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.

This is not going to be my last post about prices in Hawaii, I can pretty much promise that ...

... this just happens to be the last purchase I made in the state: 2 20-oz cokes and a lemonade at the airport: