won’t unlatch from the outside. You have to use the key to open it, and the door locks automatically when you close it. The door was unlatched. Clearly someone unfamiliar with our doorlatch protocols had been messing with the door. All signs pointed to a burglar. 

Holy hot cross buns. There’s a band of armed robbers in my house, and you’re making me walk in first? Who are you? And what have you done with Tom? Was what I was thinking. 

What I said was, “You want me to open the g-d front door? Okay, then, I’ll open the g-d front door and then I’ll say I effing told you so.” Or words to that effect.

So I open the door, take a step inside, and …

I just realized I still wear this t-shirt

Tom and Agent 96, Fall 1997

By the following year I had recovered from the trauma, and we went apple picking again. I was pregnant. Again. But the day didn't involve a single curse word.

Siblings ...

For every "Hey, cut it out, doofus" I have at least one "Woof, get away from my food dish" or "Hiss, get off my couch".

Now, onto dessert

Feeding time at the zoo is, well, a zoo. Approach Zoetje's food dish at your own risk. I have tried a variety of locations for the cat's dish that will be inaccessible to the dog  but easily accessible to Ada --  poor, sweet 18-year-old Ada, who doesn't jump quite like she used to. After a couple of days cats on the  -- eww --  kitchen table,  I found a shelf by the cellar stairs that has worked okay so far. (Alas, Scruffy still sits on the table, waiting for food. All those years I've spent training cats not to go on tables and counters?  Back to the drawing board.)  I open all the cans at the same time and plate the contents simultaneously while Zoetje, with her low growl,  stands guard to keep the cats from getting too close. First, I give Zoetje her food, but I make sure the cats see theirs, too. Then, during that 3.5 second window when Z's face is in her food, I quick-as-a-bunny bring the cats' food to a shelf in the cellar next to the stairs. I count on out-of-sight-out-of-mind, because there's simply no place in our house that works to keep Z away from the food. She usually heads straight for the cellar stairs when she'd done with her meal. Agent 96 has been known to feed the cats in complete silence before Z wakes up. Those are the only days the cats get all the cat food.

Dogs are like teenage boys in the housekeeping department, too, and the house looks more like a frat house than a private home. 96 walks in from school, and within a minute, his jacket is shrugged off his shoulders and the phone's tossed onto a chair. I spy Agent 98's bowling ball in the middle of the living room floor, and ask him, the only bowler in the family, to put it away. "I don't know how it got there, Mom. It was there when I got home from school". It wasn't me: I know for a fact that I don't allow bowling in the house. Breathe, Linda. Just walk away.

So I pop into the kitchen, and there's Zoetje, eating a stick of butter. A wrapped stick of butter. And of course she just left some uneaten wrapper bits there on the floor next to the paper towels she's snatched from the rubbish barrel. The rest -- well I guess I'll clean them up the next time we go for our walk.

Wait. Did I just say dog ate a quarter of a pound of butter? Maybe this time the boys take her for her walk.

Next Time You'll Have to Check the Fine Print

Sure, it's in my contract that I have to bark and growl and whatnot, but show me where it says I have to get off the bed to be a guard dog ...

... And you can complain all you like, but that contract doesn't actually specify how many times a day I'm allowed to poop.

Please Hold My Neighbors In Your Collective Hearts

I have wonderful neighbors. My circle of wonderful neighbors extends for several houses up and down. I've always known this, but they have been unfailingly kind to us particularly since Tom was diagnosed. I'm not playing favorites, but the family next door couldn't be sweeter, and the kids (two teens and almost a tween) couldn't be more polite. They always greet me with a smile and some polite conversation. I don't know how the Mom does it, but I'm in awe.

Recently the youngest one was dressed as if for the first day of school, tossing the ball against the front steps, obviously waiting for Mom or Dad. Our chat went something like this:

Me: Hi, Boyneighbor, you look nice today. Going someplace special?

