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.