Neighbor: Not really. I'm getting my haircut for school. Well that and I have something wrong with my head, so I'm having a CAT scan afterwards. And I have an MRI on Friday.

Me (silently): Excuse me dear while I go throw up.

I didn't see his mom for a few days, but spied her carrying in groceries, and our conversation went something like this:

Me: Oh, Momneighbor, I'm so glad to see you. I totally understand this is none of my business, but your son told me about his CAT scan and MRI, and I've been so worried about him and about you. Is there anything I can do to help?

Neighbor: No, thanks, not at the moment. The CAT scan ruled out leukemia, but he needs a few more tests. So keep us in your prayers, okay?

Me (silently): Oh, I can so do that for you.

I am simply unable to wrap my brain around being the mom taking my son for a CAT scan to rule out leukemia. He still has a series of tests ahead of him. One of them is a colonoscopy. This boy is nine years old.

So if you wouldn't mind, could you hold my neighbors in your collective hearts?

Have You Ever Owned A Dog?

There couldn’t have been a more straightforward question, particularly coming from the adoption desk at the Northeast Animal Shelter while you’re adopting a dog. As I was uttering my response, I knew I had misplaced my modifier, and the woman at the desk, Marianne, wasn’t going to understand. I tried to take them back, but the words had already spilled from my mouth.

Standing next to me, my sister Jeanne heard the words as they were floating through the air, and tried to grab them and give them back to me. No such luck.

Marianne heard my answer, and replied with the only reasonable response.

Tom with Maxwell, about 1989

Marianne: Have you ever owned a dog?
Me: My husband had a dog, but he died.
Marianne: Your husband or the dog?

Jeanne and I looked at each other, then looked at ashen-faced Marianne who realized what she had just asked, and all three of us laughed at the absurdity of the exchange. Then I told Marianne about my animal loving husband, Tom, feeling pretty assured we'd take our dog home after that.

No Dog Yet, You Say?

I started wanting a dog when Tom was sick. I'm sure the pain is the same whether your spouse has brain cancer, or heart disease or any terminal illness (Tom considered his cancer "terminal" with the quotes, having read much about long-term survivors. Few though they were, they were not non-existent.), but brain cancer had already robbed me of my hard-working, cuttingly-sarcastic, animal-loving, handyman-project-doing, car-guy husband, and my sense of loneliness was all the more acute because Tom was alive, but no longer, well, Tom. A dog would love me, and keep me warm, and fill the hole in my heart that I shouldn't have had because I should have just been grateful my husband was there, sleeping right next to me in the bed every night, drinking his coffee and reading his paper every morning. But that emptiness in my heart continued to grow, and my desolation darkened. And that dog? I really just wanted a dog to love me. I wanted somebody to love me. And for God's sake, at least the damned dog wouldn't die of brain cancer.

Then, Tom died. I don't know how else to explain it. Tom died, and the loneliness that I felt finally at least felt normal. My husband was dead, my sons' father was gone, and that the loneliness was expected made it somehow more tolerable. Getting from today to tomorrow became easier after Tom died, as I found myself already partway through the process of grieving his loss. The desperate yearning for a dog slowly subsided, replaced by the quiet belief that there's a place in our family for a dog.

So there we were today, at the Northeast Animal Shelter:  the place Tom took me on our second date; one of his memorial charities; and the place where the sweetest little  Belgian Schipperke x picked us for her forever family. She came with the utterly unacceptable name Skippette, so we're down to business picking out a name. I think her name is supposed to be Zoetje, dutch for "little sweet one". Any dutch speaking readers out there? Please advise.

And say hello to the newest Gentile, Zoetje.

Next Stop: Memory Lane

So I'm searching through my files for some piece of paper that I'm sure is in there, but I sure as heck can't find. I'm desperate, and truly hoping that this particular item wasn't part of that 2 1/2 big black construction bags of paperwork I shredded after Tom died. All those bank statements and credit card statements from 1978; the electric bills from the 1980's; all that paper. I could have heated the house all winter with the paper I culled from our files. It's the only "winnowing" I've done since Tom died, and it was months ago. So now I'm hyperventilating, and pulling out one file at a time,searching through each, sheet by sheet. I eventually found whatever piece of paper I was looking for, filed right where it belonged under "W" for "where should I put this so I'll be sure to find it six years from now when I finally need it", but not before finding some very special treats. I didn't even know Tom had these, and I love them all.

Except for the laminated birth announcement photo that was in the paper when he was a couple of months old, this undated photo is the earliest picture of Tom I have. I see that the unease that Gentile menfolk feel with Santa is a genetic thing. 'Splains a lot.

I'm guessing, since his birthday is in January, that this is just before he turned 2. Seems too old for turning 1, and too young for almost 3. I love the shoes, which seem to be one of the few things Tom didn't save-in-case-he-might-need-them-later.

As Madeline efficiently noted on the back of this photo, it's "Tommy 28 months, Gerald 2 months May 1955" Tom and I may have been destined to meet, but I'm glad he had a brother to keep him occupied at this time, as I hadn't even been conceived yet. This may have been the last time my husband did not object to being called Tommy.

Tom and Gerry at Aunt Lee's house in Jamaica, Queens. 1961 Calling them "Tom and Gerry" always makes me giggle.

I don't have any childhood photos (that I'm aware of, and I only just this week even became aware of these, so who knows what else lurks in the bowels of this house?) of Tom with his brother Jim (hint, hint, Kathy!)

School photo, 3rd grade, 8 years old. But I don't know the name of the elementary school Tom attended. I'm only aware of Molloy, which was junior high and high school. I don't know what SMS on the tie stands for. (St. Mary's School; thanks A!)

And speaking of Archbishop Molloy, here's Tom's high school graduation inside what I can only guess is the house in Woodside, for which I probably still have a key. We can see the nascent long hair. I think he really liked that Agent 96 has long hair, but I wonder how Joe felt about it on his son. My brother Jack  used to get "Jacqueline" alot, although no one would dare that move now. May 1970

I've left his First Holy Communion pictures for last, so I can sneak in a few of my own, too. May 21, 1960.

Agent 96's picture on the occasion of his First Communion, normal enough. And above, with his cousin C, who celebrated her confirmation at the same time; and his co-First-Eucharister cousin J.

Agent 98's First Holy Communion picture. Nothing that would set off alarms ... but this is 98, remember. Behind that cute face lies the soul of a person who would ask for ...

... a word search cake for his First Holy Communion celebration. Can it really be okay to eat chocolate cupcakes that say "Body of Christ"? (So far, so good.)

Solution below, but c'mon, it's not that hard!

Six Months

Six months. Six months, and I have not yet cleaned out a drawer or a closet or thrown out a single sock. Among the stuff I have not thrown away is a Lincoln phone list dated June 5, 2005. And MacInTax disks for a mac that's been gone since before Kwaj. And in this pile of keys is a key to the Daytona (the chick magnet, which he sold for $400 in 1998), and probably a key to the house in Rochester, and I wouldn't be at all surprised if there was a key to the house in Woodside.

I see the key to one of Tom's ex's here

I wear his t-shirts as nightgowns, and I wear his underwear every day.  I wore them in Niagara Falls, and I wore them in Hawaii, and Pennsylvania; and yes, I have them on right now. It makes me feel like Tom is still taking care of me.

Yup, probably ...

This is not a new thing, this obsession I have with his underwear (briefs, not boxers). I had an ER visit once for an asthma attack, at least ten years but probably much longer ago than that, and poor Tom was mortified to discover I was wearing his underwear. "Ew, gross! What if the doctor finds out?! Won't you be embarrassed?", I remember him asking at the time. (He did, and I wasn't.) And I know it traumatized Tom, because his first question before any subsequent ER visit, I kid you not, was always: "You're not wearing my underwear, are you?" Ever the Good Wife, I always changed into my own underwear for an ER visit.

Since we've been married, I've always worn his underwear and had my morning tea in his mug when he travelled. What he doesn't know won't hurt him, I suppose I thought at the time. Nowadays, I guess I do it because I just like having his cooties.

Six months, and counting.

I Need to Get Out More

Cursed jet lag.

So, I was watching Colbert today, well, yesterday, and he was doing some bit about the Chase Sapphire card, and mentions a commercial called "The Dress" which you've probably seen, in which the husband's tossing out suggestions, trying to convince the wife to take a trip on their points. "No", she shakes her head, but with a smile, objecting to his every idea.

Turns out, she's used the points to buy The Dress. The dress she's wearing. She does a quick runway spin in the silky, drapey dress for her husband, with a sexy little glint in her eye.

(Click the image to enlarge it. Use your [Back] button to return here.)

Check out Mr. EyesUpHerePlease in the last frame. I still think she used their points for a boob job.

21°21′59.82″N, 157°47′49.06″W

My little corner of paradise is relegated to my memory banks, now. Soon enough it'll be back to the everyday mundane, but just one more vacation post, if you don't mind. I'm not much of a photographer, and my digital camera is usually just set to automatic, but here are some of my favorite photos from the trip.

Rainbow eucalyptus at the Hono zoo. I wish my photo did this tree justice. I think God must have invented Crayola crayons just so He could make these trees.

I love hibiscus. They remind me of Kwaj, and I really miss being able to have them outdoors, in the ground, year-round. Hibiscus is the antidote to winter. Hibiscus => sundress => tan lines on my feet => ahhh. You can't have any of those things in New England in the winter. I haven't mentioned recently how much I hate winter but I'm sure that'll be a post in about 6 months. I'm sure I'll write about about using my brand-new snowblower, which was delivered just after the last snowstorm of last winter, so the warranty should just about have run out the first time I start it up. If the flood didn't already do it in, that is.

Agents 96 and 98 weren't interested in climbing Diamondhead -- they were much more interested in being unsupervised at the hotel. So one afternoon I abandoned them with their comic books (There's this whole new marketing ploy for comic books: bind them together and sell them to parents as "graphic novels". I don't care how thick it is, it's still comic book, and I'm not going to pay you to read one) and their gameboys while I hiked up to the crater's edge by myself. I loved this little cactus I found trailside. I looks like it could be a landscape scene with trees and plants and gravel and boulders, but in reality it was about 6 inches across. When I got back from my hike the hotel was still standing and no police were on site, so it was a winning afternoon for all of us.

Another one from the zoo. You can see how it got its name, Bird of Paradise.

Interesting leaves always evoke Kwaj for me. I loved gathering leaves to texture my pottery. I think after the school year begins in September I'll start up with pottery again.Winters notwithstanding, Boston has its share of interesting textures, too, so I'll be fine; but one thing that's better on Kwaj: free pottery studio time!

This tree reminded me of the angry apple trees in the Wizard of Oz. The branches look ready to throw an apple at the next person who walks by. And I swear I see scowly eyebrows in the bark!

I think my favorite spot, my favorite moment,  on vacation was Pali Lookout. Too cheap to pay for, and not really interested in taking, a  bus tour, one morning we nabbed a bus company's guided tour itinerary, and picked a few of its most interesting-sounding sites to explore on our own. As we arrived at each one, we saw the bus companies carting their passengers to and from, but we were doing it for free and on our own schedule, making it all the sweeter. At Pali Lookout we were greeted by a flock of hungry chickens who enjoyed part of my sandwich, but by few other humans. We had the place almost to ourselves. A hot a humid day, a cooling mist fell as we left the parking lot for the short walk (too short to even qualify as an easy hike), but the clouds parted in time for breathtaking views. I couldn't pick a single favorite picture.

One of the boys, and I shan't say which one, bellyached that I was wasting time taking pictures of a bunch of branches, apparently unaware that this is a living Hau tree.

And besides, it's not wasting time, it's "being on vacation", thankyouverymuch.